The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  As if on cue, the audience below us busted up in laughter about something on screen. Milo did his Groucho eyes. I rolled mine in response.

  “You better get back downstairs,” he said. “It’s getting near the end.”

  “Yeah. See you after?”

  “Yep.”

  I opened the small door to leave, but then turned back.

  “Since when do you read the New York Times?”

  He shrugged and turned back to the theater. I left him there as he watched a third ending flicker like a déjà vu dream.

  By the time I got back downstairs, moviegoers were shuffling into the night. I waited until the crowd cleared out, then got the broom and rolling trashcan out of the janitor’s closet. I turned on the house lights of Viewing Room 2 and started cleaning. I pushed the broom across the back row in one long motion, shoveling all the garbage into a gross pile.

  I dumped that pile, then moved on to the next row.

  Then the next row.

  Then the next row.

  Then the next.

  I was nearly finished sweeping when I came upon three pieces of gum stuck to the armrest of an aisle seat. Annoyed, I put the broom down and started peeling. The first two pieces were stale, so they came off easily. But the third piece was fresh. I cursed the perpetrator as I pulled it from the armrest in a gross, unmanageable string. That was when I heard a voice echo from the foyer of the stage-left emergency exit.

  “What’s the matter, bitch? I thought you like sneak attacks.”

  It was too ugly to come from the mouth of anyone but Stink Wilson.

  I wiped the gum on the corner of the trashcan, and then headed toward the exit to see what was going on. My stomach clenched at the thought of conflict, but my job was also too cushy to lose on account of a jackass like Stink.

  The hallway leading to the exit doors was dark and cramped. The light behind me was just bright enough to make out five Cordelia High lettermen jackets.

  “Just admit it,” another voice said, “and we’ll let you go.”

  “I swear to fuckin’ God,” a third voice yelled, “get your mudderfuckin’ hands off me right now, or I admit I’m gonna kick the shit outta every one of you!”

  The voice was powerful and feminine. The word “mother” rang out in that Midwestern sneer I only heard when I watched the Bears lose on TV.

  I took a deep breath and approached.

  “Hey guys,” I said, straining for both calm and volume, “what’s the hubbub?”

  My teammates stiffened and slowly turned to face me.

  That’s when I saw the new girl. They had formed a circle around her. Two of them held her arms behind her back. None of them could meet my gaze.

  But she did, with eyes darker than the shadows around us. They were windows into a soul that wasn’t the least bit scared, which was a hell of a lot more than I could say for myself.

  Stink took a step toward me.

  “Beat it,” he said. Now his voice was steady, eerily flat.

  I looked at the new girl. She glared at me silently.

  “This is my job,” I said, inching forward. “Y’all really need to leave.”

  “Soon,” Stink said, in that same odd tone. “I’m getting information.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about, man?” I asked, moving closer.

  “You don’t think she knew about Tet, Ronnie? You don’t think they all knew? Oh, they knew, every one of ’em. They knew, and they laughed. They loved it.” He turned back to her. “Didn’t you?”

  Stink reached into his back pocket for . . . I didn’t wait to find out.

  I was too scared. The fear of playing the odds outweighed the fear of action. So I rushed him, and swung my left arm under his armpit, grabbing his elbow. I hooked my other arm over his wrist, forming a sloppily executed arm bar.

  Then, I pulled.

  Stink screamed bloody murder. He sounded like a wild animal. The others loosened their grip on the girl, probably from shock more than anything.

  “Sheep,” she said, spitting at their feet as she pushed them off.

  I shoved Stink farther down the hallway and the others backed away. Their eyes leapt from Stink to me, as they tried to decide what to do.

  “Get outta here before you get me fired,” I yelled back at them, as I barreled Stink through the doors. He went stumbling onto the sidewalk, but he didn’t fall. His friends’ eyes, however, dropped to the ground as they followed him out.

  “I hope this bitch is worth the trouble you just put on yourself,” Stink sneered, then added, “goddamn traitor.”

