Madame Clarice stands elegantly from the table and walks to her wall of herbs and bottles. She takes a tiny purple bottle and wraps it neatly in a scarf. Natalie looks up, tears watering her eyes, hoping for a mystical cure.
“Girls, the gift of psychic ability is not to be taken lightly, but it’s merely a reading of the present energy – the future can always be altered. Free will, dear,” Madame Clarice addresses Natalie, “is your greatest gift. You will be rewarded with an eternity of stars. And you,” she tilts her head at me, “you have an energy that is complex yet simplistic. Your aura is a contradiction – only one man will be able to interpret your psyche.”
I place my arm around Natalie’s shoulders as she wipes back her tears. This is quite possibly the strangest moment we’ve ever shared, and I’m dying to know what Nat thinks about all this.
“What’s in the bottle?” Natalie asks.
The psychic hands the wrapped bottle to Natalie and smiles compassionately. “The bottle, dear, contains hope. It will give you the power to dream. And for you,” she looks at me with sympathy, “you will find the connection between impulse and purpose. Look for balance in the perfect song.”
Wow.
“Okay, girls, that’s all I got! Seventy-five dollars cash or credit but I charge a service fee of $3.95 if you use Discover.” Madame Clarice walks over to a fanny pack and a handheld credit machine as Nat digs in her oversized bag for cash. I take forty dollars from my wallet and add it to Nat’s eighteen. We charge the rest on my emergency MasterCard, which I’m sure Dad will flip over when he gets the statement, but this is sort of an emergency.
“Thank you so much, Madame Clarice. Besides the fat ass and the whiskers, I’m embracing my future.” Natalie jokes.
“Me, too,” I mumble.
“You are more than welcome. Happy birthday, dear. Cancers are my favorite people.” She smiles sincerely and leads us to the door.
In the dark, starless night, we start our drive back to my house. We’re both uncharacteristically quiet and pensive, neither of us certain about what we just experienced. Natalie lights another cigarette and I lower the radio to get her opinion. She is the most straightforward thinker I know, and always challenges my romantic idealism.
“Well? What do you think it all means?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. What does anything mean? What do the lyrics to Pink Floyd mean? We’re both destined to grow some trees – whatever the fuck that is. I avoid nature at all costs, so maybe she saw a money tree?” Natalie blows a puff of smoke and coughs. “She did say I will talk to the stars and you will sing with pride or whatever, so our dream of being famous will happen!” Natalie tosses the cigarette out the window and digs for her gum.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that she specifically said I will find love when I’m twenty-five?”
“I guess, but Chloe, the woman was wearing sweatpants and a head scarf. And that bottle she gave me was empty. Don’t interpret every little detail as truth.”
I raise the volume on the radio, trying to appear as unaffected as my cousin, but the truth is, I don’t want Nat to hear my rampant imagination. Madame Clarice vaguely assured me that everything would be great . . . I will have a music career that I’m proud of. I will find my true love because of my purposeful spontaneity. This is good news, I can basically plan to be impulsive . . . pass up on the annoying, childish relationships and float from meaningless job to job, just hanging on for the right moment. Simply waiting will prepare me for my future . . . and those impetuous actions will bring me joy . . . and he’s waiting for me . . . tall, handsome and quiet.
Chris
“I saw the sign and it opened up my mind.”
~The Sign, ACE OF BASE
Christopher Brooks
aka Ace of Base
Sigma Chi Pledge Class ’94
July 4, 1996
Evanston, Illinois
IT’S FUCKING HOT. If I were a Yankee like my roommate, I would pat my brow and say something charming like: my, it’s stifling . . . let’s resign to the patio for some refreshments. But I’m not – I’m a Texan, and we say things like: phew boy, it’s so hot I could pull a baked tater from the ground.
I do have an image to uphold.
“Shit bro, can it get any hotter?” Frenchy removes his t-shirt and ties it around his head like a turban.
I look up at the sky and laugh. “It’s only seven thirty.” Removing my UT cap and pretending to fan myself, I add, “Man, this is nothin’. Try running bleachers in August – in Texas – in football pads.”
