Dusty's Saloon

I can’t sleep.  I’ve counted sheep.  Did some reading.  Popped a few pills.  Still staring at a black ceiling.  Not even tired.  So, I throw on an old shirt and dirty jeans.  Head down the street to Dusty’s Saloon to get a drink.

As you can imagine, it’s pretty dead on a Wednesday night.  A couple of guys in yellowed country band t-shirts shooting pool and a lady in a cheap uniform that looks like her shift just ended or is about to begin.  Classic rock is always on the radio.  I take a stool at the end of the bar.

The TV's on, but never with volume.  Nothing but garbage sandwiched between ads.  Pushing prescription drugs.  Selling some redesigned car.  Another couple of minutes of an unfunny sitcom.  Please stop running this baby diaper ad repeatedly.  It’s been rough lately.  I order a whiskey and take in the scenery.  Hopefully, the combination will make me drowsy.

Two girls whisper to each other as they walk into the bar.  Probably about how disappointed they are with how empty it is in here.  Or, how it’s such a dive.  Both in their twenties.  One wasn’t attractive and the other was average.  But, they are all dolled up.  So, you know they aren't from around here.  Probably came down from Chicago for work or a funeral or something.  I’m surprised they take a table instead of looking for a better place (not that there is one in this town).  I order another round.  I take what’s in the well because I’m looking to get drunk; not flavor.  “That’ll be two dolla,” the bartender says, “Ya need ten ifya wanna put it onna card.”

Guy’s new.  Doesn’t know I’m a regular and good for it.  “I’ll put it on da tab,” and show him a wad of cash in my wallet.  He seems satisfied.

“Want some pretzels or somethin’?”

“Nah,” I drop the stir stick into the trash behind the bar, “Just keep ‘em comin.'  I’ll tellya when I’m done fer da night.”

“No prob.”  He went on some kind of rant about the game that night and all.  Seems like an alright guy.  Maybe I’ll get to know him if he decides to stick around.

The two city girls finally order drinks at the bar.  Took them a while to figure out there isn’t any table service.  They keep whispering and giggling.  Probably laughing at me since I catch them looking in my direction a couple of times.  I look like I just got out of bed because I did just get out of bed.  A wreck for sure.  I should just ignore them.  But, I'm bored.  When the bartender comes back with their drinks I say, “Hey, put ‘em on my tab.”  I don't give them “the eyes” or anything.  Just thought it’d be nice to talk with someone that isn’t from here.  But, it just makes them giggle and whisper some more.  After a couple of minutes, I write them off.  Not even a “thank you” or anything.  My attention turns back to watching Demolition Man.

“Umm…  Wouldja like ta sit with us?” asks the average girl.  They have to be more bored with this place than I am.  I came in with lower expectations.  The other girl seems nervous and I can’t blame her.  But, when you come to a place like this in this town, you don’t always get to choose your company.

It's good though.  The unattractive one is quiet, but nice.  The average girl is a bit of a snob.  Sometimes it can be difficult to tell if someone is a snob or just shy.  I mean, you really don’t know until you interact with someone for a while.  A shy person will talk, but will play coy until they’re comfortable with you.  But, a snob will eventually curl their lip and judge your every action.  Some are princesses and I can’t stand them.  You know, they dress up in white pants, laugh like hyenas, and pretend to fart rainbows.  We all know how much of a pill-popping lunatic bitch they really are.  But, these girls were alright.  Even the snob.  At least they didn’t stare blankly at their smartphones texting pointless messages the entire time.

“I knew ya two weren’t from here,” I say to the average girl, “Look ‘round.  Getting’ dressed up ta go bar hoppin’ means puttin’ on yer cleanest t-shirt.  That’s not an insult either.  Just an observation.”

“Really?” she replies.  There was a glance at my grubby shirt and a look of disgust at the other patrons when she realizes I'm right.

“Really.  I use ta live in a skyscraper fulla assholes.  Designer clothes.  Interior decorated apartments.  Luxury cars.  Convinced they're important.  Use ta getting’ what they want, when they want, how they want.  Not people in this town.  They take what they can git 'n ‘preciative ‘bout it too.  Some have da courage ta leave n’ chase their dreams.  Go ta Chicago, New York, or L.A.  None of them really find it 'n end up comin’ back.  But, at least we tried.”

“Hmm…  That’s depressin.’”

“It is what it is.  So, what are ya in town fer?  I know we’re no tourist destination, but I can point ya in the right direction ifya lookin’ fer somethin.’”

She doesn't care.  Says something about a wedding.  So, we kind of just sit here at the table quietly.  I could of just stayed at the bar and not talked.  Fortunate Son by CCR is playing on the radio.  If we're not going to talk, we might as well have good music.  I order us another round even though our glasses are still half full.  Need something to do.  “Haveya seen Da Great Gatsby?”  Leonardo was won-der-ful.  It was amazin.’”

“Yeah, I saw it.”  It was a flash in the pan with the substance gutted out like a fish.  There’s no examination or thought of the concept of the American Dream.  Just a lame love triangle with indulgent special effects.  And bad music.

