The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  I put the key in the elevator—the doors groaned open.

  I pressed 2. The elevator doors closed.

  We were safe.

  “Out of all the places that asshole could have parked,” I said.

  “I know, man.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  We made sure the coast was clear, and then headed toward the balcony. Once we were halfway down the empty hall, I spotted Lewis coming our way. He was walking fast, but he didn’t seem nervous. He smiled his shiny championship smile.

  “Ramrod, you dreamboat,” Milo hollered, “ya look like 007!”

  His massive frame was barely contained in the rented tuxedo he wore.

  “Guess what we just saw in the alley,” I said.

  “Guess who I just saw up here!”

  “Uh, who?” Milo asked.

  “Our fearless leader is outta hiding.”

  “You mean Hana?” I stammered. “She’s here?”

  “Come on,” Lewis said, “see for yourselves.”

  We walked to the balcony in a straight line like a French battalion.

  “No one’s noticed anything?” Milo asked.

  “So far, so good,” Lewis said.

  “What about your date,” I asked, “where’s Lena?”

  “With her girlfriends at Stink’s table. Him and his buddies offered to share their flasks with ʼem, I think. I’m not sure. I told her I wouldn’t go over there.”

  “Forget her,” I said.

  “Forget who?” he grinned.

  When we reached the doors of the balcony, my guts climbed into my throat. I couldn’t believe Hana was here. Milo stepped forward and opened the doors. The music got louder. I squinted into the dark.

  All I saw was a silhouette lounging in an aisle seat, watching the kids below slow dance to Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” Then the shadowed spectator took a drag off a shadowed cigarette.

  Hana. It really was her.

  Milo didn’t hesitate. He hobbled down the aisle to where she sat. He wrapped his good arm around her shoulders before she noticed we were there. She jerked back, startled, but then I heard her laugh.

  When she stood up to hug him, the fake starlight brought her into focus—she wore her motorcycle jacket as always. Her once-illustrious hair now barely reached her ears, but the psychedelic shag gave her an even cooler vibe than before.

  I approached slowly, as they held their long-suffered embrace. Their eyes were closed, as if they were having a discussion in which all words were wanting.

  Then, suddenly, Hana’s eyes shot open. They fixed on mine.

  I cleared my throat as she let go of Milo and came toward me.

  “Hey,” she said, tossing her cigarette absently.

  “Hana!” I said, with mock surprise. “For a second, I thought you were Audrey Hepburn.”

  “Fuck off,” she said, and hugged me.

  With her hair gone, I could feel the unblemished softness of her cheek. It hinted at vulnerability that I never imagined was there. I breathed that moment in, the leather and the smoke and the secret things buried beneath them.

  “I’m kidding,” I whispered. “Audrey Hepburn’s got nothin’ on you.”

  She laughed into my shoulder. It felt so good to hear that laugh.

  So goddamn good.

  “What are ya doin’ here?” I finally asked.

  “What do you think? I read your letter.”

  I blushed as she broke away.

  “I can’t let you guys go through with this,” she said. “Not on my behalf.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Not if you’re spinning a predictable song like ‘Wild Thing,’ I can’t.”

  She unzipped her jacket and pulled out a single in a blank dust sleeve.

  She handed the vinyl to me.

  “This is the song, Ronnie. It’s an advance promo copy, and it’s not like anything the sheep downstairs have ever heard before. We’ve gotta play one they’re unfamiliar with. Only the unfamiliar can shake a sheep up enough to jump outta the herd. If we wanna make a real statement, this is the song we do it with.”

  I slid the vinyl out of the dust sleeve.

  Text was stamped on the label in dark-blue ink.

  —MC5—

  “Kick Out the Jams”

  Promotional Demonstration Pressing

  For the Brothers and Sisters of MC5

  “What’s that?” Milo asked, joining us.

  “The song Hana wants to use.”

  “Is it three minutes long?” he asked.

  “3:17,” she nodded.

  “Then tonight is ladies’ choice.”

  Below us, the DJ flipped to his next tune—“Hanky Panky.” It was the furthest thing from unfamiliar. The crowd looked thankful for a dance they could do by the numbers. A blur of tuxedos and gowns hankied and pankied all around the room.

  “Hey,” Lewis called, “let’s go out to the hall so we can talk.”

  We followed him up the aisle. Once we were in the hallway, it almost felt like a record club meeting. Now that the doors of the auditorium were closed, the prom was nothing but a program on an unwatched TV in another room.

  We leaned on the lockers. I passed around the bottle. We tried to drink ourselves brave.

  “Don’t ya think Lena noticed you’re missing?” I asked Lewis.

  “Maybe,” he said, removing his bow tie, “but Lena and her friends are more interested in drinkin’ than dancin’, anyway.”

  “I’d go dance with you if I could,” Hana said.

  She locked her arm through his as she took the bottle from his hand.

  “Be careful what you wish for, girl,” he said with a wink.

  She laughed—God, she had the best laugh.

