The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  “Hmm, let’s see,” Milo mocked, “if we forget about the breaking and entering part, we’ve still got dereliction of duty—and robbery, for taking the speakers—and auto theft, attempted assault, probably, since someone’s eardrums could bust—”

  “Probably kidnapping, too,” Ramrod added.

  “Jesus. Forget I asked.”

  Our footfalls echoed the lay of the land, as it changed from stucco flooring to cafeteria tile.

  “Look!” Milo said. He pointed to a dolly in the corner of the room.

  “Thank God,” I said, “I can’t carry those speakers another inch.”

  Milo stepped onto the dolly, and Lewis grabbed the handles. He rolled Milo into the kitchen, through to the storage area, and to the van. When I caught up with them, Lewis had already unloaded one of the speakers. He lifted it onto the dolly like it was nothing. Milo grabbed a bike chain and a cinder block from the back.

  “I thought y’all said these were heavy,” Ramrod grinned.

  I scoffed, then led them to the service elevator. I opened it with Dad’s keys. Lewis rolled the speaker inside, and we all squeezed in.

  I inserted the key and pressed 2.

  As soon as we got to the second floor, Milo moved ahead of us. I helped Lewis balance the speaker as he pushed it toward the balcony. Milo was already there, holding the doors open—inside was only darkness.

  “Take it to front row,” he said.

  “Aren’t there lights?” Lewis asked.

  “I couldn’t find a switch,” he shrugged.

  “I’ll bet it’s downstairs,” I said. “Hold tight.”

  I jogged to the stairs and took them two at a time. I reached the auditorium in less than thirty seconds. I went through the door nearest to the stage. The three large bay windows of the auditorium made it surprisingly easy to see. The moonglow was bright enough for me to find the panel of switches along the wall.

  I flipped every single switch ON.

  The auditorium lit up like an amusement park.

  The stage lights—filtered with blue and pink gels—were positioned facing the cardboard constellations dangling over the dance floor. The colors reflected off the tinfoil stars, creating beautiful sparkles of light.

  I wished Bruce and Hana were there to see it.

  But they weren’t. So I went back upstairs.

  I reached the balcony as Lewis lifted the speaker onto the front pew. He picked it straight up like a medicine ball and he held it in place while Milo situated the cinder block underneath it.

  “OK,” Milo said, “that’s good.”

  As soon as Lewis sat the speaker down, Milo threaded the bicycle chain through the handle and under the gap on the back of the bench. He hooked the chain shut, but he didn’t lock it. The speaker leaned forward, forward . . .

  But the bike chain held. It stopped the speaker at a perfect slant, nearly eye-to-eye with the front railing.

  “I knew the chain would work,” Milo said.

  “How?” Lewis asked. He leaned on the railing to catch his breath.

  Milo smacked the speaker. Lewis and I jumped out of the way reflexively.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Because,” Milo grinned, “this fucker’s American made.”

  ―

  It took three hours to get everything in place. Lewis and I did the heavy lifting. Milo hooked up the turntable, the receiver, and all the wiring. I had no clue how he rigged the speakers together, and I didn’t bother asking. I just did my best to make sure none of it looked out of the ordinary.

  The underside of the stage was hollow, so it was easy to hide the bass amps there. A little redecorating was all it took to hide the smaller speakers against the walls. We turned off the balcony lights, and then covered the switch with a strip of tape marked OUT OF ORDER.

  Once we got all the speakers hooked up and camouflaged, Lewis and I climbed onstage to inspect our handiwork. I looked up to the balcony—it was completely blacked out. No one would be able to see us. I looked around the room.

  “I don’t think I’d be able to tell,” I said.

  “Me either”—Lewis nodded—“I think it looks good.”

  Then a familiar crackle filled the room—the sound of speakers powering on.

  “Milo!” I yelled up to the balcony. “Don’t turn that shit on!”

  “Get out on the dance floor,” he yelled back, “I gotta test the speakers!”