  His threats were a relief—I was glad to hear the harshness return to his voice. The way he’d been talking all calm and cold really freaked me out.

  The exit doors swung shut, and I was alone with the new girl.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  I took a step toward her, and—WHAM—she punched me in the face.

  “Jesus!” I yelled, backing off.

  “Jesus,” she mumbled, looking down at her hand as if she didn’t recognize it.

  She rushed through the exit doors like a shot. I posted my hand on the wall and shook my head until the stars in my vision cleared. I couldn’t believe how hard she hit. If I wasn’t bleeding, I was lucky.

  She’s obviously psycho, I told myself as I rubbed my face. You did what you could, but she’s not your problem, Ronnie. This is not your problem—

  I scoffed at myself for being a chump as I followed her into the night.

  I found her lighting a cigarette under the awning of the bakery next door. Her zippo sparked, but wouldn’t catch. Her hand was shaking badly.

  “Hey,” I called to her.

  She jumped, startled. I raised my hands in surrender.

  “I come in peace. Relax.”

  I took the matchbook from my pocket. She eyed it skeptically for a moment, and then yanked it from my hand.

  “Sorry for decking you,” she said. The cigarette swayed between her lips.

  “Forget it,” I shrugged. “That’s what I get for tryin’ to help.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded, “it usually is.”

  She struck a match, and it lit up her face like an amber spotlight. Her eyes were gleaming arches that curved and then sharpened, like an infinity symbol. They weren’t slanted, like all those John Wayne movies said they would be—they were full and all encompassing. Her eyebrows and jawline and cheekbones arched in strong, serious angles. But her lips were soft, and her nose was round as a pebble at the bottom of a lake. I’d describe that nose as adorable if I hadn’t just been sucker-punched by its owner.

  But cheap shot or not, I took the cigarette she offered.

  “You’re Milo’s buddy,” she said. She spoke in statements, not questions.

  “Ronnie Bingham. I live across the street from you.”

  “Hana Hitchens,” she said, offering her hand.

  We shook. I smoked and tried not to cough.

  “Your brother died last year in Ong Thanh,” she said, exhaling.

  “Yeah.”

  “You guys were disc jockeys or something.”

  “We were gonna be,” I said.

  “Trippy,” she mused. “Your voice isn’t exactly made for radio.”

  “Whadda ya mean,” I asked, forcibly making my voice even raspier than usual.

  She smiled, but didn’t laugh.

  “He was the real DJ,” I corrected, “Bad Bruce. I was just his sidekick. He wanted me to do the weather report, traffic, stuff like that.”

  “Bad Bruce, and . . .”

  “Raspy Ronnie,” I smiled. “What else?”

  She finally laughed. It was a soft laugh, gentler than the rest of her.

  “I know,” I said, laughing too. “I was just a tagalong. But he could ha
ve been the next Wolfman Jack if—yeah, whatever. He didn’t live long enough to be much more than a record collector.”

  “But hey,” she said, “I bet he had some cool fuckin’ records.”

  “The coolest.”

  She smiled at that, and exhaled.

  “So,” I said, changing the subject, “what was goin’ on back there?”

  “Stupid shit,” she scoffed. “Your pals were sitting behind me and talking through the whole movie. I finally told them to shut up, then the ugly one called me a gook and started kicking my seat. So when the movie ended, I turned around and poured my soda into his lap.”

  I coughed up sour smoke. I tried to imagine the scene.

  “Are all you rednecks delusional?” she went on. “They acted like throwing a soda on that limp dick was part of the Tet Offensive!”

  “Jesus,” I sighed, “that really is crazy. For the record, though, I’m just on the wrestling team with those idiots. But we’re not friends.”

  “If you were, you’re sure not now. You’ve aided and abetted the enemy.”

  “How exactly are you the enemy?” I asked. “Milo told me you’re Japanese, not Vietnamese. Come to think of it, he told those guys the same thing. I heard him.”