“Wasn’t it great?  I just loved it.  I woulda loved goin’ ta those parties.”

“So, ya like da movies?” trying to steer the conversation elsewhere so I don’t become offensive, “What’s some of yer favorites?”

“I just think Baz Luhrmann’s great.  All those pretty dresses 'n beautiful homes.  So romantic.”  I just focus on my drink.  Everyone can say their opinion, but they never wants to hear mine.  After a bit, she finally stops talking about The Great Gatsby.

“I didn’t git yer names.  I’m Luke.”

“I’m Jenny and this is Andrea.”  I try to find a topic all of us can participate in.  Nothing seems to work.  I ask where they are from and work.  I make up a fake problem just so I can ask for their advice.  But, they seem underwhelmed with everything.  Well, they are originally from nowheresville, Iowa, but now live in New York City working at a clothing store.  I ask if they like their jobs.  No, but the discount is decent. 

Andrea, the unattractive one, actually starts to talk.  She’s actually pretty funny and interesting once she’s had a couple of drinks.  She has a good story about all these suburban teenage girls that come into their store.  They come in as a group and scatter toward the merchandise they like.  Then, one of them pukes on purpose.  Just vomits in the middle of the shop.  When Andrea or whoever is distracted getting the cleaning supplies, all the rest start shoplifting like crazy.  Then, they’d all make a break for it.  Now, if someone gets sick they have to just stand there watching everyone and wait for security.  You can’t make this shit up.  I order us another round. 

“Why ya orderin’ us all these drinks?”  Andrea is not asking a question so much as making an accusation.  “What doya want in exchange fer these daiquiris?”

“Nothin’ at all,” I say, “Just ta hang out with ya until I git tired ‘n can go home ‘n git ta sleep, which will be pretty soon.”  The bartender is already putting up the stools for the night.

“Nothin’?  C’mon, two pretty girls walk inta a bar ‘n ya ‘spect nothin’ when ya buy ‘em drinks?”

“Nope.  Howya know I don’t have a girlfriend or wife at home or something’?  Anyway, won’t ask fer yer number or anything.’”

“Why not?” Andrea says raising her voice.

“Yer not mad ‘cause I’m not tryin’ ta pick ya up now, are ya?”  That makes me laugh.  A real damned if you do; damned if you don’t moment.  Andrea blushes and Jenny pretends she’s not interested in the conversation.  She hears every word, but still pretends.

The new bartender makes last call and I pick up a round.  Grab popcorn for the table to absorb the alcohol.  Cash out.  The table is covered with little napkins, stir sticks, and toothpicks.  Sticky with spilled dried out beverages.  The lights come up to full brightness so the bartender can sweep the floor.  All of us squint our eyes.  Probably because our eyes dilate, but maybe because we can see what each other really looks like now.  Didn’t expect to stay until close.  Maybe I should just stay up instead of going to bed tonight.  Got to be at the worksite by seven.

I toss back the last of the whiskey and ask them if they know how to get back to their place.  Say they do.  Mention that they have a bunch of stuff to do for their college friend’s wedding this weekend: flowers, dresses, dinners, and all that nonsense.  I put them in Joe’s taxi.  I know Joe.  Long story.  But, he sits at Dusty’s Saloon every night since he can rely on their loyal customers. 

Poor girls.  Drove all the way here from NYC.  Had to get a hotel, rent a car, bridesmaid gowns, gas, and probably a million other things.  All on their part-time retail wages.  So much for degrees.  After thinking about it, I’m glad I bought them their drinks.  It’s sad that no one ever comes here because they want to.  The Visitor Center’s motto should be, “Welcome: we’re glad you’re obligated to be here!”

I head up 5^th and turn down Williams Street.  Drag my shoes down the unlit sidewalks.  The only light faintly shines from the front porches of various homes.  A few TVs flicker behind curtained windows.  Leaves crinkle in the cool summer breeze.  Sunrise will be in a few hours.  Probably just wonder around until then.  Get some breakfast and head to work.  

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Tommy's Pizza, Can I Help Ya?

“Thank ya fer callin’ Tommy’s Pizza.  This is Luke.  How may I help ya?”  This is the script.  There’s breathing on the other end of the line and the crashing of a car chase on TV.  “Tommy’s Pizza, can I help ya?”

“Uhhh…  Hey…  Ummm…  Is this Tommy’s?”  Seriously, I told you twice after you dialed the number and you have to ask?

“No, this is Wild Bill’s Narcotic Discount Barn.  Would ya like ta hear tonight’s specials?” I reply sarcastically in a poor impression of Larry the Cable Guy. 

“Specials?”  Uhhh…  On What?”

“Buy three tenths of meth ‘n I’ll throw in da fourth fer free.  We also have a deal on an eight-ball of coke if yer interested.”  In the silence are gears grinding in his brain.