  “Hell no!” Lewis yelled.

  Milo leaned over the balcony railing, shadowed and annoyed.

  “Calm down,” he said. “I’m not even gonna turn the volume knob to one. But we’ve gotta make sure all the speakers are working. You know we do.”

  “What are you turnin’ it up to?” I asked.

  “Not even halfway to one.”

  “Do half of that half,” Lewis said.

  “OK.” Milo nodded. “I’ll put it at zero-point-two-five percent, cool?”

  Lewis and I nodded hesitantly.

  “Then get out there, y’all! It’s closing time, last chance to dance!”

  The two of us hopped off the stage. We nervously walked to the middle of the dance floor, where the stars above were the brightest. The speakers called out to us with the itchy sound of a needle running onto a record.

  Then sound came from all directions.

  “Shit,” Lewis said, and covered his ears.

  Milo was spinning The Troggs B side, a love song called “A Girl Like You.”

  Even with the volume knob at 0.25 percent, the music was loud enough to be loud. The drums were their own miniature marching band. The singer’s sneer came from every corner, and it was fully enveloping. It made me feel like I was pressed inside the wax, like I was a part of the whole thing. The surround sound sensation was overwhelming, but at least it wasn’t loud enough to hurt.

  Lewis lowered his hands from his ears.

  “It’s not even cranked to one?” he yelled. “It’s loud as hell!”

  I nodded.

  “It’s gonna work, Ronnie!”

  I nodded again, and then sang in a mock melody, “I wanna blow the ears out of this school, ba ba ba ba-bah, ba ba ba-ba.”

  Lewis laughed. I laughed. The music rocked. The music rolled.

  Milo came down to join us.

  “What a lame party,” he shouted. “If you squares won’t dance, I guess I will!”

  A grin spread beneath his glasses, and he began to do the Twist—the slow soul twist—using his plaster arm to guide his hips like a rudder. He sang the “ba-bah” backups as he danced.

  “Ba ba ba ba-bah,” Lewis bellowed, and started dancing around with Milo. His moves were surprisingly graceful. I laughed and joined in.

  I did the Mashed Potato. Lewis twisted, twisted, twisted the night away.

  We were really doing it. It was actually going down.

  My buddies and I danced freely. The stars above took on a strange, magical luster, as shiny and fake as the innocence they’d been strung up in honor of.

  But that didn’t matter while the song played.

  What mattered was it was working.

  What mattered was we were doing it.

  What mattered was we were.

  twenty-two

  The Big Fuck You

  “Runnin’ late for work?” Momma asked.

  As far as she knew, I was on my way to the theater.

  “Nah, our schedules are messed up ʼcause a viewing room’s closed.”

  “You shoulda just gone to the dance,” Dad said, his eyes glued to the TV.

  “I’m surprised you’re not a chaperone, Dad, if you think so highly of it.”

  “No need,” he said, “I’ve already got my queen right here.”

  Momma smiled. Dad didn’t turn away from the Newlywe
d Game.

  “Can’t argue with that,” I said. “See y’all after work.”

  I kissed Momma on top of the head, waved bye-bye to Roy, and petted Wolfie on the floor. On my way out the door I grabbed my backpack, which held a button-up shirt, jacket, and tie—my camouflage for the dance—and my birthday bottle of Old Crow, which had been too gross to finish.

  I made sure Dad’s keys were in my pocket, then walked onto the porch. A soft breeze picked up from the east, and I was thankful for it. When I got nervous I tended to sweat, and I was already sweating bullets. I wiped my brow and strolled down the steps, pausing for a moment to gaze up at Hana’s window.

  The window was closed. The shades were drawn.

  So I hustled across my yard and into Milo’s. His mom was working the night shift, so we were gonna lay low at his place until it was time to rock-n-roll. Lewis was already at the school—he was the only member of The Vinyl Underground attending the dance, because his absence would raise suspicions. He was also working recon, so if something went wrong before we got there he was to wait for us in the alley behind the school. If everything ran smoothly, we were set to meet on the balcony at 9:30.

