All the Rave

by Bob DeMoss

  2

  Friday 10:29 PM

  Bruce carefully maneuvered his partially restored, 1969 Mach 1 classic Mustang through bumper-to-bumper traffic, although in his case both bumpers had been temporarily removed. Jodi wasn’t into old cars, but listened politely as Bruce explained that the two-door coupe had been a gift from his dad when he turned seventeen back in April.

  The radio didn’t work, and the cassette tape player hanging below the dash was useless. Unlike vinyl records, cassette tapes never made a comeback. But Bruce liked the conversation value of having it anyway. He knew the seats needed to be recovered. And, though reliable transportation, the body rust had been extensive and needed to be addressed. After hours of sanding the Bond-o and fiberglass strips, Bruce had applied a patchwork of gray and red spot primer, depending on what the auto parts store had in stock. He’d have it painted once he saved enough cash.

  “So where’s the turn?” Bruce asked.

  “There . . . make a left on Christian Street, then a right on Christopher Columbus Boulevard—I think.” Jodi was trying to make sense out of the Google maps app on her iPhone. Her efforts were complicated by the constant redirecting that the digital routing was taking them. She did her best to study the map while comparing their location to the street signs as they drove. “Yeah, that’s the way,” Jodi said, pointing to his left.

  Bruce turned onto Christian Street. “Gee, looks like half of Philadelphia is here,” he said. “Talk about a party. I had no idea these raves were so popular.”

  “Me neither.” Jodi glanced out her window at a steady stream of teens on foot. “Looks like we’re gonna have to walk a few blocks. Let’s grab the first spot you see.”

  “I’m all over that,” Bruce said, followed by an easy tap on the horn for the benefit of a kid who started to cut in front of his car, evidently unaware of its presence. “Hey, check out what’s in his mouth.”

  “I know. A baby pacifier. Weird,” Jodi said, squinting. “And what’s with the way these guys are dressed?” She nodded toward the sidewalk. “They’re, like, oversize toddlers with Day-Glo face paint. I mean, half of them—correction, most of them—have pacifiers around their necks. That girl’s sucking on hers, too.”

  Bruce drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as traffic slowed again. “And that’s gotta be the fifth Elmo backpack I’ve seen in three minutes.” He pointed to the right.

  “I know.” Jodi nodded in agreement. “Am I missing something here?”

  He glanced over at Jodi for a second. “Beats me. I’m a newbie, too.”

  “A what?” She returned the glance.

  “Newbie. That’s what Kat calls a virgin raver. You know, a first timer.” He turned his focus back to the road. “They look like the kindergarten class on a field trip,” Bruce said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, or maybe they didn’t get the memo,” Jodi said.

  “What memo?”

  “That Halloween has been over for months!” They shared another laugh.

  Jodi tucked her phone into her pant pocket. “Hey, it’s nice of you to give me a lift,” she said after a minute. “You sure it’s okay that I’ve got to be home by midnight?”

  “No prob, Cinderella. Wouldn’t want you to turn into a pumpkin.” He chuckled. “Just kidding. I mean, I can’t stay long, either. Got to get to work in the morning. If I’m late, the dogs get restless and poop their cages.” He turned right on Columbus. “And I hate it when that happens.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Bruce shifted gears. The Mach 1’s throaty muffler snorted as they picked up speed. “So why’d you decide to come after all? I mean, I thought you were kinda against the whole idea.”

  “Oh.” Jodi hadn’t anticipated that question. “Let’s just say it’s a God thing.”

  “I see, sort of like what happened on the houseboat.” He was fishing for more, and Jodi knew it. She just didn’t feel like going into details. She changed the subject.

  “Yeah. Like that. So tell me about life as a big-time veterinarian.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly in the big time yet. Just kinda learning the ropes. Mostly it pays well and I need the cash for this baby.” He patted the dash of his car. “But take my boss, Dr. Blackstone. Now there’s a guy who’s in the big time. Drives a jet-black 1965 Porsche 356C. You know what a little classic like that’ll set you back?”

  “No idea.”