“Oh…  Sorry…  Musta called da wrong number.”  So it goes at Tommy’s Pizza.  Of course he called back and we went through some other nonsense.  But, it’s all in fun and the customers know it.  It’s part of the charm.

Tommy’s is some of the best pizza in town.  A collection of cinder blocks and fake wood paneling held together with grease up on 5^th Avenue.  There’s a little stage in back for music acts on the weekends and a bar littered with the regular drunks.  The banter is usually light until some intoxicated farmer starts talking politics.  I work here from time-to-time.  Usually just taking orders on busy nights.  Getting cash and food under-the-table.  You know, where you stick all your unwanted gum.

“Tommy’s Pizza.  How can I help ya?”  Warning: I will say this a thousand times tonight.

“Hi…” says a shy voice.  “Is this being recorded?”

“This?  You mean da call?” I started to chuckle.  “No one is recordin’ da call.”

“Sure?”

“At least not da owner.  He’s too cheap ta buy, well, anythin.’  Can’t guarantee anythin’ with da CIA n’ all.”  Privacy is obsolete, right?

“I got that covered.  Okay…” and then proceeds with his standard order seemingly putting a lot of thought into his decisions, “… That will be all.”

“Yer order comes outta $35.79 n’ will be delivered in ‘bout 35-40 minutes.”

“Perfect!” he says losing his shyness.  “And, remember, we never talked.  Okay?”

“Okay...”  I imagine myself in a dark Gitmo interrogation room getting tortured.  As I’m being waterboarded naked I would scream, “I’LL NEVER GIVE UP DA INGREDIENTS HE ORDERED!  NEVER!”  I tell the delivery guy about the spy and he says, “Yeah, dat guy calls all da time.  I have ta leave da pizza on da porch ‘n he pays through da mail slot.”

Anabelle throws open the door to the kitchen mumbling obscenities.  Her eyes are bloodshot with deep purple bags.  The left arm just hangs limp.  In the other hand is a large energy drink with probably enough caffeine to make her heart explode.  Anabelle punches in and slithers up to me, “Where’s da boss?” and I tell her he’s running a quick errand.  “Lemme know when he’s back.  I’m takin’ inventory.” 

An hour passes and the owner is back.  Anabelle’s nowhere to be found.  I give up and go into the fridge to get some toppings.  Lying on the floor, next to the food rack, is Anabelle wearing three delivery boy coats and covering her legs and face with aprons.  I lightly kick her and she groans.  “The boss is back.”  She stirs around a bit.

“He won’t be back here fer a bit.  Lemme sleep some more.”  Eventually, Anabelle wobbles out to the bar, throws some Jager in another energy drink, and starts to flirt with a couple of guys.

An oversized black luxury SUV comes to a screeching halt at the front door.  That jackass realtor from the billboards comes in wearing a fancy suit and doesn’t take his glasses off inside.  He’s twirling his keys and already looking annoyed.  “Can I help ya?” I ask without it really being a question. 

“You can try.”  Anyone who says that social class doesn’t exist in America never worked in food service.  “I wanna medium Italian Special.  Does that come with a free two-liter n’ breadsticks?”

“Sorry, there’s no deal on da specials.”

“Really?  You’ve gotta be kiddin.’  Your competition has that deal.”  I guess you must feel like a real dumbass for coming here instead.

“I apologize.  Would ya like ta order a two-liter n’ breadsticks?”

“No.  I wanna talk with yer manager.”  You want to waste his time too?

“Sorry,” sticking to the script for how to handle assholes, “he’s not available.  Is there an issue?”

“I wanna free two-liter n’ breadsticks.”  Does the squeaky wheel get the grease?

“May I ask who offers that deal?”

“Yeah, it’s Angelo’s Pizza.  Why?”  Bullshit.

“Just a moment, sir.”  I look up a number and make a call.

“Finally, some decent service ‘round here.  You shoulda called yer manager immediately.”  Thanks for the advice, douchebag.

“Hello,” I put the phone on speaker.  It’s strange how a speakerphone can call the attention of everyone in a room.  “This is Angelo’s.  What would ya like ta order?”

“Hey, this is Luke over at Tommy’s Pizza.  Quick questions fer ya.”  Pause for effect, “Do ya have a deal with a free two-liter n’ breadsticks?”

“Uhh…  No.”  Where’s the record scratch?

“Have ya ever had that deal ta yer knowledge?”

“Nope.”  Let the record show the defendant perjured himself.  I rest my case.

“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.” hanging up the phone with a shit grin, “Okay, sir.  Would ya like ta order a two-liter n’ breadsticks or will da medium pizza be all?”

“Ahh…  Well…” is the snickering around the restaurant distracting?  “That will be it.”

“Okay, that comes outta $16.42.  Ya can take a seat at a table or da bar.  Should be up in ‘bout 10-15 minutes.”  I hand off the order to a kitchen staff member and let them know to make it a “jerkoff surprise.”  What’s in a jerkoff surprise?  Depends on who’s the cook and who’s the customer.  But, generally it’s some kind of piss olive oil, jism dressing, a spit glaze, or shit sausage.  Maybe someone will get creative.  So, be nice to your wait staff.