  As I cut into Milo’s backyard, I laughed; it had slipped my mind that Lewis took Lena Mills as his date! After trying to hit Hana with her baton at the pep rally, Lewis couldn’t resist squiring that bigotous bitch onto ground zero himself. I hopped up Milo’s stoop and rapped on the back door.

  No answer.

  I looked through the dining room window—Milo was in the kitchen, talking on the phone. The sleeve of an unbuttoned dress shirt was pulled up his good arm, but the rest was draped over his cast like a dishtowel. He was pacing anxiously.

  I tapped on the window. He stuck up an annoyed finger—wait.

  So I slid off my backpack and took out the bottle of whiskey. I had myself a pull, just enough to steady the nerves. Then the door opened.

  “Sorry,” Milo said, waving me inside.

  “You OK? You looked pretty frazzled just now.”

  “Method acting,” he grinned.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, ignoring me. “I wanna show ya some of the footage I’ve edited together for the short film I’m working on.”

  I passed him the bottle. He took a nip, and we trampled up the stairs.

  “You think that shirt’s gonna fit around your cast?”

  “No,” he groaned, shutting his bedroom door behind us.

  “So much for blending in.”

  “Don’t count me out yet,” he said, and flipped on his projector.

  He turned off the lights and we sat side by side on the floor.

  “I want your honest opinion, OK?”

  I nodded. He nodded back, and loaded the film.

  Then the flickering skeleton of the first Milo Novak movie came to life. No dialogue or music had been added yet, but the visuals alone were effective—beautifully, tragically so. Newsreel clips of the King assassination juxtaposed with war zone footage from Vietnam. He spliced shots of cheerleaders and surfboarders together with a local funeral service. He contrasted protest footage with us, The Vinyl Underground, hanging out, laughing, smoking, making asses of ourselves for the camera. The very last part was Hana, lots and lots of Hana.

  We saw her dancing around in her bedroom, her wild hair flying free, then quick—a half-second clip of Stink scalping her—then Hana walking to school, smoking coolly, then quick—Stink punching Hana—then back to Hana—brave, beautiful, badass Hana, The Wild One personified.

  As I felt the first hint of a tear sting my eyes, the reel flickered to a stop.

  “Milo! That was . . . damn! That was incredible!”

  “You think?” he asked.

  When he turned the lights back on, I saw he was blushing.

  “Yes! Holy shit, yes.”

  “Thanks,” he smiled, “it’s getting there. The footage tonight is what’s gonna make or break it.”

  “It’s already too good to screw up,” I swore.

  “We’ll see,” he muttered.

  “That footage of Hana . . . when did the sheriff give it back?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Well, what’d the FBI say?”

  “He claimed it was inconclusive, which means he never sent it.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “Fuck him,” he scoffed, “fuck ʼem all! I’ll have this film finished by July. Then we can take it out to L. A. and show some movie studios what I can do.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, we. If I’m gonna sneak it onto the desk of Hollywood bigshots, someone’s gonna have to distract their secretaries for me. Plus, I figured you might wanna talk to radio station producers, stuff like that.”

  He slid off his dress shirt and tossed it next to me on the floor. I tried to do the math on first semester at FSU. If I went to California for the summer, I could still make it back before school started. Probably. Maybe.

  “I’m in,” I told him.

  “Righteous! We can hitch to Chicago on our way back for the Democratic National Convention. Hana says it’ll have the biggest anti-war protest in history.”

  “I dunno, man. That sounds like a lot.”

  “Just say you’re in,” he urged.

  I thought about the draft exam, the movies, the fight. I thought about how I’d never deserved a friend like him at all. So I thought up a way to make it work, while avoiding bogging down the mood of our night with the college conversation.

  “Roy’s birthday’s August 30th,” I said. “As long as we’re back by then, I’m in.”

  “Woo-hoo! We’ll make it work! From rednecks to the red carpet, baby!”

