Hairstyles of the Damned (14 page)
OK, I had no special song so I was fucked. Because now all I had was the mix-tape. But to make the perfect mix-tape you had to reveal how cool you were, how interesting, without being obvious that the person you were making the tape for was someone you were completely and totally in love with. That’s what Gretchen said anyway.
“The point is not to be too obvious,” she warned, inking a tape cover of a smiling skull, knives projecting from his saucer-sized eyes, with her black magic marker. We were in Gretchen’s room, both of us working on tapes. I was trying to make another one for her but it was still mushy and lame, and she was making one for none other than—you guessed it—Tony Degan. I was watching her work and wondering how long it would be before she finished the tape, gave it to him, and ended up being mauled, sexually, by him.
“That’s my whole problem,” I said, staring at her with longing on me like a stink. “I am too obvious.”
“What songs do you have picked out?”
“I dunno. I can’t think of anything good.”
“Let’s see what you’ve recorded so far,” she said.
“‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’! ‘Home Sweet Home’? What the hell is the matter with you? What girl even likes this shit?”
“I dunno. I can’t think of the right songs without being mushy.”
“Who are you even making this for?” she asked, squinting.
“Some girl in my band class,” I lied.
“Is she a skank?”
“No,” I said. “She just likes rock.”
“The point is to show her you’re cool, not to be all fucking whiny. That way it’s like a secret that you like her.”
“Well, Tony Degan’s going to know you like him anyway,” I said.
“Nope, I have a method.”
“What method?”
“I’m putting on very fast, very loud songs.”
“So?” I asked.
“So it’s not all lovey-dovey.”
Gretchen pressed the record button and started the next song, the Dead Kennedys’ “Holiday in Cambodia.” She had a few from
London Calling
, then a few from the first Black Flag—“Wasted,” etc.—then the entire second half of
Operation Ivy
. The bedroom door opened and we looked up and Kim stepped in smiling and wearing a black Misfits T-shirt and a red flannel skirt. Her red herpe had not gone away and she had used a lot of the wrong color cover-up to try and hide it. She leapt on the bed and pinched Gretchen’s side smartly.
“You ready to go, douche-bags?” Kim asked.
“I guess. How’d you get here so fast?” Gretchen replied.
“You know that kid with the mohawk, Mike, that one kid that works at the movie theater in the mall? He dropped me off.”
“Oh yeah? Is he cool?” Gretchen asked.
“Yeah. Well, I dunno, he’s kind of a faggot. He just, well, kind of dry-humped my leg.”
“He seemed kinda nice.”
“I thought he could get me into the movies and shit, but all he does there is sweep up. So, you guys ready or what?”
“OK.”
“I think I’m gonna go home,” I said. I stood up and pulled on my jean jacket.
“What’s the matter with you, pussy?” Kim asked.
“I just don’t feel like going.”
“Well, Bobby and Tony are up there. You guys can watch me kick that girl Laura’s ass,” Kim said.
“Why? I thought we liked her,” Gretchen said.
“I did, until I found out asshole-Bobby made out with her.”
“I thought you guys broke up and were seeing other people and all,” I said.
“We are—I mean, we kinda are. We’re still kinda dating and not really talking again. And I told Laura, you know, that Bobby and I had stopped talking again, and she was like, ‘Well, you guys are meant to be. It’ll work out’—and then Bobby the douche-bag goes and tells me he felt her up in the back of his van.”
“I think you two ought to just leave each other alone, once and for all,” Gretchen said with a nod, slipping on her black boots.
“I would if he didn’t know how to fuck, but shit. I mean, you know, Bobby is like a total fucking retard, but when it comes to fucking … well, I dunno. Hey, Tony Degan was asking about you again.”
I sat back down on the floor, waiting to listen. I started going through Gretchen’s record collection. I wanted to hear what Kim had to say, to well, see what my chances were, maybe.
“He was asking about me?” Gretchen asked in a whisper.
“Yeah, he was. He said he wanted to ‘see’ you again. What do you think that means?”
“I dunno.”
“You were totally making out with him the other night, in the parking lot and all. And I thought you were, like, all junior-high babysitter—‘I hate boys, I’m gonna save my virginity for Glenn Danzig or Ian MacKaye’—and shit.”