Anabelle is on a sugar high.  Bugged out eyes and spastic movements.  She looks around to see if anyone notices her.  I do, but she doesn’t notice me.  She throws something on the floor.  She takes a picture.  I watch her do this three or four times and ask, “Whatcha doin’?”

“Shhhh…” looking around all nervous and racing up to me.  “Be quiet.”

“Okay,” I whisper, “what da hell are ya doin’?”

“I’m gittin’ blackmail.”

“Blackmail?  Why?”

“Ya never know.  I keep a ‘shit file’ on all da places I work.  All da fraud n’ corruption goes inta that file.  If they try ta pull shit on me, I have blackmail.”

“So, what are ya collectin’ now?”

“Oh, this is yer usual restaurant stuff: reusing dirty dishes, rodent shit, servin’ rotten meat, and so on.” acting as if this is something everyone does on the worksite.

“Do ya have a lot on Tommy?”

“Are ya kiddin’?  I could own this place,” she presses her body against my side, “sexual harassment, servin’ minors, under reportin’ income, bribin’ county officials, insurance fraud, and…” she takes a few steps back and raises her camera, “Smile…”  *Click*  “I don’t believe da IRS knows yer on da payroll.”  Anabelle, you are my best friend.

The owner comes out of his office and slowly observes the dining room.  A few tables of teenagers and rummies at the bar.  He looks at the kitchen staff.  Talking and leaning against counters.  He stares at Anabelle and smirks.  Then he looks at me, “Luke, wanna head out early?”

“It’s yer call.” I reply.  The owner opens the register and tosses me a wad of cash.

“Grab a large pizza n’ whatever before ya leave,” he starts to make his way back to the office.  Without turning around, “and take Anabelle with ya.”

“No problem.  Thanks!” and I head into the kitchen.  I grab a large crust, spread some sauce, and a little extra cheese (mozzarella with a bit of feta).  A little olive oil.  Cover with flyers (pepperoni), Alpo (sausage), slime (green peppers), onions (stinkers), and banana peppers (monkeys).  One more light layer of cheese to hold everything in place and throw it onto the conveyor belt oven.

While that’s cooking, I grab the phone.  “Hello,” Eleanor answers.  She’s been driving me nuts lately.  Calling me about nothing.  Coming up with dumb projects.  Telling all these stories with no point or ending.

“Tommy’s Pizza.  How can I help ya?”

“What?”

“What would ya like ta order?”  I repeat.  I can keep a straight face through almost anything.

“I didn’t call ya.”

“Listen ma’am,” she hates being called “ma’am,” “we’re busy.  What would ya like ta eat?”  I look over at Anabelle.  What’s she sprinkling on my pizza?  Whatever…

“I don’t want anythin.’  It’s after 11.” 

“Then, why did ya call?”  Have ya been drinkin,’ ma’am?”

“NO!”

“I don’t ‘preciate prank calls, ma’am.  Ya know we have caller ID.”

“What?  Oh…  Hmph…” and then Eleanor hangs up.

Pizza’s done!  I box it up and see a vulture pie (a pizza not worthy of being served) on the counter with screamers (mushrooms) and carp (anchovies).  God, that’s gross, but I grab it anyway.  I have an idea.  Anabelle clocks out and we start for home on a clear, brisk night.

Anabelle is staying at a relative’s near my place.  Eleanor’s is on the way, which is a rundown bungalow.  The yard is splattered with whirligigs, ornaments, and feral cats.  Anabelle knocks on the door since they don’t know each other.  Eleanor looks out the window in her pajamas, flips on the lights, and nervously opens the door.  “Thank ya fer orderin’ Tommy’s International Special.  This pizza features a thick wood-fired pesto crust, Lambda olive oil, heirloom tomato sauce, Matsutake mushrooms, and Cantabria anchovies.  This combination…” and is finally interrupted.

“I didn’t order this!” and slams the door.  Somehow, you could feel her irritation from her turning off the porch lights.

“MA’AM!  MA’AM!”  Anabelle is too good of an actress for her own good.  “I’LL JUST LEAVE DA PIZZA ON DA DOORMAT!  OKAY?  THE BILL IS $435.43!  DON’T WORRY, WE CAN MAIL AN INVOICE!  OKAY?  THAAAAAANK YOOOOOOU!”  She skips down the front steps and down the sidewalk where I was discreetly hidden.  “Whatcha wanna do now?”

“Now?  I’m goin’ home.”  My muscles ache from landscaping in the morning and slinging pizza at night.

“Yer boring.” she pouts, “I’m not goin’ home.  Later.”  She turns around and skips east on Williams Street whistling The Battle Hymn of the Republic.  Into the unknown.

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Sale Pending

Just off a very busy highway lined with strip malls, parking lots, and power lines are homes with signs in front-new price, move-in ready, crazy low mortgage, priced to sell.