  I couldn’t stop looking at her. I knew I had been missing her, but Jesus, this was pathetic. I’d steal a glance of Hana—her neckline is more visible now, delicately pulsing—and turn away. Then steal another glance—an apprehension in her eyes, a hesitation that was never there before—and turn away. I knew I loved her in that inherent way you love a friend that you admire, but for the first time I realized my feelings might not be so stock; no “friend” had ever made me think the kind of cheesy-ass thoughts popping into my brain.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Milo told her. “None of us fuckers can cuss like you.”

  Her laugh tapered off, and her face grew flush. She took another drink.

  “I’m glad, too,” she said. “Sorry I shut you guys out. I’ve been having a really hard time. I keep getting these . . . episodes, I guess you’d call them . . . where I feel like I’m having a nightmare, except I’m awake. It’s so freaky. They’ve made me too nervous to go anywhere, to talk to anyone. This is the first time I’ve left my fuckin’ house in weeks. I almost turned around, too, until I saw Lewis in the stairwell.”

  She passed the bottle, but I didn’t feel like another drink.

  “That’s so shitty,” Lewis sighed. “Trapped in your head, trapped in your room. Damn. I’m sorry.”

  “It is what it is,” she shrugged. “You find ways to pass the time. Mostly I was writing and packing.”

  Milo shot me a telepathic look—Don’t get on her case about Vietnam!

  I turned my eyes away from him.

  “Aw man, you’re moving?” Lewis moaned. “Say it ain’t so!”

  “Back to Chicago.” She nodded. “My father has a few months left at the mill, but I can’t stay here anymore. You guys know that I can’t.”

  “I know,” he sighed. “I understand.” He took the bottle from me.

  “But this is good news, believe it or not,” she said. “One of my articles finally got traction, and the Chicago Tribune offered me an internship!”

  “Hana
,” Milo gasped, feigning surprise, “and after all those rejections!”

  She smiled, and I had to look away. It made me think of my brother’s smile, locked in the glass trophy case downstairs. Her smile made me worried, but her excitement made me angry.

  “I know! I wish you coulda filmed me when they called. I flipped my fuckin’ lid! There’s no better place for a blowhard writer like me than the Windy City.”

  “Does this mean we’ll finally getta read your work?” he asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Best answer I could hope for,” he said. “Me and Ronnie were talkin’ about Chicago earlier, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked, looking to me.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, suddenly as incapable of looking at her as I’d been to look away. “We were talking about going up for the convention—”

  “Do it!” she blurted out. “You come too, Lewis. The Vinyl Underground should be raising our voices together! It’ll be so badass!”

  “Sign me up,” Lewis grinned.

  “Yeah,” Milo nodded, “let’s go.”

  “How about it, Ronnie?” Hana asked, her smile now beaming double-time.

  Just say yes, I screamed to myself, don’t say anything about Vietnam or war correspondents, don’t start trouble now or you’ll ruin the entire plan.

  “Well, Hana,” I said in a measured tone that lasted all of two seconds, “I’d say yes . . . but I know the reason you’re goin’ to Chicago is to work with goddamn foreign correspondents so you can go to Vietnam! Your dad told me!”

  I stormed away before Hana could respond. My angry march picked up speed, and soon it turned into a blind run. I was on the verge of tears, passing classroom after classroom, defective incubators of youth. I didn’t stop running until I reached the stairwell. Then, without thinking, I punched a locker.

  “Shit!” I yelled, in much-deserved pain.

  I leaned against the fist-indent and cradled my throbbing hand. Then I slid down, down, down the locker, until I was on the floor. That’s when I finally shut my eyes and let the heavy tears come. I was really crying hard, and it was a struggle to catch my breath. My dad would be ashamed to see me blubbering in public.

  “You sure know how to boost morale,” Hana said.

  I opened my eyes as she sat down beside me.

  “Huh?” I muttered.

  “Milo and Lewis got into an argument right after you ran off. Milo wanted to set up his camera downstairs, but Lewis said it was too risky.”

  “Why didn’t Lewis just set it up for him?”

  “He offered,” she said. “Milo didn’t wanna risk an amateur mistake.”

  “Great,” I sniffled. I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my blazer.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No,” I spat, turning away. “My eyeballs get sweaty sometimes, is all. Quit lookin’ at me like I’m a chump. I’m not cryin’ over you, goddammit.”

  “I’m glad. You don’t have a reason to cry.”

  I scoffed.

  “You don’t.” She swore, shoving me. “It’s just an internship. I’m not going to Vietnam, or Indochina, or anywhere else. I’m not even eighteen yet! Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

  “You sound like my brother, ya know that?”

  She sighed. She took my swollen hand in hers.

  “Bruce is who showed me how vital war correspondence is, man.”

  I looked at her side-eyed.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “You don’t know what I was like before we met. I hated the troops, all of the troops. I hated them, draftees or not. I used to go to bus terminals and airports just to yell and throw garbage at ʼem. I called them baby killers, murderers. That’s how I saw them, until I met you.

  “When you shared those letters with me, I realized how wrong I’d been. Most of the boys in Vietnam aren’t monsters, they’re kids like us. The word infantry even fuckin’ stands for infant, and now I understand why; that’s exactly who the Man wants over there . . . not murderers, but kids. Your letters showed me that. I didn’t see Bruce as a soldier, but a courageous kid with big, beautiful rock-n-roll dreams! I just want the other boys to have the chance to define themselves. If the American people could get to know the troops on a personal level, they’d never let this war drag on. Not if they really understood the price. I’m sure of it.”

