Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

Another guitar string tightening. Ace must be paying more attention to the boy than the guitar. The skinniest string gets higher and higher and its pitch goes too high because the thing snaps, and Ace says, “Damn. Dang, I mean. You gotta pay attention or things break on you. Am I right, my man?”

Ace starts over, winding a new string to replace the busted one.

Bob staggers into the kitchen with the rum.

Ace and the kid look over at him.

The plucking and tightening stop.

Ace giggles. “Hey, Chump Change, what’s with the long face?”

Coffen doesn’t want to be alone any longer. He’s crying, but he can’t care about that. Things do break if you’re not watching. He asks, “Can I get Korean barbecue with you guys?”

“Our entourage,” says Ace.

“Tell me the name of a genius,” says Ace, eating meat off the bone while sitting in a booth at Korean barbecue with Coffen and the boy. The restaurant is pretty empty. It’s about an hour before they have to be at Empire Wasted for sound check.

“I don’t give a shit about geniuses,” his girlfriend’s kid says.

“Shakespeare,” Bob says.

“Koreans are meat-Shakespeares,” Ace says.

“That’s racist,” the boy says.

“It’s a compliment.”

“It’s still racist.”

“Come on, name a genius.”

“No,” the boy says, “your racism is ruining my appetite.”

“Einstein,” Bob says.

“Koreans are Meat=MC 2,” says Ace.

“It’s racist because you’re making a generalization about a whole group of people,” the boy points out.

“It can’t be racist to celebrate the Koreans’ meaty geniusness,” Ace says. “I refuse to believe that. And if it is, then lock me up and throw away the meat-key because I’m a racist for how much I love freakin’ Koreans! Name another.”

The boy is mum.

“Michael Jordan,” Coffen says. Hearing Ace and the boy banter makes Bob think of Brent, so he texts his youngest: I miss you very much. You are a terrific son.

Then Bob sends the same message to Margot, forgetting to change the word “son” to “daughter.”

Within three seconds, she texts right back: I’m a girl. Thankz for noticin

Coffen: Yeah, but you get the main message, right? The “you are terrific” part?

R u guyz divorcing?

No

STFU

What’s that mean?

Shut the eff up

You are a terrific daughter. Sea horses tomorrow?

She never answers, probably enjoying the Great Barrier Reef from the comfort of her bedroom.

“Koreans slam-dunk their meat like Mr. Mikey Jordan!” Ace says, suddenly an advertising exec, setting back international relations with every new slogan.

“This tea is terrible,” Coffen says, putting his phone in his pocket.

“Drink beer, for god’s sake,” says Ace. “We’re on our way to a rock and roll show, and you’re totaling tea? Grow a pair, Bobby-boy. Let down the eight hairs you have left and live a little. Go mano a mano versus the world.”

In Coffen’s opinion, Bobby-boy does not need to grow a pair. It’s true that he will soon be switching to beer, not because Ace peer-pressured him into it, but due to the fact that Korean tea is horrible. Now that’s something worth being racist about.

“Tonight I ask your beautiful ma to be my lawfully wedded wife,” Ace says to the boy. “I’m thrilled to have your blessing, dude.”

The boy frowns at Ace.

“What’s wrong?” Ace asks.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You can tell me, my man. I know this is hard for you. Go ahead — put the screws to Uncle Acey. I can take it. You won’t scare me off. Me, you, and your ma are going to be good together.”

The boy’s frown fades.

Is that a small smile?

Yes, indeed, the boy small-smiles at Ace and now the kid says, “Ace Frehley from Kiss.”

“Are you saying Ace Frehley is a genius?” asks Ace, looking like he might start sobbing with oodles of pride.

Coffen’s phone vibrates, alerting him that there’s a new text, hopefully from Brent, hopefully confirming a father-son date to the sea horses. After watching Ace struggle with this boy, the task that Coffen has is easy — encourage some other activities besides gaming. Get Brent out of the house. Do stuff together. He can game, too, just not every waking second.

But the text isn’t from Brent.

It’s from Schumann.

And it is not good news.

It’s what might be called the opposite end of the spectrum from good news.

Schumann texts: Bagged me a magician.

Bob:?

Stalked him and secured him.

Why?

Tied him up and stuffed him in the back of the SUV.

Tied up??

Like a turkey.

Let him go!!

Where R U?

Coffen: Meet me at Empire Wasted in 45.

That sad dank bar that doesn’t have any big screens?

45 mins!!

Hut, hut, hike are the final words texted from Schumann.

“Do you mind if one of my friends meets us at the club?” Coffen says to Ace.

“You already said your friend from Taco Shed was coming.”

“Her, too. This is my neighbor, Schumann.”

“You’re doing French Kiss a favor, helping us fill every seat in the house. The more, the merrier,” Ace says, and then he looks at the boy again. “Like our household, right, dude? We’re three happy Kiss-loving clams.”

“Happy fucking clams,” the boy says, which makes Bob think of his household: Would they be considered four unhappy clams, their shells boxing them away from everything in the world, much like the subdivision’s electric fence?

Dumping salt in Coffen’s wound, Ace starts humming here comes the bride, here comes the bride …

The three of them roll into Empire Wasted before Schumann or Tilda arrive. Coffen dismisses this place, shaped like a big rectangle, as a dump. The walls are stacked cinder blocks, neither painted nor covered, only nude gray concrete. The stage is pretty low to the ground with an empty dance floor in front of it. No tables anywhere. There’s a bar at the back of the room. An old man behind it wearing a tank top. Bald on his head but not on his shoulders.

Bob helps Ace carry his amp in. Coffen is amped himself, paranoid-thinking about a kidnapped magician who’s probably mighty pissed and ready to cast some nasty curses or, worse, call the cops and rat them out, not solely for Schumann’s solo kidnapping tonight, but also for what he and Bob did to the magician last night.

Empire Wasted technically isn’t open yet. The only people there are the staff, the band — the rest of French Kiss’s chubby, bald members setting up gear — groupies, if you can call them that, and a few friends.

Coffen makes his way to the bar to order a beer and another text from Schumann comes through: The eagle has landed.

Which makes no sense to Bob, who responds simply with:?

Code for I’m out front.

So Coffen gets going out front. Sure as sure can be, there’s crying Björn hog-tied in the back of the SUV, not pleased with the whole kidnapped situation that’s unfurling before his eyes.

“This can’t be good,” Coffen says. “We’re going to get shipped off to prison for round-the-clock sodomy sessions.”