I felt my heart become small and shriveled like a baby bird left to burn alone out in the sun. I turned and stared at Gretchen who was blushing. She looked so fucking cute blushing it made me want to punch a wall.
“I dunno. Tony, he’s real quiet, you know? He’s very gentle. You couldn’t tell by looking at him, but he’s like a little kid. He told me he sometimes cooks for his mom when she’s tired, you know? Well, I dunno, I dunno.”
“What? What is it? He’s totally hot.”
“I dunno. I mean, he’s really, well, he’s all into White Power. That’s kind of fucked up.”
“So, you’re not black, are you? What the fuck do you care?”
“No, I dunno, I mean …”
“What the fuck then? I mean, he’s cute, and he’s cool, and he said he’s way into you. I mean, Jesus, Gretchen, I’ll jump his bones if you don’t, douche-bag.”
“I guess. It guess it just kind of scares me.”
“Jesus, Gretchen, remember when you were real fat? Remember when you used to sit inside and do homework on the weekends? Do you? Because I do. You were like a total dork. Now you look good, and you got some hot guy that’s totally into you and you’re acting like a total douche-bag. What’s the fucking problem?”
“No problem,” Gretchen said quietly.
“Good. Listen, if that girl Laura’s there, I’m gonna stomp her fat ass. Tell me who Bobby roots for.” Kim turned and stared at me. “You coming, Brian?”
“Nope,” I said. I grabbed my mix-tape and slipped it into my front pocket, pouting.
“Well, see you later. Let’s go already.”
After that, I went by Rod’s house. I didn’t even go up and knock. I just stood there and walked along the side of the house and listened and somebody, maybe Rod’s dad, was playing some loud, rowdy jazz music and the trumpet was freaking out and then it got very quiet and I decided I ought to do something. I didn’t know what I should do, but I knew I had to do something. All I had was the shitty mix-tape I had secretly made for Gretchen, so I placed it beside his window, the red curtains lit from behind, and knocked twice, running before he could see who had left it.
After school the next day I took the bus over to where Jessica, Gretchen’s sister, worked at the Yogurt Palace and said, “I think I’m in love with your sister.”
“Duh.”
“No, I mean it.”
“Like I said, duh.”
“I want to make her a mix-tape and I need to know her favorite song. So what’s her favorite all-time song?” I asked.
Jessica looked me over, squinted her eyes, and then frowned.
“I don’t think she likes you,” she said, leaning over the counter to pat my hand.
“I know that already. But, well, I want to ask her to Homecoming. And, well, what can I do about it?”
“Oh, Brian,” she said, patting my hand again. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“The only thing you can do is give up now,” she said, pulling her hand back.
That night, I went back by Rod’s to ask for his help.
“What? What do you want?” he asked, standing on his front porch, frowning at me solemnly.
“I need your help, Rod.”
“What is it? You’re not high right now, are you?”
“No, that’s not it, man,” I said.
“Well, then?”
“I need the perfect song, man.”
“What?”
“The perfect song: I need the perfect song, Rod.”
If I could woo Gretchen with the right song, if we could go park over by the cemetery and I could shut off the lights and pop in the right cassette, then maybe, well then maybe I’d have a chance. But Rod wasn’t having any luck thinking of the right song either. We were sitting Indian-style in the middle of his room with all kinds of records and cassette tapes spread out all around us.
“How about ‘Come Sail Away’?” he asked me.
“No way, retard, that’s like a prom kind of song.”
“How about ‘Surrender’?” he asked.
“Too rocking. It needs to be more mellow.”
“How about, well, something like Elton John?” he asked again.
“He’s a fag. I can’t put on any fag music with this girl.”
“I don’t know then,” Rod said. “It’s hopeless.”
“Come on, man, don’t say that. You’re the only one who knows this kind of shit.”
“I don’t even know why I’m trying. You tried to steal from me.”
“See, Rod, when you say shit like that it makes you sound like a puss. I was going to take that record to do this, but you wouldn’t help, remember?”
“But I mean, you don’t even talk to me at school,” he said. “That makes me feel like a nerd.”
“Jesus Christ, Rod, you are a nerd. You sit alone at that one table in the corner. You wear that red sweater all the time. You just kind of mope around, man.”
