CHAPTER THREE

 

 

Civilized Cannibals raged in a living room in Doomston, a small town an hour southeast of Sweetville. Couches, recliners and end tables were stacked against the walls like Legos that didn’t quite fit. Mace Akers savaged his guitar with inept grace, his fingers bleeding, the broken high E string dangling and whipping through the air. Between three-chord faux-wanking, awkward posturing and making Popeye faces, Mace managed to squeak out some raw vocals into the dented microphone of the practice room-sized Public Address System. A half-full beer can soared through the air, barely missing his head. Droplets freckled his face and merged with his sweat.

“Do that again and I’ll chew your ear off. I prefer my booze in the bottle anyway,” Mace said. “Aluminum’ll give you Alzheimer’s. This is the last song, you fuckos. It’s about the hypocrisies of our American legal system. Yeah, you over there by the coffee table, with the crappy homemade circle-A tattoo. You know what the fuck I’m talking about. Back up your beliefs with actions. This song’s called ‘False Jurisprudence.’ ONE-TWO-THREE. GO!”

Steve London shot Mace a confused look, clicked his sticks four times, thrashed his kit in rapid fire 4/4 time like a shirtless man possessed. He made Animal from The Muppet Show look professionally trained. His arms blurred so quickly across the toms that they appeared to be softly coasting.

Christopher Faith barely kept the bass guitar portion of the song from falling apart. The notes he hit rang true due to sheer muscle memory. He was lost in a musical vortex, playing with his back to the audience. All anyone in the crowd could see of him was the image on his t-shirt—a blurry photo of children near water, smokestacks looming behind, sandwiched by the words “All the Waste I See, All the Waste I’ll Never Be.” Remnants of a black X, weathered away by sweat and fury, marked the tops of each of his hands. He did not need the audience, only the ferocity of the sound.

The sparse crowd ate up Civilized Cannibals’ short set like a five-course meal. The living room could only handle so much, but still allowed for a modest circle pit. The final song ended abruptly. For a few obnoxious seconds, unintentional feedback seared through the space. Mace kicked the side of his amp with his combat boots and the feedback ceased. Civilized Cannibals packed up their gear without missing a beat, and the toothy kid who set up the show handed Mace twenty-five bucks that had been collected in a hat—five of which turned out to be Monopoly money. Outside, from the back of their van, the band sold five home-dubbed demo tapes and eight patches for a dollar apiece.

“Hey guys,” Mace said, counting their stash. “We made out like gangbusters. Let’s fill up the tank and grab some grub before we head home.”

“Sounds good to me,” Christopher said, wiping his sweaty hair out of his face.

“Okay,” Steve said. “I gotta piss first, though.”

The house party pressed on long after they hit the highway.

* * *

Audrey’s Diner. Not the flashiest joint in Sweetville. Located on the outskirts of town, the first sign of any civilization when arriving from the comparatively rural Doomston, and mostly patronized by the odd trucker and wayward traveler. The pastel-pink tiled walls were usually distracting enough to mask the sub-par daily specials. The ‘50s décor was kitschy enough that most patrons were willing to ignore the occasional cockroach that might skitter across the floor, searching for its next sugary crumb. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard in need of a solid mopping. And the walls were adorned with photographs of movie stars from the era, complete with forged autographs.

The band entered the diner, high from the gig and on the brink of more conventional intoxication—aside from Christopher, who was sober as a preacher on Sunday. A plump woman with clownish proportions of makeup greeted them with a practiced smile, grabbed three peeling laminated menus and led them to an open booth—of which there were many. Though Audrey’s was open twenty-four hours, 1:30 in the morning was not exactly the time to be expecting a pocketful of tips.

“Take your seats, fellas,” she said. “Just a warning, don’t bother ordering the soup of the day. We’re fresh out of bouillon.”

The vinyl seats made jarring raspberry noises as Christopher slid into the booth. Steve’s chain wallet snagged on the badly taped tears in the upholstery, preventing Mace from taking his seat.

“C’mon, you momohead,” Mace said as he shoved him. “Move it or lose it.”

“Shut it, assface. I’m stuck.” Steve shook himself loose after minimal effort.

A lithe waitress trotted over to their table to take orders. The hue of her pink uniform matched the walls so closely that she looked like a floating, disembodied set of legs, arms and head.

