Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“Unofficially.”

“I won’t say a word to Dumper,” Coffen says.

“We’ll be roommates here.”

In some way that makes Bob feel better — or again, the rum is kicking in. He checks to see if Brent or Margot texted back yet. Nada.

Coffen sends the same note to both of them this time: I’m the luckiest dad in the world!

“You’re all right, Chump Change,” Ace says.

Coffen thinks, Why all these nicknames? First, there’s the plock praising Robert for all his years of faithful service. Then there’s Tilda calling him the capitán of Mexican lasagnas and also a cop. Why doesn’t anybody think of Bob as Bob?

“I am Bob,” he says.

“You staying here all weekend?” Ace asks.

“Unfortunately.”

“Are you going to mope the whole time or should we have some fun?”

“Probably I’ll mope,” says Bob.

“It’s not going to do you any good. Mope when you’re old. Tonight let’s remember that we’re lucky to be alive.”

“I don’t feel lucky to be alive.”

“Well, you are — we all are — even those of us squatting at work. And my band is gigging tonight at Empire Wasted. You should come along.”

“I think I’ll stick with moping.”

“Not a chance I’m letting you do that. Come on — get out of your head. Let’s go out and live a little.”

Coffen likes this idea of living a little. Maybe it’s exactly what this house cat Robert Coffen needs — to get out of his head, get out of his latest game, get out and interact with somebody. “You know what? I’m in,” Bob says. “Let’s live a little.”

“Rock and roll is quite the temptress. Few men can ward off her seductions.”

“What instrument do you play in the band?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

So Coffen asks, “Why shouldn’t I have to ask?”

“My nickname is Ace, as in Ace Frehley. I even got him tattooed on me,” he says, rolls up his gaping bathrobe’s sleeve and points at a picture of a guy with long straight black hair wearing white paint all over his face like a rodeo clown. There’s black lipstick on him and also black patterns painted jagged around his eyes.

Coffen doesn’t get it.

“He’s the guitarist in Kiss — meaning I play guitar in French Kiss. I’m a straight-up shredder, a bona fide, certified, genuine genius of the fret board.” Ace does his dance again: running in place and cross-country skiing and lip-licking, except now there’s more flair to it.

Bob watches him shimmy and a smile crosses his face. Here’s a guy, a core member of the clean team, who wants Coffen’s company. Here’s somebody who wants Bob around, and for a second he wonders, When did I become so dispensable in my own life?

Being included in Ace’s plans makes Bob want to see his kids today, see his wife. He wants to get out and live a little in his own life, too.

The only thing that Coffen can choke out is this: “You really want me to be at your gig?”

“Bet your hind parts,” says Ace.

Coffen isn’t the kind of parent to put his kids in harm’s way. So even if the alcohol present in the French toast mostly cooked off, Bob’s not going to chance it. He feels a little under the influence, but maybe that might be placebo, or a by-product of a restless night’s sleep on the beanbag. Problem is that if Bob’s not comfortable operating a motor vehicle in his condition, then he needs to find an impromptu designated driver. Problem is that means his impromptu life coach, Schumann.

He needs somebody to drive him and the kids to the high-priced gym where Jane is training for her run at the world record. He needs to talk to her. Jane is at her most relaxed in the pool, which to Bob makes it the ideal time to chat.

Coffen’s not really worried about being under the influence with just himself in the car, and so he chugs over to Schumann’s to see if the maniac can be the DD.

It takes approximately four seconds for Coffen to regret this decision. He should have gotten a taxi, chartered a private jet, rented ponies, pogo sticks, whatever. Any other viable mode of transportation would have prevented Bob from being greeted like this in Schumann’s foyer, Bob watching Schumann making growling angry-athlete faces.

“Have I lost it, Coffen? Is my face still the mask of a pigskin gladiator?”

“You look like a pigskin gladiator, I guess.”

“I am a warrior.”

“Schumann, I have real problems. I need to see my family. Can you give me a ride to my house to pick up my kids and then to the club?”

“It’s like, I’m getting older and softer and weaker — and Charlie’s out there in the bush, man. Charlie’s squatting in the mud, staying sharp. Charlie’s getting stronger.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“Charlie from Apocalypse Now . The Viet Cong.”

“How do you know somebody who was in Apocalypse Now ?”

“Forget Charlie,” says Schumann, getting really worked up. “He’s not the point. I’m the point. I used to be sharp as steel. I was formidable. They used to have to game plan around stopping me. Now, what, I’m a guy who starts crying when you mention my kid? We were in the middle of heisting that magician and I started blubbering in the driver’s seat. I’m pathetic.”

His face goes slack of any glowering athletic snarls. Bob watches Schumann looking at himself in the mirror. Looking at himself the way you might look at a once-prized possession that was past its prime.

From Bob’s perspective, having a face like Schumann would be a nice change of pace. Schumann keeps his hair in a buzz cut, like a throwback 1950s athlete. His rugged good looks are obvious: a jawline that tells everyone he can take a punch, a classic nose, and brown eyes that have no doubt taken a punch or two in their time.

“We weren’t heisting that magician,” Bob says. “You were.”

Schumann slaps himself across the face. Hard. His cheek immediately goes pink. He shakes his head around and howls and says, “I can get my game face back. I’m not dead yet.”

“What you did wasn’t pathetic at all,” Coffen says. “Your priorities have changed. And for the better, I might add. You care more about your family than you do for yourself.”

“I won’t wait for Charlie to crawl out of the jungle and slit my throat. So we tried to kidnap the magician and failed once. We won’t make that mistake again, Bob. Next time, he’s ours. I’ve been playing the game on the football field of my mind, and we’ll be prepared for war.”

“Where’s your wife?” Coffen asks.

“She and little Schu are at that new aquarium. There’s a sea horse show going. Then they’re off to her sister’s for a couple days. Not back until next week.”

Maybe Coffen and his kids can take in the aquarium together. Might be a nice outing, and it’s been a while since he’s taken them to do anything fun. Plus, picking them up from the house might give him a chance to do some recon, assess the damage.

“We’re basically without spouses this weekend,” says Schumann.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Remind you? This is how Coach would draw it up. This is how we can get our mojo back. It’s all about glory days, Coffen. We’ve stoked the renegade in my guts. He’s awake and ready to rumble. I can relive the past. I bet you never even had any glory days, did you?”

“I had glory days.”

“What happened in these alleged glory days of yours?”

“I stayed up pretty late. I drank my share of vanilla-flavored vodka.”

“Those are the kind of glory days that give real glory days a bad name. My glory days would punch yours in the face and give them a swirly in the closest toilet. I bet part of it is the prestigious uniform. Speaking of that … ”