  “They don’t care if I’m Vietnamese or Japanese or a fuckin’ Mongol,” she scoffed. “I’m different from them. That’s all it takes to be considered an enemy.”

  She tossed her cigarette out into the street.

  I dropped mine onto the sidewalk.

  “It was nice to finally meet you,” I said, “enemy or not.”

  “See ya later, Raspy Ronnie from across the street.”

  With that, she started down the sidewalk, back toward our neighborhood.

  “Hey,” I hollered after her.

  She turned around.

  “Come by sometime, if you dig music. I’ll show you my brother’s records.”

  “If I dig music?” she snorted, and laughed as she walked away.

  I stood in that same spot until her laughter evaporated into the night. I tried to place the feeling washing over me, but it had become so unfamiliar I labeled it an utterly new sensation.

  Peace.

  Brief and unexpected.

  The sweetest sucker-punch of all.

  four

  Music Geeks Anonymous

  I found Milo in the locker room before practice. I sat beside him on the bench without any acknowledgment, the way only best friends can do.

  “Prince Valiant emerges,” he grinned.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, yeah my ass! I thought you said what happened last Friday was no big thing.”

  “It wasn’t a big thing,” I said, embarrassed.

  “That’s not what Hana told me. And she’s as cool as they come, so if she says it was a big deal, it was a big deal.”

  I changed into my shorts and began lacing up my wrestling shoes.

  “Stink give you any trouble today?”

  “Nah,” I said, “I’m sure it’s fine. He’s all show and no go.”

  “I hope,” Milo said. “Hana said he was acting batshit.”

  “Yet I’m the one she socked in the face.”

  Milo started laughing. I chuckled too, and shut my locker.

  “You must be one of those pain pervs,” he said. “I can’t imagine inviting a girl over to listen to records right after she punched me.”

  Until then, I hadn’t considered the possibility that Milo had the hots for Hana. I couldn’t believe it didn’t cross my mind earlier, and I felt an awkward sort of guilt creep slowly up my throat. Had I overstepped by asking her to hang out?

  “I meant, like, the three of us,” I stammered, “not just me and her. I was thinking we should start a record club, since we all live on the same block.”

  “A record club?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “a club that meets up once a week to listen to music. Everyone brings an LP and a single, and then gets to swap ’em afterwards. A bunch of kids are doing it, I read about ’em in Rave magazine.”

  “I dig it. Just say where and when.”

  “Ask Hana if she feels like joining, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

  “I’ll ask her after school.”

  He shut his locker. I stopped him before he walked out.

  “Hey man,” I said, “can I lay some Best Friend Shit on you?”

  “Always.”

  “Do you like this chick? Like, like her like her, or are y’all just friends? Because I don’t wanna get in the middle of—”

  His laughter cut me off. “If you knew her better, you wouldn’t ask,” he said. “I already get called ‘shrimp’ and ‘dweeb’ enough at wrestling practice. I ain’t interested in dating a girl who can kick my ass six ways to Sunday.”

  “Right on,” I nodded. “I just felt like I should ask.”

  “Why,” he asked, “do you like her?”

  “Nah, like you just said, I don’t even know her. But she’s a badass chick that’ll actually talk to us. So, I mean, what’s not to like?”

  It was an eternally inarguable point.

  ―

  Hana was into the idea—and just like that, our record club was born. I figured we’d meet at my house, but she insisted on her own. (She was allowed to play music as loud as she wanted. Otherwise, what was the point?)

  Our maiden audio voyage was set to depart at 7 p.m. on Thursday.

  Be there, or be squarer than square.

  So I hurried home after wresting practice to shower, and then spent an hour in Bruce’s bedroom, agonizing over what to bring. I chose a full-length I was confident about—Psychedelic Lollipop by Blues Magoos—but picking a single was impossible. It was ridiculous, the way I labored over the decision. I was so damn determined to choose something left of the dial, a song that a girl from a big city like Chicago wouldn’t roll her eyes at.