A white Cape Cod with a matching picket fence.  Great curb appeal.  A three bed, two bath, 1,823 square foot home on a quarter-acre lot.  There’s a two-stall garage, forced-air, central A/C, and all the amenities we have come to expect.  Just put out an open house sign with balloons and we’re all set.

That couple over there is wasting my time.  They’re not here to buy a home.  They’re neighbors comparing this house to theirs.  Hoping their mortgage isn’t underwater.  All they are doing is taking my flyers and wasting my time.

Buyers with dreams twinkling in their eyes.  I’m in my Brioni suit watching and listening for a weakness to present itself.

Use the wife’s imagination.  Make her see new paint on the walls.  How great it will look with your furniture.  What a wonderful place for you to raise your babies, host events, and grow old together.  Once the wife falls in love; fuck the husband.  Sell them the potential because they’d never by the reality.

You need a house.  No more apartments.  So what if the carpet is shot.  It still has a roof over it.

House filled up, opening cupboards, looking at the furnace, leaky foundation.  That’s why it has new drywall.  It will take six months to find that problem.  Is there a history of water damage?  Not that I know of.  Says so in the disclosure.

This couple is taking up my time and I let them know it.  If you’re not going to put in an offer, there are plenty of others here that will.  Make them feel guilty.  Guilt puts more money in my pocket.

What’s that sweet smell?  Why that’s cookies fresh from the oven.  Not this oven, it barely works.  But, an oven all the same.  Doesn’t baked goods make you feel right at home?  Plus, it hides the stench of cat piss and stale cigarettes.  Those stainless steel appliances look great.  They aren’t included in the sale price.  I’d remove the marble countertop too if it weren’t custom built and so damn heavy.

The attic is blanketed in mold.  Just cover what you can see from the crawlspace with paint.  Can’t afford to remediate the problem.  Few inspectors will do more than shine a flashlight in there.  If they do, nothing that a Ben Franklin or two can’t fix.  Pictures to prove it too.  God, I wish I had more houses like this to sell.

What’s that guy doing?  Thinks he’s a handyman.  Playing around with the faucets and electrical box.  Well, some of the plumbing has been replaced with garden hoses and the GCFI isn’t grounded.  This guy may have shit for brains, but if he finds something he might start talking.  I don’t need others to hear anything about anything he might find.  Get him out of the house.

Beautiful, isn’t it?  The couple that owns it put $50,000 into it. 

How’s the school district?  Best rated school in the state.  Hell, maybe even the nation.  Why not?

Who stepped in mud?  How can there be mud if it hasn’t rained?  I would have cancelled the open house if it rained.  The backyard is graded into the basement.  Don’t need buyers seeing all the flooding downstairs.  Don’t think I could pull off selling it as an indoor pool.  Get your kid’s face off the window.  I just cleaned that.  Can’t you leave those monsters in the car or at grandma’s?  With all these kids you can’t afford the asking price?  Then why the hell are you here?

Paint that water stain on the ceiling.  Put toothpaste in the missing grout.  This home is so well insulated that your heating and cooling bill will be zero.  Or have many zeros.  Put a potted plant in front of that bulge on the wall.  Landscaping is a more affordable solution than answering questions about the structure.

Are any of these people pre-approved for credit?  I want some offers.  I want a bidding war.  Nothing jacks up my commission more than two idiots fighting over the same piece of rotten meat.

I staged this house perfectly.  Boxed up the clutter, new rug on the water-spotted hardwood, barrowed some lamps, family photos in storage, fake flowers.  Looks good online too.  A stage needs actors.  There’s a middle-aged couple I hired to pretend to casually discuss all the wonderful features of the home that is so affordably priced that it will sell fast. 

Look at that dumb bitch all excited about the double sinks.  Need to find out if they have any dough.

Just need a sucker to sign on the dotted line.  Once they do that, I get paid and they’re the bank’s problem.  If they miss a payment or find a flaw with the house, it’s not me the bank will be after.  It’s in the contract.  Don’t blame me if you didn’t read the 100+ pages of fine print; talk to your lawyer.  Your lawyer and I do a lot of business together.  Great guy.

Not too many people in this town I haven’t worked with.  If you don’t play, you don’t stay.  I like to get drinks with a buyer’s agent when an offer has been put it.  Lots of drinks.  Get answers to how much credit they have.  See if we can set up a bidding war.  Which inspector to call that won’t reveal any major defects.  I already know all the attorneys and can make a suggestion.  The best thing about this business is the buyer never meets the seller.  It makes our parlor tricks so much easier to pull off.  Let’s celebrate by doing a few lines.

Time to put the open house sign and cookies away.  If this house doesn’t sell in a few days we’ll have to cut ten grand from the price.  The sellers are back from the coffee shop and want to know if there are any nibbles.  Don’t want to sell for less as they paid far more than it was worth during the bubble.  Bubbles burst.  I’m just glad they didn’t come back early like the last time.  Tried doing their own sales pitch.  Got offended when someone made a comment about the pea green wallpaper.  Thought I wasn’t doing enough of the hard sell.  Just because they’re the ones living out of storage bins doesn’t mean they can tell me how to do my job.  But they’re desperate and they signed with me because I told them exactly what they wanted to hear.  People love it when I validate their bad ideas.