Christopher shook his head in embarrassment, tried not to make eye contact with her. It seemed his bandmates increased their mortification capabilities whenever they were within 500 feet of a female. Thankfully, she was busy setting the table. When Christopher finally looked over at her, she darted her eyes in his direction and offered him a sly smile.

“Hiya, boys,” the waitress said. “Today’s special is pigs in a blanket with a side of scrambled eggs.” Christopher had never heard such an alluring voice exit a woman’s mouth. Tone, octaves, cadence—all beautifully original.

“I’m confused,” Steve said. “Does that mean it’s actually yesterday’s special carried over? Or did it just start at midnight and is going for the rest of the day?”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” the waitress whispered. “We don’t really rotate our specials all that often.” Steve seemed satisfied by this response.

In his head, Christopher became Mr. Smooth. Hey, I don’t really know these jerks. Why are they even at my table? How about you take a ten-minute break and we get to know each other over a chocolate shake? My treat. Externally, he just shrugged. When it came to the right things to say, his mind was a perfectly scripted film, his reality a tad lackluster.

“So, Trixie, huh? That’s a funny name.” This was Mace, noting the nametag pinned to her uniform, right above her breast. Mace was physically imposing—six foot four, two hundred forty pounds, with a face chiseled like a freshly laid brick. Even when he was being friendly he was in danger of coming off as a brute. Wearing a shirt with a giant Fuck written on it didn’t help his case much, even if the word directly below it was Racism.

“Um…my parents were big Honeymooners fans,” she replied.

“Bang, zoom!” Steve, who was normally silent, had become more charismatically animated post-gig. A little booze went a long way with him. Christopher wondered why his strange friend had brought his skateboard inside the diner even though he had not set foot on it that entire night. He was like Linus with his security blanket. He nervously spun the wheels with his hand. The bearings sounded shot. Steve was a gaunt, young man. Some might argue he considered skeletons to be the ideal body type. When Civilized Cannibals were playing, it was often difficult to tell the difference between his arms and the drumsticks. This was not for the lack of trying, though. Steve was like a human garbage disposal. He ate anything and everything, including the occasional not-meant-to-be-edible item—paste, buttons, string and, once, a live goldfish.

“Well, I think it’s a cool name.” Christopher was obviously smitten within seconds of seeing her. He tried catching Trixie’s eye again, but she was locked in shy mode. “It’s different. Suits you well.”

Trixie fiddled with a loose thread on the shoulder of her outfit, smiled at him with the side of her lips and muttered a meek thank you. A brief, awkward silence followed.

“You all ready to order?” she asked. The three boys grunted positively. “What can I get for you tonight?”

Pancake full stack with strawberry syrup, eggs over easy, a side of bacon. Reuben sandwich, extra dressing, sub potato salad for tomato soup. Veggie burger with extra cheese, hold the onion, a side of seasoned curly fries. Two coffees, one black, one with double creamer and one cherry cola.

Trixie scrawled down the order like a seasoned veteran, took the ticket to the kitchen and returned with three glasses of ice water. She placed her fist against her hip, turned to Christopher and squinted.

“Are you like their designated driver or something?”

“Uh, something like that.”

“Nah,” Mace broke in. “He’s a person just like you, but he’s got better things to do.”

“Shut up, Mace,” Christopher said. “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hey, well it’s a good song, lyrics aside.” Mace was firm in his opinion.

“Are you guys in a band or something?” Trixie asked.

Christopher lit up. This was his “in.” History had proven that pretty much any girl would be interested in a guy who played in a band, no matter how terrible the band was. But after careful consideration, he had determined that concept might not apply to him. Bass players were the redheaded stepchildren of the music world. He figured it was worth a shot regardless.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re called Civilized Cannibals.”

“Cool. Polka music, I assume?” Christopher did not catch that Trixie’s tongue was planted firmly in cheek when she asked this. He scrunched up his face, not really knowing how to respond. She shrugged, winked at the boys—the gesture seemed mostly directed at Christopher in particular—and sashayed toward the kitchen.

With failed subtlety, Christopher watched Trixie’s feet slide across the checkered linoleum floor. Her walk was just shy of graceful. Clumsily endearing.

“Hey, man. I think she likes you.” Steve, the wizard of wisdom.

“Yeah, maybe. She seems kinda cool. Just different, you know? But in a good way.”