My five brothers and I have spent the last week repairing and roofing a nursing home outside of Chicago. Community service is the final segment of our six-week leadership conference, and we would’ve finished yesterday, but dumbass Piggy knocked over our last pail of tar. Roof work sucks, but everything else about Evanston kicks ass. I could live here – it’s like a wet dream disguised as a John Hughes movie. And rumor has it, Molly Ringwald is waitressing at the diner around the corner.
“Yo, Frenchy. Hot nurses!” Sloth puts his tar-encrusted fingers in his mouth to whistle.
The rest of us stop and wave to the group of middle-aged women. The nurses giggle and wave back, and the oldest one, Norma I think, blows me a kiss. I return her attention with a whistle while the other guys catcall and slap their palms against the roof.
“Looking good, boys,” the nurses shout in unison. It’s all for fun, and the ladies seem to find humor in our daily audacious banter.
Beaker leans back and stretches his arm as far as he can. “Ace, pass me a box of nails.”
I dig in one of the pockets of my cargo shorts to find a spare box of nails for my brother. “Here. Last box.”
We’re not actually brothers. I’m part of a six-person team from different Sigma Chi chapters. We come from diverse backgrounds and different schools, but we share a common plague of uncreative pledge names. Brother Beaker is pre-med from Tulane . . . Brother Sloth is a junior and president of his chapter at U Central Florida . . . Brother Skunk is a baseball player from Oklahoma University, and Brother Piggy is a fat bastard from Virginia Tech.
Brother Frenchy is my roommate and friend. He’s a pharmacy major from Princeton and plans to join the Peace Corps after graduation. Frenchy’s family is from Greenwich, Connecticut, and owns some sort of pharmaceutical research company. Based on photos in our room, his dad seems like an uptight prick, but his mom is a smoking hot Parisian with perky tits.
My pledge name was given to me after a drunken night singing Swedish pop songs during a lineup. Sloth got his because he’s slow as fuck. Piggy is an obvious moniker . . . Beaker because of his freaky red hair, and Skunk because of the questionable marijuana stench that follows him. Frenchy was blessed with his name, although I don’t know what’s so great about being French.
He wipes his brow and says, “After dinner we should go to Chicago.” Frenchy currently holds the record for bagging the most Chicago ass. He’s not a player, as he tells every girl upfront that he’s only here for a few weeks, but that rarely seems to matter.
The sun is stinging my back, so I change directions to alleviate some of the heat. Unfortunately, Frenchy and I are now ass-to-ass on the narrow eave, receiving unwanted attention from our childish frat brothers. I glance over at Beaker and Sloth simulating a sex act and making fun of our accents.
“Mon dieu!” Beaker moans.
“Yee haw,” Sloth yells.
“What’s the latest tally?” I ask under the noise of my nail gun.
“Shit, Ace, I don’t take inventory. Are you still wondering if I speak French to the girls?”
I give Sloth the finger while smoothing out the tar for the flat roof. “You mean that frou-frou shit no one can understand?”
“I have several techniques, jackass. I only use the French stuff when I know she’ll be impressed. So what’s your game?”
Amused, I answer, “I knew it.”
Frenchy puts down his nail
gun and sits on our toolbox, reaching for the bottle of water. “Knew what?” He smirks.
“You think I have a pickup line. I mean, I do, but it’s all ’bout the timing, brother.” I punch his shoulder and laugh. “How ’bout this – I give you my surefire line and you teach me some of your frog-talk?”
He takes a swig of the water and chuckles. “Let me get this straight, you, the Lyle Lovett of Sigma Chi, want to speak French to an unassuming girl?”
“Lyle Lovett? Shit, that’s what you think of me?”
“I don’t know many Texans,” he responds.
Annoyed, I ask, “But Lyle Lovett? There’s Willie Nelson, J.R. Ewing, Troy Aikman – well, he’s from Oklahoma but still a Texan. Damn, does Matthew McConaughey ring a bell, ya stupid Yankee?”
“Fine, whatever. The Matthew McConaughey of Sigma Chi wants to speak French, should be entertaining.”
“Fuck yeah!” I hate to admit that I’m curious to know what he says to make girls jump into his bed.