  “We’re talking north of $175,000 . . . for a low mileage, one-owner car out of sunny California. Mind you, it’s all original—with the exception of the aftermarket pimp stereo package.”

  “For real?” Jodi’s eyes widened. “Kinda makes you wonder how a pet doctor can afford that kind of cash, doesn’t it.” Jodi looked over at Bruce, unsure if she had offended him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not like he’s a dentist or a lawyer.”

  “We are, you know, a full-service upscale clinic,” Bruce said, playfully sticking his nose up in the air. “Bring your pooch or kitty and we’ll do their hair, nails, spaying . . . you name it. Why, Dr. Blackstone even does doggy braces for some clients.”

  “No way!”

  “Yup. Imagine that.” Bruce changed lanes. “Talk about being a real entrepreneur.”

  “Ooh. Big word alert.” Jodi said.

  Traffic picked up again. Bruce glanced at Jodi for a second, and said, “Yeah, anyway, I’ll probably work for him this summer. How about you? You gonna get a job—or work on a tan this summer?”

  “Do I look that pale?” Jodi looked down at her arms.

  “I think a jar of mayo has more color—” Bruce paused. “Jodi, I’m joking.”

  “Right . . . but, yeah, I thought about doing an internship at the paper.”

  “Cool. We get the Inquirer.”

  “Actually, I’m talking about the Montgomery Times. They’re just a weekly rag, but I like the local feel.”

  “Don’t they specialize in like pet obituaries and church picnics?” He flashed a cheesy grin.

  “Bruce, don’t make me come over there and punch you one,” she said playfully. “My dad says I’ve always had an eye for detail and, not to mention, everybody’s gotta start somewhere, right?” Jodi hooked her hair around her left ear. “I think it’ll be fun. Oh, and I met the guy who’d be my boss yesterday. Seems real nice.”

  “Yeah, you’ll do great. Speaking of bosses”—Bruce started to shake his head—“mine gets pretty ticked when things don’t go his way.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Earlier this week, we ran out of the usual generic syringes with the black plunger tips. Dr. Blackstone almost blew a gasket. Me? I can’t see how that matters. Red tip. Black tip. Whatever. They do the same thing as far as I can tell.”

  “Over there, on the right, three cars up. The guy’s pulling out,” Jodi said, pointing. “So, what were you saying?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just that my boss can be a hard man to please.” Bruce pulled his car into the now vacant spot and got out. “Make sure it’s locked. You’ll have to push the lock down and hold the button in while you close the door,” Bruce said. “Pretty low-tech, but it works.”

  “Got it,” Jodi said after the second try. They joined the flow of teens headed to the rave.

  “Speaking of low-tech, what’s that?” Bruce pointed to the disposable camera Jodi was carrying. “Why not just use your cellphone to take pictures?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, well, just like your ‘old days’ car, I’m going low-tech for the fun of it. I figured maybe we could take like a group shot, or something. Dumb idea, huh?”

  “Why not.” Bruce smiled. “You just never know what might turn out.”

  3

  Friday 10:46 PM

  Christopher Columbus Boulevard ran north and south, parallel to the Delaware River. The eastern edge of the street was to the left of Jodi and Bruce. It was marked by well-worn piers, an occasional building of some ancient vintage, and idle shipyards. Jodi could hear but not see the rive
r water lapping against the docks.

  They were heading south, which bothered her. The farther south, the farther away from the safety of Penn’s Landing, one of the few recently remodeled piers that sported colorful shops, plenty of outdoor lighting, and a modern transit station where she could quickly take the EL 17 elevated train back to civilization. Instead, each step of their present course took them deeper into a landscape marked by decay.

  Indeed, many sections of Philadelphia, the birthplace of the nation, had died the slow death of neglect, suburban migration, poor planning, and an upswing in the criminal element. This area was about as bad as any she’d ever seen—not that she could see much in the darkness. Most of the streetlights were burned or busted out, leaving the buildings they passed shrouded in black.

  In a few instances, thanks to the headlights of the traffic, she could tell someone had gone to the trouble of boarding up the windows and plastering the doorways with tired-looking NO TRESPASSING signs. And she noticed that the only fresh paint many of these buildings displayed came from graffiti artists marking their territory.