  After flipping through the shelves for an eternity, I surprised myself by looking in my special stack of vinyls—the singles that had Bruce’s letters tucked safely inside. A few singles deep, I landed on one that struck me. It was an old song, a real heart-buster. As I touched the thin paper dust sleeve, a memory shot through me like a jolt of electricity.

  Bad Bruce, his shades on for full effect, slowly lowers the 45 onto the turntable.

  “For all the four-eyed forlorn lovers out there,” he croons, “here’s one with a slow beat for the back seat. And speaking of going parking tonight, how’s the weather, Raspy Ronnie?”

  “Too cool for school,” I said softly, pulling the single from the shelf, “with a hundred-percent chance of young love.”

  I held it out to Wolfman, who lay curled at the edge of Bruce’s bed.

  “What do ya think, Wolfie? “

  He farted. Loud. His tail began to wag.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I grabbed the 45 in one hand and held my nose with the other.

  He farted again. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Agent Orange ain’t got nothin’ on you, boy.”

  His tail flapped back and forth lazily, like a paper flag in the breeze.

  Milo was waiting outside. He stood between our front yards, beyond the glow of the porch lights. He wore a black T-shirt, and he’d brushed his hair down instead of back, letting the bangs hover over his glasses in uneven edges.

  My side-parted hair and untucked button-down felt stifling all of a sudden.

  “What’d ya bring?” I asked as I approached.

  “A James Carr single and a full-length by my man Donovan.”

  “Of course,” I nodded.

  Butterflies or wasps flew around in my gut as I followed him across the street. I’d never noticed the peculiar amount of windows Hana’s house had. As we c
rossed through her yard, I could see into the kitchen—empty—and the dining room—empty—and I could even make out a TV flickering in one of the back rooms. I stepped over a pile of cigarette butts strewn loosely across the grass.

  “Oh,” Milo said as we climbed the porch, “take off your shoes when we get inside. It’s a Japanese thing.”

  “OK. Should we, like, bow?” I asked seriously.

  “Jesus, Ronnie,” he scoffed, “just act normal.”

  He knocked on the door. Through the window, we saw a woman emerge from the back. I assumed she was Hana’s mother, though she could’ve passed for an older sister—a pretty older sister. She wore white slacks and a tight, gray sweater. Her hair was dark, like Hana’s, but cut in a much more fashionable bob.

  Milo and I shared a sideways glance.

  “Yoko O-YES,” he said, bouncing his eyebrows up and down.

  The front door opened, and I swallowed my chuckles.

  “May I help you?” she asked. I heard zero tinge of Midwest or Far East in her voice. Her eyes were Hana’s eyes, dark symbols of infinity.

  “I’m Milo, from across the street.”

  “Ah yes,” she smiled, “and you must be Ronnie. Please, please, come in.”

  We walked into the foyer. Milo and I slid off our shoes. Hana’s mother didn’t comment.

  “Hana-chan,” she sang up the stairs, “your callers are here.”

  A door upstairs opened and slammed. Hana appeared at the top of the staircase, wearing patched jeans and an oversized green flannel.

  “Come on up.”

  I followed Milo up the stairs, and Hana led us to the room at the end of the hall. There was a poster on the door of Uncle Sam wrapped in bloody bandages. Instead of the standard I WANT YOU, this Uncle Sam implored I WANT OUT.

  “Welcome to Basecamp Zero,” Hana said sarcastically. Then she opened the door, and I walked into a room unlike any other.

  The first thing that struck me was her record collection; she had almost as many as Bruce! Otis Blue played low on her high-end turntable. He sang about respect. Two lamps were draped in red silk kerchiefs to mellow the mood. All four walls were covered in posters and concert flyers that read like pure fantasy.

  Feb. 15—The Doors,Chicago Auditorium Theater, $7.50

  Chicago Tribune—134 Seized in Draft Protest