Frenchy nods while punching my shoulder. “All right. I’ll give you some phrases in exchange for your golden gift of boyish charm – so what’s your game anyway?”
“Patience darlin’, patience. Timing is everything.”
11:30 p.m.
BEAKER IS THE only brother that brought a car to Evanston, and not just a car – it’s a fucking jacked-up Tahoe. The six of us pile into the leather interior that even the darkest tints can’t seem to keep cool.
“Here’s the address.” Piggy waves a Taco Bell wrapper while scrolling through the radio stations.
“Chumbawumba! Turn up the radio,” Sloth demands. He slaps Frenchy in the arm a dozen times while mumbling along to the unrecognizable lyrics.
Beaker shakes his head and sings in a high-pitched voice. “Chumbawumba sucks balls. So what’s the plan? It’s the Fourth and Chicago is going to be lit.”
“Fieldtrip buddy?” Skunk rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. “Seriously, don’t we all know how to call a cab if we get separated?”
Pissed, Beaker reaches back and punches Skunk’s knee. “No smoking in the ’hoe, dipshit.” He turns back to the wheel just in time to avoid a massive orange cone with an American flag.
I slap Piggy’s back and laugh. “Piggy, we’ll give you a note to pin on your shirt – if lost, please return to Sigma Chi.”
“Ha ha, you asshole. That was only the one time . . . and might I add that I sucked face with a very hot female,” Piggy boasts.
The car erupts in howls of laughter – all directed at Piggy’s recollection of a hot female. Our first week here, we made it to some dive bar that had a reputation to overlook fake IDs. The dingy pub was filled to capacity with crusty old dudes drinking crappy beer and playing bingo. But the minute the bar tramps started to approach us, we hightailed it out of there so fast . . .
Frenchy leans forward and yells into Piggy’s ear. “She was like sixty, you moron. Beer goggles or not, she was wearing slippers.”
“Piggy, we left your ass. That was disgusting and an embarrassment to the brotherhood of Sigma Chi,” Skunk says flatly.
Beaker makes a sharp left onto a gravel road, causing the SUV’s wheels to announce our arrival. There’s a line of cars waiting to enter a parking lot illuminated by a large spotlight. Some jerks in reflective orange vests wave us over and flash a sign that says:
$15 Parking
No Drugs Allowed
“Holy shit, it’s packed. Give me money,” Beaker demands. We fork over a few bucks and direct him to a spot near a dumpster, hopefully a place we can all remember.
Just across the lake is Chicago’s Navy Pier – the liquid playground of the Midwest. We survived a pub crawl a few weeks ago and goddamn, the chicks were outrageous – not at all like the conservative girls of Texas. It was six hours of non-stop drinking and pushing our way through crowds of people doing really stupid stuff, but nothing could’ve prepared us for the mob of drunks congregating in this abandoned lot.
All around us, people are setting up lawn chairs and arranging mini bars. Cases of beer and ice chests are being dragged from vehicles, and a small forklift is transporting kegs to the center of the parking lot. Fifty yards in front of us, the outer edge of Lake Michigan is gearing up for the fireworks, and I can faintly make out the lights of Grant Park through the smoky haze. Somehow, we stumbled upon the premium Fourth of July location – and we’re about to party it up with Chicago natives.
I check to make sure my beeper is in my pocket as we file out of the Tahoe. Piggy stretches his arms and looks around. “Well, aren’t we a bunch of lucky fucks.”
“God bless America.” Skunk lights a cigarette dangling between his lips. “God bless America,” he roars, beating his chest.
In unison, strangers return the sentiment by raising cups and toasting our magnificent country. “God bless America!”
“How ’bout it, Frenchy?” I nudge his arm and point discreetly to a group of girls.
“Really, you’re still serious?”
I nod confidently while putting my arm around Beaker. “Hey bro, gimme the keys. I’ll selflessly be the DD tonight,” I drawl.
Skunk bumps into me, making a mad dash to the kegs. “Beer – now,” he grunts. Beaker follows immediately behind him with his own personalized flask and a bag of weed.
“All right, Ace, let’s work the crowd. Do you remember the phrase I taught you?” Frenchy’s smile twitches, like he’s repressing a snicker.
