by P. J. Post
Debbie holds her cigarette out to one side and leans closer, jabbing a finger in Tonya’s face accentuating each word. “Fuck — you.”
And then Debbie and Christy walk out.
Tonya glares at me and walks over and sits back down in front of our washers.
I’m speechless again. I don’t know what to say.
I walk over and sit down next to her. She doesn’t look at me.
Todd stumbles over, gasping for air. “That was some funny shit.”
I whisper, “Dude...”
“No, that was funny as hell,” he says as he tries to catch his breath.
I lean back in my seat and put my hands on top of my head; this day just gets better and better.
A few minutes later, Debbie and Christy come back in and head straight for us.
“Oh shit,” I say under my breath.
But they don’t walk up to us, they stop at our washers instead and before we can get to them, they open the lids and pour something in.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
Tonya is done talking. Her face tightens and she’s snarling, her lips pull back showing even white teeth. I’ve never seen her like this before.
She’s suddenly on her feet and punches Debbie in the side of the head with a clean, crisp, round house.
Debbie bounces off the washing machines, dropping the can she was holding and blue paint spills everywhere.
“Fuck,” Todd says coming out of his chair.
Christy grabs Tonya by the hair and as Debbie takes a swing at Tonya, she slips in the paint and falls.
I run over and try to pull Christy off Tonya, but now she has Tonya’s shirt and she’s turned and pushing and tugging like she’s having an epileptic fit. I drag Christy away, but she pulls Tonya’s sweatshirt off as she goes.
I’m embarrassed for Tonya, she’s standing in the middle of the Laundromat in her sweatpants and bra, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She grabs Christy by the shoulder, like in the movies, and pulls her around and punches her in the mouth. Tonya throws a nice punch.
“You fucking bitch,” Christy shrieks through bleeding lips.
Debbie gets back on her feet as the flashing red and blue lights become visible through the storefront glass.
Debbie and Christy see the reflecting lights and step back while they try to wipe the paint off their hands.
I jerk Tonya’s sweatshirt away from Christy and help Tonya put it back on. She’s panting and trembling with rage.
We all stand back as two cops walk down the aisle towards us. They stop short of the paint. I’m pretty sure they saw at least some of what happened, because the one in back is smirking.
I glance around at the Friday night washing club. There’s a pay phone near the back, one of them must have called the police as soon as Debbie started shooting off her mouth.
“We got a call someone was disturbing the peace.”
Yep, there it is.
“Luckily, we were across the street. Looks like maybe it was you folks? So, what’s going on here, Connor?” the cop in front asks while he points his flashlight at us.
Todd leans over. “You know him?”
“We’ve met,” I say and then turn back to the cop. “Just a misunderstanding, Dan-o. I think everything is cool now.”
“Is it?” Officer Dan asks as he stares down each of us, pointing the flashlight as he goes.
Todd steps forward. “They poured paint in our washers.”
Tonya is leaning against the washing machines, turned away from the cops, and is quick to respond, “No, just an accident, just an accident, right girls?”
Even though Christy’s lip is split and bleeding, her and Debbie both nod agreement.
“How about we all ignore the mess and y’all head on home,” Officer Dan suggests, pointing his flashlight towards the door.
“Thanks, will do,” I answer.
And then Dan looks closer at Tonya. “Beth?” he asks, “Is that you?”
Now I realize that Tonya has been shying away from the cops.
“What in the hell are you doing here? Does your father know where you are?” the cop continues.
Tonya turns, holding up a hand to silence him, and quickly walks over and whispers something as she guides him outside.
The other cop rests his hands on his belt and nods at Debbie and Christy and then towards the door again, they take the suggestion and leave.
I see them grab their clothes baskets on the way out, but my attention is on Tonya and the animated conversation she is having with the cop. After a few minutes, Dan-o nods to his partner, who points his finger at Todd and me as a warning and leaves.
They get back in their cruiser, kill the flashers and drive away.
Tonya doesn’t come back in and I know she’s disappointed in me. She stands out there in the dark parking lot with her arms folded across her chest. The light from the Laundromat spills out through the glass and makes her seem far away. The whole thing makes me feel uncomfortable and ashamed.
I glance in the washers, our clothes are beyond ruined.
Todd and I just look at each other again, what can we say?
I think about everything that happened and strangely, the first thing I think about is how Tonya looked earlier, she really is petite and not even a little bit heavy. She looks more like an athlete, a curvy one, but still. She said she was one, so that makes sense. I also realize her skin is really pale, as in she has no tan — at all. Her skin looks like ivory. I can’t help thinking how sexy she looked standing there in her white lacey bra and those gray sweatpants with the top rolled over.
But the most confusing thing was seeing those big brown eyes alive with rage and how volatile she was. She’s always fairly positive, not exactly hopeful, but kind. I didn’t know she was capable of this level of violent anger, and then I remember her suicide attempt.
Tonya has more secrets than I thought and I don’t understand any of it, not the thing with the cops, not who her dad is or why that should matter, not why she got so aggressive with Debbie, and not why she hates Laundromats so much. I know this all means something, and I know it’s major. I’m not connecting the dots and it’s pissing me off.