  Even though other ravers shared the sidewalk, Jodi had the creeps and wondered if Bruce felt the same.

  “Boy, this place is a dump,” she said, breaking the silence. “My dad would flip if he knew I was in this part of town.”

  “Looks like a great place to hang out—if you’re Freddy Krueger or part of the zombie apocalypse,” Bruce said, then nudged her with his elbow.

  “Cut it out, Bruce.” She let out a nervous laugh.

  “Come on, Jodi. It’s really not that bad.”

  She shot him a doubtful look.

  “Okay, so I wouldn’t want to build a summer house here. You wanna head back?”

  Jodi couldn’t shake the feeling that they had to get to Kat. For what reason, she was unsure. It didn’t really matter. Earlier she had prayed about it and felt God wanted her to go. She wasn’t about to pull a Jonah and run from what she’d been led to do. “No,” she said, “not as long as you promise to stay with me. Deal?”

  “Hmm. Let me think about it . . .” Bruce tilted his head to one side, pretending to be wrestling with his answer. “Okay, deal.”

  Still, the handful of strip joints, tattoo parlors, vape shops, and men leaning against the hollow, vacant buildings intensified her anxiety. She quickened her steps.

  “Hey, where’s the fire?” Bruce reached forward and grabbed her arm to slow her down.

  “Sorry. Guess I’m a little jumpy,” Jodi said.

  “What could go wrong . . . besides some psycho jumping us from one of those buildings?”

  She punched him in the shoulder.

  It was 11:00 P.M. when the dark outline of the warehouse came into view. As they approached, they discovered that the enormous blood-red–brick building was situated on the river side of the street. Most of the windowpanes were shattered or missing. A rusted chain-link fence, topped with twisted strands of razor-tipped barbed wire, surrounded the warehouse.

  They were within one block of the rave. From this position, the building took on an ominous air as laser lights from within reflected off the remaining shards of glass in the busted-out windows. Jodi thought it looked about as inviting as a medieval castle dungeon.

  Hundreds of teens, she guessed, hovered outside. Some danced in place to the bass-heavy thumping of music, now more pronounced, which spilled into the street. Others, wearing surgical masks, hung on to each other as they staggered along like drunken sailors.

  “Somebody’s gonna have fun cleaning up this mess in the morning,” Jodi said as they walked through discarded rave fliers and ditched cigarette butts littering the ground.

  “Looks like a job for the Molly Maid Service,” Bruce said, giving a kick to a beer can. “Hey, over there.” He pointed to the left of the parking lot. “Looks like that’s the way in.”

  “Through the fence?”

  “You got a better idea?” Bruce said with a pull on her arm as he walked toward it. “See, everybody’s going through there. It’s already been sorta peeled back.” He yanked her arm again.

  “I’m coming already.”

  A moment later they stepped through the fence and, a short distance away, spotted four burly men at a makeshift wooden stand checking I.D.’s, collecting money, and hand-stamping those who paid as if they had just purchased a day pass to Disneyland. Beyond them, four more stood immediately in front of an oversize door with hand scanners, similar to the ones used at the TSA airport security checkpoint, body-checking people before admitting them into the building.

  Jodi and Bruce paid the ten bucks, got the security treatment, then walked through the door into a dark sea of pulsating, sweaty bodies. Overhead, laser lights spasmodically sliced the darkness, hammering the crowd with short, intense blasts of color. White gloves, worn by some of the ravers, reflected the laser pulses, while others waved Glo-Sticks in the air as they danced. Some had smeared neon paint on their faces and chests, like witch doctors, further amplifying the surreal scene.

  They stood temporarily mesmerized, paralyzed by the barrage of audio and visual input. Bruce tapped on Jodi’s shoulder. She leaned over to hear him above the near-deafening music.

  “Dorothy, looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  “You can say that again,” Jodi shouted back. “What a zoo!”