  I didn’t respond. Her hand held mine.

  I felt drunk and drugged and painfully sober all at once.

  “You know what?” I finally mumbled.

  “What?”

  I let go of her hand.

  “Fuck the rest of the soldiers,” I snapped, stumbling to my feet.

  “You don’t mean that—”

  “Fuck you, too!” I spat. “You can wax poetic all ya want, but I know you’ll go over there the first chance you get! Somethin’ in that jungle hypnotizes hardasses like you, but I always assumed you were too smart to fall for it. I thought you were smarter than Bruce.”

  “Fuck me? Fuck you!” she snapped. “You need to look at—”

  “No, you need to look! When you’re dying in the elephant grass, you need to look back on this moment. Think about how you left me alone, just like my brother did! Think about what you—”

  “Hana! Ronnie!”

  Ramrod sprinted toward us. His eyes were huge and panicked.

  “What the . . .?” I gasped. The worry in his yell drained the rage out of mine.

  I stood up. Ramrod ran faster.

  “Help me up, jerk,” Hana grumbled beneath me.

  I reluctantly offered her my hand. She took it. Our palms were still warm when I pulled her to her feet.

  “Ronnie,” Lewis panted, reaching us, “they’re, shit, they’re about to start!”

  “But it’s only ten o’clock,” I said, checking my watch.

  “They’re settin’ up right now! We gotta move!”

  Lewis set off back in the direction of the balcony.

  “Your eyes are sweating again,” Hana mumbled.

  “Oh, shut up,” I whispered, wiping my face. “Let’s go.”

  Hana and I jogged after Lewis. We couldn’t catch up with him, so we kept pace with each other instead, staying side by side in an unspoken truce. When we reached the balcony, Lewis was halfway down the center aisle.

  I didn’t see Milo anywhere.

  “He must be on his way,” Lewis said, without me asking. “I can see his camera from here. It looks like he’s got it all set up.”

  I peered over the balcony. Sure enough, the dance floor was now meant for spectators only. The entire room was gawking at the stage, where Beth Tulum stood, situating her microphone stand.

  “I bet she told me the wrong time on purpose,” Lewis scowled.

  “Forget it. We’re still solid gold.”

  He nodded, and then grabbed the baseball bats from the center bench. He handed one to me. My hand pulsed around the curve of the handle.

  “Give me one,” Hana demanded.

  “No,” I said, “stay here in case Milo’s not back in time. Go ahead and put your record on the turntable. All you’ll need to do is drop the needle when the king and queen slow dance is announced. Drop it no matter what, whether we’re back here, or down there, or nowhere. You got it?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded, “I got it.”

  “And run,” Lewis added.

  “Oh yeah, as soon you put the needle on the record, run your ass outta here as fast as you can. The east stairwell’s unlocked. It’s the closest one to the auditorium, right over there—”

  “OK,” she nodded.

  “Give ʼem hell,” Lewis said.

  She grinned. “Give it to ʼem right back.”

  With that, Lewis and I headed into the hall. But when we turned toward the elevator, I stopped.
r />   “What is it?” he asked.

  I patted my slacks. I checked the pockets of my blazer. “The keys! I left them on the balcony!”

  “I bet Milo has ʼem. We’ll take the stairs.”

  We made a U-turn and pushed through the heavy doors of the east stairwell. We were vibrating now—our energy fed off each other, and kept rising, rising, rising, rising, rising.

  Our shoes hit the first floor.

  “I’ll block the emergency exit,” I said, “you get the doors in the hall.”

  “Cool.” He nodded. “Meet me here. Two minutes.”

  “Two minutes,” I echoed, slapping his massive back.

  Then we busted into the hallway without another word.

  We ran as fast as we could, slowing only to cut around the thankfully empty corners. When we neared the auditorium, I heard Beth Tulum’s voice coming through the walls. I slowed down a little, to try and make out her words. Lewis sprinted past me, baseball bats pumping like extensions of his arms. He jetted to the door next to the stage.

  The sight of him snapped me back on task. I rushed into the foyer and barreled through the doors and outside, onto the terrace bordering the auditorium.

  The air was thick and hard to swallow. I gave up catching my breath as I plastered myself against the wall. My feet moved forward cautiously, but my heart was a runaway train.

  The veranda was deserted—there were no more smokers or face-suckers, it was only me and the bat. The three huge church-like windows bathed the shadows in bright-blue light. Beside the nearest window was the emergency exit.

  I jammed the Louisville Slugger into the center of the door handle and forced it all the way through into the second handle. Then I thrust the bat in even farther, until it wouldn’t budge. I gave it a test tug—the doors caught as if jerked by an invisible leash. There was no way anyone could break out in three minutes.

  I felt confident as I ducked back beneath the portico and reentered the school. I cut left, and took off running toward the stairwell, but as soon as I turned the corner I slammed right into Lewis. I bounced off him like a racquetball. I hit the floor hard.