“What a cluster-fuck. You think she’s going to talk about what just happened?” Todd asks quietly.
“Nope.”
“Who’s Beth?” Todd asks.
“I have no idea.”
7
Second Hand Chances
Depending on the day, we spend a lot of time in secondhand shops, because, like good little conforming punks, we profess to despise commercialism and the lingering death sentence of suburban existence, but really; it’s just because we’re poor. The best one is downtown and given last night’s dramatics, Tonya decided this morning that I needed more clothes, so this is where we end up. Sometimes it’s best not to argue.
The shop has a wide glass storefront, decades-old, elementary school cafeteria flooring and rows and rows of postmortem clothes spread out under humming fluorescent lights. It’s dreadfully perfect.
As usual, Tonya drags me along for a few moments and then disappears to shop by herself.
“I’m not in the mood,” I say.
Todd ignores me and pulls out one horrendous shirt after another, this must be the seventies section.
“More polyester, dude,” I encourage.
“You can’t wear that Sabbath shirt everyday,” Todd says.
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t,” a new voice says from down the rack.
We turn to look.
She’s a punk too, black hair with bangs, too much makeup, Doc Martins, a peasant skirt and a Black Flag t-shirt. She’s pretty. She has Todd’s full attention.
“I know you,” she says, pointing at me as her eyes narrow, “you’re that guy from the bank.”
She sounds accusatory.
“The bank?”
“Shauna’s stalker,” she says.
“Her stalker?�
�� I ask.
“Yeah, I’d swear that was you, at least I would in a police line-up,” she says through a grin.
It clicks. “Oh right, yeah, not anymore,” I say.
“That’s no fun,” she says.
I look around, this is totally weird. The world is entirely too small sometimes. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m all kinds of fun,” Todd says, leering.
She reaches over and squeezes his nose and laughs. I laugh too. Todd doesn’t.
“I’m Carla, Shauna’s friend,” she says as she leans casually against the rack of leisure suits.
“So what brings you to this delightful establishment, the ambiance or the two drink minimum?” I ask.
She has a sly grin that appears completely untrustworthy, like she’s up to something, kind of like an evil version of Shauna. She ignores my question.
“So what gives with Shauna?” she asks.
“What do you mean what gives? She has a boyfriend.”
Carla laughs again. “She’s still using that one, huh?”
“Can I get an extra side-order of ambiguity here, please?” I ask.
“I’m just messing with you. Shauna hasn’t had a real boyfriend for a while now; she dates sometimes, but I think she’s on a sabbatical or hiatus as far as relationships go.” She pauses and then motions me forward with her finger. “I got a secret.”
An acquaintance of an acquaintance is all the invitation Todd needs to get chummy, and he lays his chin on her shoulder, the nose tweak forgotten. “I like secrets.”
Carla scratches Todd on the head like he’s a puppy. “I bet you do and I have a few, but this one’s for studly here.”
“Studly,” Todd echoes, laughing.
“I’m in a shitty mood,” I remind them.
“Oh, poor baby,” Carla taunts.
“Look, Shauna lying to me isn’t much better than her having a boyfriend, now is it?” I ask.
“Who’s this?” Tonya says as she walks up.
Carla gives Tonya the once over and sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Carla and I really dig your band.”
Tonya grins and blushes as she takes Carla’s hand. “Thanks, I guess?”
“Okay,” Carla says, “two secrets. I’ve seen you guys a few times, you’re brutal. I’m a fan. I was just funning with the kiddies here.” She points to Todd and me.
Okay, that explains how she knows me, but it’s still a little creepy.
“That one is not to be trusted,” Tonya says, nodding toward Todd.
“So not true,” he says.
“I bet I can handle him,” Carla responds.
Todd grins, “You can handle…”
“Don’t even,” Carla says.
“What? I was just going to say…”
“You’re a total goober,” Tonya says. “We all know what you were going to say.”
I just shake my head. Todd’s never dull.
“I was going to say we got a show at The Underground tonight, that’s all,” he finally says.
“I know big boy, that’s the other secret. No promises Connor, but I think Shauna is going, if I can get her there that is.”
I’m still not getting it. “So?”
“Did you hit your head? She said you were smart. She’s coming to see you. She’s shy.”
I raise one hand to my cap. Now I feel supremely stupid and I’m sure I’m grinning like a moron.
Todd laughs at me, not with me — important distinction. I can’t read Tonya’s expression.
“She likes me?” I ask.
“Put on the brakes there lover-boy, let’s just say she’s curious for now,” Carla says.
I’ll take curious; it beats the hell out of where I was yesterday afternoon.
“I was trying to find her some fun stuff to wear, this is the best shop in town,” Carla says, then she puts one arm over Todd’s shoulder and points at Tonya, swirling her finger around from her boots to her oversized pants and baggy flannel. “We need to do something about this.”
“We? About what?” Tonya asks.
“Yeah, time to stop hiding and get some style, you can totally pull it off,” Carla says.
“I’m not hiding,” Tonya says as she looks away.