  I laughed apprehensively.

  Milo got a blazer out of his closet and tossed it on the floor beside his shirt.

  “Hold the right sleeve of the blazer out straight,” he said.

  Then he pulled a pair of shears from a pile of discarded film clippings.

  “What are ya doin’ with those?” I asked.

  “Blending in with the crowd. It’s just gonna take a little more effort on my part. It ain’t easy being the only rose in an asshole parade.”

  “By any other name, my friend.” I laughed, and did just as he asked.

  ―

  We stuck to the alleyways.

  We wore slacks, jackets, and ties—not tuxedos, but close enough. We’d altered Milo’s outfit by cutting his shirt and blazer from the seam to the armpit so he could shove the cast through, and then rigged it together with electrical tape. At first glance, it was passable, but up close he looked like a broken toy whose replacement part didn’t fit.

  I held the bottle of whiskey. Milo held the Super 8. We walked cautiously, not in a hurry. Every few blocks, a car would race down the streets parallel to us—drunken classmates trying to get their dates revved-up and taking the phrase literally. We never quit moving forward, although my back would stiffen and my hands would grow clammy until the engines roared onto different avenues.

  It wasn’t until we reached Racine Street that we finally stopped.

  “In through the loading bay,” Milo recited.

  “And out through the east stairwell, which I unlocked last night,” I answered.

  He gave a thumbs-up with his functioning thumb, and we got moving again. We crept slow as slugs to the edge of the alley. We were less than a block from the school.

  “You gonna tell me the getaway plan now?” I asked. “Do we sneak back later and get the equipment, or—”

  “No. Once we get out, don’t stick around. The rest of the plan will take care of itself, I promise.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I scoffed.

  “Tell ya what, Ronnie, if it doesn’t work, you can break my other arm.”

  “He
ll no. You’d be callin’ me twice a day to come wipe your butt.”

  “Once a day, tops. The pain meds for my arm really clog my plumbing.”

  My animated grimace sent us both into a laughing fit. I took a drink to burn away my chuckles, and then passed Milo the bottle so he could do the same.

  Then we got moving again. I could see the auditorium ahead of us—“The Beat Goes On” vibrated through the three large bay windows, which reflected blue and pink lights and gave the night a bubblegum sort of radiance. Cigarette tips brightened and dulled like fireflies on the veranda.

  We moved closer. The next song the DJ spun was The Mamas and the Papas’ version of “Dedicated to the One I Love.” Perfect timing. The smokers on the veranda tossed their cigarettes and hurried inside to slow dance. Anyone still outside was too busy twisting tongues to notice us.

  Milo looked at me. I looked at him.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  We walked forward. We kept our heads down and shoulders high, and tried our best to seem nonchalant as we crossed onto school grounds. We hugged the shadows as we made our way toward the back of the building.

  No one noticed us turn into the alley.

  But then Milo clutched my wrist like a bear trap.

  “Look,” he whispered, nodding forward.

  I squinted, then I saw the hunk of metal, low to the ground, parked right across from the loading bay. A car, a Chevy, a Camaro—Marty Houston’s Camaro.

  We hunched down. We kept against the wall. Watching. Waiting.

  Nothing.

  “I don’t think anyone’s in it,” I whispered.

  Milo crab-walked to the car, and huddled beneath the bumper.

  Slowly, he made his way to the side window. I held my breath.

  He gave me another thumbs-up—empty.

  I sighed with relief, and then we both hustled to the loading garage. I pulled out Dad’s keys and unlocked the door. I raised it up just high enough for us to slip through.

  Milo crawled under. I followed.

  I lowered the door gradually, but it still clanked when it hit the floor.

  We froze again . . . but there was nothing. No sound but the sweaty thump of my heart. I locked the door. Still nothing.

  I got up and helped Milo to his feet. We stood in the dark for another moment, catching our breaths. Then we went through the cafeteria and crept into the deserted hallway. It only took us a few seconds to reach the service elevator.