I get a text from the office.  There’s an offer on the table.  Some shit head trying to lowball me.  Their agent works at my office and I tell him I won’t even consider it.  Won’t waste my time filling out paperwork with a counteroffer.  Tell the buyer we had a good open house and we have other offers coming in.  It’s bullshit, but we want full price to be considered.  The agent agrees, convinces the buyers they will lose their dream house, and resends their offer ten grand over the asking price.  We’ll stall on accepting.  Their agent has a weakness for vodka and an incentive to raise the bid.  Pry the buyer’s wallets open.  Hold out a couple of days to see if one of these Wall Street hedge funds would like to make an offer.  Use some of that bailout money to take advantage of the new class of renters they’ve been foreclosing on.

God, this is a great house.  Just off a five-lane intersection dotted with chain stores, empty parking lots, and water collectors made to look like fountains.  This home at the end of a side street will soon have a new sign-sold.

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Skull & Crossbones

Nate pounds the particle board door plastered with paint and stickers.  He has a lean build, crooked teeth, and wears a skintight black shirt with leather pants.  The door pops open quickly and shuts again.  Rick, looking like a fullback in skater clothes, knocks on the door and this time it flies open with Mike leaping out of the darkness.  He has a board with a nail in it.  Mike is insane.  “WHO ARE YOU!  HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKIN’ WITH MY CAR!”  All of us run for cover behind dumpsters and around corners.  “MIKE!  IT’S US!  JUSTICE FIRE!  WE’RE SUPPOSE TA PLAY TONIGHT!”  We are a band and this is our gig.

“I don’t have shows on Wednesdays,” as Mike stalks around the alley giving us the stink eye and swinging his homemade weapon menacingly.

“”Mike!  It’s Friday.  Look at da flyer.  We’re at da top.  Justice Fire.”  Bill, the drummer, turns the ignition of his hatchback ready to ditch us.  He looks much older than he is.  The preppy clothes and worn out demeanor only makes it worse.

“Friday?” Mike throws his wooden weapon into the abyss of the Skull & Crossbones, “Com’ on in guys.  Got drinks?”  All of us look at each other with raised eyebrows.  We know Mike’s crazy as he’s done this before, but we follow him into the shadows anyway.

Mike bought this building in the 80s for nothing.  It used to be a corner grocery store, but it became vacant around 1968.  For all those years, it rotted and was broken into by squatters.  It’s unclear (even to Mike, which isn’t strange if you know him) how he became the owner of the building.  Maybe he isn’t.  But, he built a stage and ran a few electrical outlets to create a music venue dubbed the Skull & Crossbones.  All are welcome and no one cares what you do.  There have been thousands of acts that have taken this stage and a few of them went on to fame/infamy.

We find the stairs to the apartment in this black hole.  There’s a smell of various kinds of smoke and cheap beer.  It’s hard to believe anyone could live here.  The floor is knee deep in pizza boxes, newspapers, and unwashed clothes.  Mike knocks a bunch of garbage off a table and demands, “All of ya line up.”  He lifts up an old Polaroid camera and takes a shot, “Now, I have a picture of every band that’s played here.” 

“Um… ya took our picture da last few times we played,” smirks Rick the bassist, “see, we’re right there,” and he points to our pictures on the wall covered in photos of countless other bands.  The rest of the walls are blanketed in marker drawings of dragons, faces, and scribbled dirty jokes:

            “Want a joke about my cock? Nevermind, it is too long.            

            Here’s a joke about my pussy. Forget about it, you won't get it.”

He drops the newest image on the table and snorts something.  I say “something” not because I don’t necessarily know what it is, but because he has a lot of different things to snort.  “Want some?” Mike asks and we shake our heads.  “There’s some stuff in da fridge if ya want.”  On one side of the kitchen is a row of door-less cabinets containing only a few cleaning supplies.  The sink looks like it could double as a bathtub and has a plate, a medium-sized pan, one spoon, and a Bush/Quayle mug, which is all his cookware.  An extension cord runs over the sink, around the window covered with blankets and duct tape, to the toaster, coffee pot, and fridge.  I open the fridge and it’s packed with 40s and cans of “The Beast.”  The only other things in there is a half-eaten package of bologna and the largest tub of butter I’ve ever seen.  I grab a sampling of five beers and pass them around.

There’s a knock at the door and Mike sees the two other bands from the flyer outside: Exploding Turtle and The Biggs Project.  All of us head downstairs so we can start to set up.  “The closin’ band puts their stuff in da back and da openin’ act has their stuff in front ready ta go.  Middle band in da middle.  Once you’re done, put your shit in da car,” Mike explains with surprising soberness.  “Who’s closin’?” asks Erik Biggs of The Biggs Project.

“Uh…  You are,” replies Mike back to his stupor.