  They moved away from the entrance and walked along the back wall. As far as she could see, the room was about the size of a football field. Thick timber posts, each spaced about a car’s length apart, ran the length of the building. She observed how each post supported rough-hewn beams on which the wood ceiling rested some fifteen feet overhead. Between the bursts of light she thought she saw portions of the ceiling sagging.

  Bruce yelled in her ear. “Have you ever seen so many speakers?”

  “What?” Jodi yelled back, now looking at him.

  Bruce pointed at the sound system. The speakers were stacked almost to the ceiling on either side of the DJ, who, spinning vinyl records on matching turntables, was perched on scaffolding seven feet above the crowd. The DJ platform was bathed in flashing red, blue, and purple lights suspended from an overhead lighting rig.

  “The speakers . . .”

  She nodded. “It’s crazy. I think I’m going totally deaf!” Jodi covered her ears to make the point. “How are we gonna find the others?”

  “I know. Must be like a couple thousand people here,” Bruce said. “Maybe I should jump onstage and make an announcement.” He grinned.

  “Sure thing, Tarzan,” Jodi said. “Hey, wait a minute. Isn’t that Carlos?” Carlos Martinez was one of the eight junior class students who had been on the houseboat with them over spring break.

  “Where?” Bruce tried to follow Jodi’s gaze.

  “See that table . . . over there . . . the one with the balloons?” Jodi said. She pointed to their left about thirty feet farther along the back wall.

  “Hard to say. I’m with you.”

  They worked their way through the crowd and approached the table. Jodi suddenly stopped. She shouted, “Rats. False alarm.”

  “That’s not him?”

  “Not unless he shrank six inches and got an earring since yesterday at school.”

  A girl wearing baggie jeans and a tie-dyed shirt waved to them from behind the table. Beside her stood several others who, like her, were selling balloons to other ravers. She held out a balloon and shouted, “Five bucks.”

  “For what?” Bruce shouted back.

  “Whip-its.”

  “For a balloon?” Jodi asked.

  “No, no. A Whip-it.”

  Bruce and Jodi just gave her blank a stare.

  “See, you put it to your mouth and you inhale it. You go—” She gave a mock demonstration without inhaling. “You suck in the air as many times as possible.”

  “What for?” Jodi asked, puzzled. “To talk like Mickey Mouse?”

  “For a thirty-second knockout. You know, like, the world stops
spinning. It’s really cool. Come on, come on. It’s fun.”

  “I’ll pass,” Jodi said, waving her off.

  She turned to leave when Bruce said, “So tell me how it works. What’s in it?”

  Jodi whipped her head around. “You can’t be serious?”

  “I’m just curious, that’s all,” he said, raising a hand, palm out as if to say, Trust me, I know what I’m doing.

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  Another worker behind the table leaned toward them. “Okay, let me tell ’em. It’s just nitrous oxide—you know, it’s like the laughing gas dentists use, only different. So when you inhale it, your lungs fill and it cuts off the oxygen to your head.”

  “That’s supposed to feel good?” Bruce asked, his left eyebrow shooting up.

  The girl with the tie-dyed shirt cut in. “Dude, then everything blacks out for like half a minute. It’s totally out there. Try it. Come on, do it for me,” she said with a mock pout. She held out a yellow-filled balloon for him to take.

  Jodi tugged at Bruce’s arm. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Better not . . . Mama’s calling,” Bruce said with a laugh, then turned to leave with Jodi.

  The girl called after him, “Are you sure? It’s good stuff!”

  Bruce pointed at Jodi then threw up his hands. “Sorry, gotta go.”

  Jodi was about to blast him for the Mama comment when a kid wearing a smiley-face T-shirt turned around, blocking their path. He took the pacifier out of his mouth and shouted, “You rolling?”

  “Are we what?” Jodi asked.

  “Rolling . . . are you, you know, trippin’?”

  Jodi’s face registered surprise.

  “I’m on E right now, just took my second pill,” he said, holding up two fingers, then added, “and I’m very, very happy.” He took a step closer—a little too close for comfort. “That’s my buddy,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “He’s on four. Come on, let’s party.” He reached out to embrace Jodi’s waist.