“I don’t want to help you with this anymore,” he said.
“
I don’t want to help you with this anymore
,” I repeated, mocking him. “Fine, but when you’re like eighteen and still like hanging out in your room and you haven’t gotten any pussy yet, don’t come crying to me, OK? I’m just trying to help you.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Rod, I don’t want you to be a nerd either, man. I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you at school, but you’re just so fucking droopy.”
“I don’t try to be droopy.”
“But you are. Listen, Rod, this is a one-in-a-million shot here. You got to help me with this song.”
“Like when you tried to steal my dad’s record?”
“Holy Christ, why do you keep bringing that up?” I asked.
“It is like our favorite record of all time. I just want you to know that.”
“You are so faggy. How old are you, man? You talk like a little fucking kid.”
“Oh, because I’m not cool and I don’t swear for the sake of it? Well, oh, fucking this and, oh, dildo that.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have wasted my time with you,” I said and got up to leave. He put out his hand, waving me to stay.
“Wait a minute, just wait a minute. How about an instrumental?” he. asked.
“What?”
“It’d make you seem kind of cool. Like a theme song, with no words; you know, like you were in a movie or something.”
“An instrumental?” I asked again.
“Yeah.”
“Well, like what did you have in mind?”
At the Haunted Trails in the far corner of the parking lot, we were sitting inside Bobby’s van—Tony Degan and Bobby B. and me—and we were splitting a 40. Aerosmith was on the stereo with “Sweet Emotion,” and I was waiting to meet Gretchen up there because I had the new-improved Rod-version mix-tape in my pocket and was waiting for the right time to give it to her, and she wasn’t up there yet, and Bobby had asked if I wanted to chill in his van. The song Rod and I had picked out was “Sleepwalk,” this ’50s kind of song by Santo and Johnny, and I kept thinking about it as Tony Degan started talking to me.
“You’re pretty quiet, huh, Brian Oswald?”
“I guess,” I said.
“Where do you live?”
“Evergreen Park,” I said.
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “Have you been seeing any niggers around lately?”
“Nope.”
“I have. Hanging out, up at the park,” he said.
“Huh,” I said.
“Black people, man, they live like fucking animals.”
“Yeah?” Bobby asked.
“They live like fucking animals and the next thing you know, they’re living right next to you. Just the other night there were three of them up at the Evergreen Park, playing basketball like they owned the fucking place, jumping around, tearing down the nets. I ain’t having any of that shit. This is our fucking neighborhood. My dad didn’t work his ass off his whole life so a bunch of niggers could move in and start selling their fucking crack and having fucking babies and breaking into my fucking house at night. Just a week ago someone stole my little brother’s bike. My fucking dad had to pay for that; he didn’t get no government hand-out. So I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m going up to the park later tonight and if some of those niggers are hanging out there, I’m gonna take a tire iron to their big nigger heads and convince them they’d better fucking leave. And to stay the fuck out of Evergreen.”
“What about the cops?” Bobby asked, squinting his eyes.
“The cops don’t want them over there either. I know I got them on my side, but I know their fucking hands are tied. So it’s up to you and me. OK?”
“OK,” Bobby said.
“What about you, Brian?”
“I don’t think so, Tony.”
I started to open the van’s sliding door and Tony pulled himself out too and when I climbed out, I turned and bumped into Gretchen. She had been leaning against a Chevy El Camino that was parked too close. I smiled and wondered if she had been there the whole time waiting. Before I could say anything, Tony Degan was smiling at her and she was smiling back and I felt the weight of the mix-tape in my pocket begin to vanish, totally disappear, just like that.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey,” she said, still looking at Tony.
“Hello there,” Tony said with a slightly dopey grin.
“Were you in there with some girl?” Gretchen asked him, half-smiling, half-frowning.
“I don’t hang with girls,” Tony said. “Girls will make you crazy,” he laughed. “I guess that’s how you say hello to somebody, though, huh?”
“Hello.”
“Hello. You came up here to see me?” Tony asked with a wink, then slowly, very gently, he went to take her hand. Gretchen went stiff as soon as he did. He held her hand and smiled, running his finger over her silver rings. I felt sick to my stomach watching it, but I didn’t want to walk away. For some sick reason, I wanted to watch it all happen.