“What?  We’re suppose ta headline.  Look at da flyer.  We’ve been playin’ longer.  We’ll have da most fans,” blurts Nate, which leads to an argument that Justice Fire loses because of a personal friendship between Mike and Erik.  “Fuck this.  I say we leave,” says Nate feeling disrespected. 

“Hey, the cut at the door is the same.  We’re here.  And, all we’ll do is piss off our friends if we go.  Who cares who headlines as long as we don’t open,” I say trying to make sure we still cover our expenses.  Bill is still nervous and doesn’t say anything.

“Fuck Biggs.  But, lets play,” Rick says with some contemplation.  All of the gear is staged and Exploding Turtle and Justice Fire head outside.  We sit on the curb to drink and wait for people to show up.  A couple of the guys head over to a nearby gas station to buy and microwave canned ravioli for dinner.  I hand them a couple of bucks to pick me up a mixer for the show.

The lead singer of Exploding Turtle asks me, “How long have ya been playin’?”

“Not very,” I reply shyly, “I’ve been playing fer ‘bout a year now and I’m not very good.  Justice Fire was formed about six months before me.  I was asked to join ‘cause I’m good at promotin.’  I offered to manage, but they asked me ta play fer some reason.  How ‘bout yerself?”

“This is our third show.  I think we’re pretty good, but it’s hard ta book shows.  What’s it like playin’ here?”

“It’s terrible if they like ya and da worst if they don’t.  Either way, they throw beer bottles at ya like that hick bar in Blues Brothers,” which was probably not the right thing to say to a rookie of this place. 

People start to arrive.  Many of our friends hang out on the street with us while others pay their $5 cover to pre-game inside before the show.  All the guys return from the gas station and Rick throws me a 2-liter of fruit punch.  I dump out a bunch of it and replace it with some whiskey.  I take a couple shots, let it sink in, and all of us make our way to the entrance when we hear the tuning of guitars.

Mike’s at the door with a fist full of cash and a bowl.  We push through and there’s a mob of people that cram into a dimly lit room of smoke and graffiti.  Exploding Turtle is making their final adjustments on stage.  All three members look exactly alike with the same mop haircuts and hipster glasses, except the lead is fat.

“THIS SONG’S ‘BOUT A GIRL! 1-2-3!” and Exploding Turtle bursts with high octane songs in contrast to their lethargic movements.  While a few people are jumping around, they suffer from being an opening act where most circle around in their cliques or focus on getting a buzz.  A few cans and bottles are thrown in their direction, but no concussions.  “THANKS FER COMING OUT!  WE’RE EXPLODIN’ TURTLE!” and with that they unplug their equipment and take it to their vehicles.

There’s the strange silence between sets.  Just the hum of people that hang around.  Many head outside to get some fresh air in the filthy alley.  It doesn’t take much for us to set up.  Just a couple of plugs, a few more shots, and Nate pulls us together and yells, “LET’S SHOW ‘EM SOMETHIN’ THEY’VE NEVER SEEN BEFORE!”  The lights go out and the sound of an air raid siren blasts letting everyone know it’s time to come back in.  The room fills up and our cheap stage lights focus on Nate.  He has a maniacal look in his eyes as stares at the crowd.  He waves his arms inviting everyone in and the drum rolls.  I stroke the guitar as a thumping bass riff kicks in…  Then silence…  Nate crouches down into the faces closest to the stage and screams, “LET’S START A RIOT!!!”

The music is awful, but the energy is infectious.  One song after another without interruption.  Beer cans are flying through the air and Rick seems to be picking a fight with a Skinhead in the pit.  Bill is wearing his polo shirt like a Muslim headdress and gradually pours a gallon of water onto it to keep from overheating.  I mercilessly torture my guitar and have the backing vocals of a drill sergeant barking insults to a new recruit.  Nate, has his moments of brilliance and agony as he caricatures a rock star.  He struts on his tiny spot on stage hitting every note with a strange whiny accent. 

Nate steps back and picks up his guitar as I take center stage for my solo.  I lean into the mic and the power goes out...  “FUCK YOU PIGS!  YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING!  FUCK YOU!” screams Mike from the back of the void.  A few underaged kids drinking and smoking outside ran in earlier and alerted Mike to the police. Mike killed the power with a switch by the door and placed his medieval lock system in place.  He’s done this before.  He taunts the officers screaming, “YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING!  YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING,” as he pauses only to take hits.  After a while, the knocks and commands outside stop and Mike sends someone upstairs to see if the cops have left.  When the guy returns so does the power and lights.

“Um…  okay…  I guess we’re still doin’ a show…” Nate says into the mic while sitting on an amp.  Mike gives a thumbs up and seems to be rocking out to music no one else hears.  We try to recollect ourselves and decide to move on to the next song on our playlist.  The restart feels like a drag until some dopey kid climbs on stage.  Everyone rushes forward when he starts to put something on people’s tongues.  Each communion is followed with the sign of the cross and shouts of, “Today’s a gift from God. That's why it's called ‘the present.’”