“Ask her out, man,” Mace said. “She’s kinda cute. When the hell was the last time you got laid, anyway? The Cretaceous Period?”

“Nah, Mace. Remember? It was that Nazi chick. Cypress,” Steve said, chuckling as he swished ice cubes in his mouth.

Christopher cringed when he heard that name. “Guys, can we omit that one from the history books please? That was just a huge mistake. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking even touching her.”

“So you’re not still seeing her?” Steve asked.

“Uh…nah. No. No way. That’s totally done.”

“Couldn’t blame you if you still were, my man,” Mace said. “Could only blame your helpless hormones. Cypress Glades. With a name and body like that, you’d think she was a stripper, not the poser princess of the Hitlerjugend, Sweetville Faction. Hey, ‘Dork the Enemy’ is as good a slogan as any. Plus, she is pretty hot, so that alone gets you off the hook. Did you ever make her call you Adolph in bed?”

“Dude, just shut up.”

“You think she’d ever want to hate fuck a Jew?” Mace said. “I could use some violent lovin’.”

Christopher knocked his knuckles on Mace’s upper arm.

“What the hell?” Mace made a face like a toddler who just had his Tonka truck taken from him. “I’m half. That still counts.”

Trixie returned with their food just before a wrestling match broke out. She balanced the trays with balletic precision. Her poise shined when the time clock was ticking.

“Enjoy, boys. Let me know if you need anything else.” After distributing the goods, she handed Christopher a small bowl of ranch dressing. “Try this with the curly fries. On the house. I promise it’s really yummy. Homemade recipe courtesy of our cook Jonesy.” She motioned behind her to the kitchen. Jonesy the cook was huffing and puffing back there, his prominent underbite practically swallowing the rest of his face. He wiped down the counter below the order tickets with a red bandana, then wiped his forehead with it immediately after.

“Oh, thanks.” Christopher was quietly stunned by this minute act of generosity.

Trixie left them to their after-midnight meal.

Mace turned to Christopher and said, “Dude, if that doesn’t mean ‘I want to swallow your sausage,’ then I officially know nothing about women.”

“Oh, so that would finally make it ‘official,’ then.” Steve’s wit was sharp as a shark’s tooth tonight.

“Mace…” Christopher tried to think of a profound insult, but Steve had stolen his glory. He ultimately decided on, “Just eat your fucking sandwich.”

They tore into their food like starving POWs that had just been released to their homeland.

The meal was consumed, the check was delivered and arguments were made over how much to leave for a tip. Christopher covered the difference to make sure it was satisfactory, and Mace unleashed a respectable belch that smelled like a mixture of beer and corned beef.

Christopher had a sudden burst of brave inspiration. He remembered his Sharpie marker still sitting in his pocket after using it on his hands before their show. He grabbed the last clean napkin from the table, scribbled his name and phone number on it as legibly as he could, then placed it within the folds of the plastic check holder.

* * *

Trixie saw the guys in the band leaving just as a squat trucker type came in to be seated. The guy she gave the ranch dressing to—dammit, she had never even bothered to ask his name—offered her a slight goodbye wave and her heart performed amateur aerobics. She wondered if this boy was actually showing an interest in her or just being cordial. She had noticed him immediately and was pretty much crushed at first sight. He wore his sandy-blonde hair in a skater style, with long, straight bangs. Innocent, untainted hazel eyes. An unblemished face. Average height, weight, general size. Average was good. He was no male supermodel by any stretch, but Trixie had unconventional tastes in men. Imperfection was a bonus, something she could relate to. Despite her full blossom into womanhood, Trixie still felt she had no room to be picky. She knew it would take a special guy to truly accept her past—and her present, for that matter—which was not something she felt comfortable talking to just anyone about.

She chewed her tongue, smiled back at him and watched as he passed through the doors, figuring she would never have the chance to run into him again. Her timid nature gripped her, and she let him slip out of her life. It was probably for the best.

She walked back to their booth, removed the dirty dishes, came back to wipe down the table, took the check to the register and opened the check holder. A napkin fell out and floated in zigzag motions. She clumsily caught it, in fear that it might have to be burned like an American flag if it touched the ground. Her eyes widened when she saw what was written on it. She glanced side to side as if she might be arrested for withholding evidence and shoved it into her money apron.

The napkin changed everything.