“I got it, bro. Les étoilesdansent comme des singes dans l’océan et le beurre . . . blah blah blah.”
Piggy and Sloth leave us to wander around the parking lot in search of beer and girls. Frenchy and I approach the girls sitting in a circle of lawn chairs. They whisper and giggle as we stand goofily with our hands in our pockets, waiting for inclusion. Frenchy murmurs something under his breath and slaps my arm
“All right, Ace. Show me what you got.”
“One word, brother. Works every time.” I smirk and pretend to tip my invisible cowboy hat. One of the girls makes eye contact, so I casually approach her chair.
“Hi boys – ya gonna just stand there with stupid grins or join us?” asks a hot brunette in overall shorts.
Frenchy moves toward the brunette as I squat next to the girl with the huge tits spilling from her tank top. I wait until I have her attention and then I flash a smile.
“Cute,” I drawl.
“Sorry?” she quips.
“Your little tattoo on your ankle. I like it.” I place my finger on the most horrific excuse for a dragon – wait, is that fucking Bowser? Never mind, that’s awesome.
The girl with the Nintendo tattoo throws her head back in laughter and smiles. “Oh yeah? What’s your name?” she asks.
“I’m Chris – and what’s your name darlin’?”
“Darcy,” she replies. “Let’s grab a beer.” And that’s how I became the Don Juan of Austin.
“Bro, come here,” Frenchy shouts.
I rise to my feet and give him a shrug of cocky accomplishment. Frenchy squeezes me into a headlock and laughs hysterically.
“Ace, that has to be the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard. I think we’re even.”
I laugh while pushing him off of me. “Huh? It works, man!”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead using that crap.”
I glance at Darcy, sexily biting her lip while waiting for me to join her. “I’ll check in with you later, bro. As you can see,” I point to Darcy, “I have a cute girl hypnotized by my cowboy spell.”
“Yeah, yeah. God, I hope she speaks French.”
Frenchy makes himself comfortable in one of the empty chairs as the brunette in overalls sits in his lap. How does he do it?
“Hey Darcy, parlez-vous français?” I grab her hand and pull her toward me. The cooler at my feet is overflowing with Coors Light, not my favorite, but they’ll do. I pop a can and hand it to Darcy as the fireworks take over the Chicago sky. Several feet away, three large speake
rs in the bed of a truck blast the electric genius of Jimi Hendrix. The humidity is finally fading and the party is picking up . . . this is nice. I might as well enjoy the show and have a few beers—
“Wanna make out?”
Before I can answer, Darcy drags me to the backseat of a Geo Tracker. She drapes her arms on top of my shoulders and mimics my surprised face. I shake my head in disbelief while placing my hands on her waist.
“Sure, darlin’.” I shrug.
That’s what’s great about America – the Fourth of July is a celebration for a country full of dreamers. A place where resiliency overpowers fear . . . picket fences, barbecues, television, beer, drunk girls, fireworks . . . there’s no place I’d rather be.
Adam
“The truth is overrated.”
~Paul Westerberg, THE REPLACEMENTS
July 4, 1996
Toronto, Canada
8:58 p.m.
“DO YOU EVEN KNOW where you’re going, dickhead?” Tango shouts from the backseat. As if being the designated driver for the night wasn’t bad enough, I’ve listened to my buddies, Tango and Jeff, fight like twelve-year-old girls over the radio for the past two hours. A normal drive from Buffalo to Toronto can be quick and painless, but these two drunk fuckers have made it unbearable.
“Yep, ’cause I’ve been to your cousin’s cousin’s friend’s house a dozen times. How about you put away the 40 and give me directions? Jesus, Tango – you’re not fucking Ice Cube,” I taunt.
Jeff lights a cigarette and switches the radio to a scratchy country station. “Yeah Tango, you piece of shit – tell Adam where to take us. Amarillo by mornin’.” Jeff rolls down the window and tosses his beer can at one of the street signs.
“What the hell, Jeff? You can’t just litter in another country – we’ll be exported or exploited or whatever,” Tango barks.
The Album: Book One Page 3