Nate, the showman, drops back behind Bill and a drum solo rumbles as the lights create silhouettes.  A pulsating, tribal, hypnotic beat reverberates through our chests.  A primal scream as a red glow appears on stage.  Nate emerges with a bad black wig and a torn shirt exposing a poor marker drawing of a coiled snake on his chest.  The repetitive words from his mouth are unintelligible with his faux gravel and distortion that drives the crowd mad.  Fists pumping.  Half full beer cans and bottles fill the air with aluminum, glass, and liquid that hits everything and everyone.  Stage diving into a smoky cloud of hands and faces.  It is raw emotion seething just below the skin of an angst driven people.  A one-liner song about metal bands turned into a true outlet of rage.  A barbarian mob ready to scorch earth.

The wigs come off and we mix cover songs with some of our catchier early stuff.  And, to close, Nate pulls out the acoustic “for the girls,” he half jokes before his ballad.  As he sings, the rest of us take down the gear and start to thank everyone for coming out to see us, “Hey man, thanks fer comin’ out.  ‘Preciate it.”

The lights come on and many make their way back to the alley.  Nate, amped up after the performance irately walks up to Mike, “We’ll take our money and leave now.”

“Huh?  Uh, no…  Ya have ta wait ‘til I close.  That’s when ya get da money,” replied Mike.

“Fuck that!  I wanna leave now…” and so on as Rick drags Nate’s passion outside and I try to smooth things over.  Bill still remains at a safe distance.  We can’t afford to piss off one of the few venues in town.  It’s unlikely we’ll be asked to play at a coffee shop or a wedding anytime soon.

My attention turns to the stage.  The only constant in The Biggs Project is Erik Biggs.  Every show has a different cast of musicians (or other form of actors) performing different music (or other sounds) in bizarre ways.  I “performed” with them once and we never even practiced.  That show lasted less than five minutes when the music store owner kicked us out.  Tonight, Erik took the stage by manning a child’s keyboard with a dirty hippie sitting on a brown metal folding chair.  The hippie tests the mic briefly and Erik called out “1-2-1-2-3-4!”  The keyboard squeals random notes ignoring the most basic tenants of music theory.  The hippie presses a distortion and wah-wah petals, holds the mic close to his face, and then quickly removes and blows into a harmonica generating a sound that clears the room.  Only Exploding Turtle and Justice Fire are forced to watch if we wanted our money.  Mike stood in the back near the door jamming to whatever he thought he was hearing.  The rest of us were as far from the amps as possible with earplugs or hands over our ears.  One of the Exploding Turtles is dry heaving in the bathroom and blames the noise.  No one goes into that bathroom. It is just two graffitied plywood boards in the corner creating minimal privacy for a toilet that has never been cleaned.  Seriously, Mike proudly stated, “That toilet was disgustin’ when I bought da place and I’ve never touched it.  I go ta da gas station before using that.  If someone wants ta use it that bad, let ‘em clean it.”  And, you don’t want to know what’s in the sink. 

The show ends when Mike locks the doors.  At least we don’t have to push people out afterwards.  We all head upstairs to his living quarters.  Some grab drinks as Mike counts the cash and takes hits on his coffee table.  His night is just starting.  We get our cut of about $300 (a pretty good haul) and all of us take off except Erik Biggs, who’s earning his next headliner status on that coffee table.  

Bill has all the equipment and our safe in the car.  Our safe is an old metal toolbox with a slit on top and four hinged padlock hasps.  Anyone could put money in the slit, but each member has a key to vote on all funds being removed.  We stole the idea from another band and it works well for us.  We deposit tonight’s cash that we’ll use to record an album.  Bill takes off in his tightly packed hatchback.  He’s done for the night and just wants to go home.

“Hey guys, ya wanna get somethin’ ta eat at Fiesta?” inquires Rick who’s always hungry.

“I could go fer a Burrito,” Nate says grabbing his concave stomach.

“Not me.  I’m headin’ home.” I say still a bit asthmatic from all the smoke inside. 

“Com’ on.  Don’t cha wanna have some cheap tacos ta absorb that fruit punch and whiskey?” teases Nate.  Rick was ready to go with his keys out.  They still had to drive to their houses, which is quite a drive east of here.

“Okay, see ya at practice on Tuesday,” Rick says over his shoulder walking away.  I take a seat on the curb with the last of my beer.  The street is empty, but I can hear a few guys laughing down Hobbie Avenue.  A freight train is barreling though the plains.  It was a pretty good show tonight.  There’s nothing like putting on a show.  The look in the crowd’s eye as the energy reaches the highest high and the lowest lows.  The dancing.  The chanting.  A pit and the screaming.  The release of all that is built up inside.

I brush myself off as I make my way across the street.  Somehow a cool breeze makes malt liquor taste better.  All that’s left is the backwash at the bottom.  I take one last look at the Skull & Crossbones and chuck my bottle at the building.  In an instant, it turns from a solid form into a million twinkling stars of glittering shrapnel under the streetlights.  A fitting tribute to the night.

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