“Don’t make me pull out my psych degree, but yeah, you are.”
“I like college girls,” Todd says.
“I like college girls too,” Carla says with an evil grin.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh? You just haven’t met the right guy. Ever think about trying out what you’re missing?” Todd asks.
“Oh sweetie, not with you,” she says smiling.
“Never hurts to ask,” he says.
“Yeah, I think it does,” Carla responds with a knowing smile and pats his cheek.
“Men are pigs, ignore him,” Tonya says, “except this one.” She hugs me.
“I hope not, be a shame to have to kill him,” Carla says, winking at me.
I’m a happy camper at the moment. “Carla, are you always this forward when you meet people?”
She cocks her head slightly and stares up at the stained ceiling panels as though deep in thought. “Yep, pretty much. But, you can ask Tonya more about it tomorrow morning,” she answers through that sly grin.
Tonya blushes. “Whatever,” she says and turns away, but Carla catches up with her and hugs her. Carla is too infectiously charming to be upset with for long. I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s like a long lost friend already. It’s weird. But I can’t say I trust her exactly.
“So the mission is clothes for Shauna and Connor?” Carla asks.
“No,” I say, “the mission is always the same here, more clothes for Tonya, but I’m curious about what you have in mind for Shauna.”
Carla glares at me. “Buzz off, that ruins the romance. Do you read the last page of mysteries first?” She starts to turn away and then looks back and raises that accusatory eyebrow. “Do you read at all?” Then she turns her full attention to Tonya. “Shopping?”
“Okay, guilty, help me or get lost,” Tonya says. Tonya is the only girl I ever met who has a pouty walk.
“I read,” I mumble.
“Sure you do, kiddo,” Todd says patting me on the shoulder as he pushes past.
Carla catches up with Tonya. “Oh, I can help; I told you we needed to do something, didn’t I?”
Todd and I follow along and spend the rest of the afternoon laughing and joking and getting to know Carla — and shopping for Tonya, of course.
I’m trying not to obsess about tonight, the show or Shauna and think about the second hand store instead. I snatch up a pair of fades blue jeans, a few plain white undershirts and a 1950’s gray and white bowling shirt that has the name Alex embroidered over the pocket.
Score.
8
The Underground
Hard alcohol in bars is technically illegal in Oklahoma, which means you can get it most anywhere, but you have to be twenty-one. Beer, on the other hand, isn’t and the drinking age is eighteen. The survey says, “Drunk eighteen year-olds like live music with their beer.” So there are a lot of beer bars around town with live music. But my favorite is the Underground.
It’s a basement dive in downtown Oklahoma City. It’s a great place to play. One: because it has a loading dock in the alley that runs down to the lower floor so you can load equipment right in behind the stage. Two: because it has a real parking lot and three: it’s punk through and through — no bullshit.
We play lots of shows in bars and halls around town and Tulsa, but the Underground is the only one that lets us do what we do and let’s our fans do what they came for. It’s also the only place that the police have never shut down on us. Not yet, anyway.
The bar is dark and neon with day-glow splatter paint against black walls. Even though it’s only been open for a little over a year, the walls are already covered in graffiti, band flyers and offensive bumper stickers. It’s a long room with the bar along one long side and the stag
e along the other. The dance floor, or pit as most of us think of it, is in between. It used to be a Go-Go bar and the cages for the dancers are still there on both sides of the stage. At the far end, behind the entrance, are the toilets and the ubiquitous pool tables.
Another reason I like this place is because it has a real Green Room, sort of. It’s not one of those backstage rooms with deli platters, champagne and vases with blue M&M’s, but it is a place we can get ready for the show away from our fans. That is, we can get hammered in private.
I walk back in around nine with another pitcher of beer and cups, trying not to think about Shauna and just focus on the show.
The Green Room has a slightly unpleasant odor, like something died, but not before puking and pissing everywhere. It always smells like this. They should think about pulling out the green shag carpet, it’s much worse than the Laundromat’s floor. The room isn’t that big either and it’s crowded — three bands, buddies and girlfriends fill the four threadbare couches; anyone who got here late is standing. The battered and stained, wooden end tables are covered with beer cups, pitchers of beer and ashtrays. Everyone is drinking and smoking.
The air is thick under the dim fluorescent light.
The headliners are The Freaks. I never met them before. They’re sitting at one end of the room on the couches, passing a joint around. I know it’s them because they’re the only ones I don’t know. They look like hippies.
Larry, he calls himself Mick now, is the lead singer for Scrotum, the opening band. They’re skinhead posers, shaved bald, wearing plain white shirts over baggy jeans, and unfortunately, I do know them. Larry’s banging his head against the paneling and screaming ‘fuck’ over and over in a fake English accent. He’s managed to open a cut in his forehead and he’s bleeding down his face. The other guys in his band are ignoring him. He’s an asshole. Not because he’s trying to use pain as a motivator, but because it’s not real. I know him and he’s a fake — it’s all for show.
The music is loud, spitting out of a broken P.A. cabinet near the door. I set the pitcher down on it and start pouring beers for Todd and Tonya. We look at each other, down them and pour more.
