Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

Coffen and Tilda approach. Schumann exits the driver’s seat, walks toward the back but doesn’t open it, keeping Björn obscured.

“Hello, big fella,” Tilda says to Schumann, ogling his football uniform, the implied musculature underneath his sporty shell. “I was hoping our paths would cross when I wasn’t working.”

“I’ve changed my name to Reasons with His Fists,” he says.

“Your name’s as meaningless as these jeans I’m wearing,” says Tilda.

“I’m married.”

“Let’s not ruin our first non — Taco Shed impression with too many details from our personal lives,” she says.

“You’d make a good running back,” Schumann says to her. “You see an opening and hit the hole hard, hoping to score.”

“You’re going to make me blush, Reasons with His Fists,” she says.

“We need to focus,” Coffen says inconsequentially.

“My name is a tribute to my tribe,” Schumann says.

“Are you part Native American?” she asks.

“I am a warrior ready to ravage at the drop of a hat.”

“I’m prepared to drop much more than my hat,” says Tilda, enhancing her flirty words with a fellatio-impersonation, her hand moving back and forth in front of her open mouth. She looks like a demented sex-ed teacher trying to scare the kids into abstinence.

Schumann watches the demo and smiles. “You have the body of a fearsome warrior, too.”

“I’ve taken my lumps over the years.”

Coffen can’t take his inconsequentialness any longer and throws open the back of the SUV. The three of them stand, staring at the squirming, angrily mumbling magician.

“Who’s that guy?” Tilda asks, cool as a sociopath.

“Our vanquished foe,” says Schumann.

“He looks pretty pissed,” she says.

“His arms are probably asleep,” Schumann says. “Not to mention I had to knee his testes to properly subdue him before pitching him in there.”

“I like the way you say ‘testes,’” Tilda says. “Can I hear it once more, except this time, make it a little breathier, like you’re seducing me?”

Schumann answers in a baritone Don Juan playboy voice, “Testeeeeez.”

“You are my testes-hero,” she says.

“Anyway, this is the guy we kidnapped,” Coffen says.

“I am your testeeeeez-hero,” Schumann says, sexy voice doused with aftershave and five o’clock shadow.

“Maybe I’ll wait for you guys in the bar,” Coffen says, already sulking.

“That’s a great idea,” Tilda says. “Maybe Reasons with His Fists would like to take me for a drive so we can get to know each other more intimately. What do you say, daddy?”

“This will be like the glory days,” Schumann says. “Pillaging a coed to mark an important victory. Hail Purdue!”

“Nobody’s called me a coed in years,” Tilda coos.

“What about him?” Coffen asks and points at squirming Björn.

“He’ll be fine,” she guarantees. “He might even enjoy the show.” Tilda winks at Bob and then walks over and gets in the SUV via the passenger’s side. Shrugging, Schumann hops back in, too, and starts the engine.

Coffen traipses up to his window and says, “I think we should deal with the problem at hand.”

“We’ll troubleshoot soon,” Tilda says.

“I was talking to Schumann.”

“Do you mean my new friend Reasons with His Fists here?” she asks.

“Yes,” Schumann says, “who is this Schumann you keep referring to?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Coffen says to her.

“I’m a gal hoping to take a relaxing ride with a friend.”

“He has a family.”

“And I have a daughter, who’s partial to living in Roy’s car.”

Making zero headway with Tilda, Bob turns his attention to Schumann, saying, “What about your wife?”

He revs the engine.

“You’re not seriously about to drive off,” Coffen says.

Then Schumann seriously drives off with Tilda giddy in the passenger seat.

Bob Coffen’s been journeying toward intoxication and he’s arrived at it. He’s — as the bar’s name publicizes — empirely wasted.

Schumann and Tilda have been gone now for half an hour. The bar is filling up. French Kiss is due to perform soon. Bob is alone, feels dusted in fluorescent orange. Like the artificial stuff is contagious and everyone’s keeping their distance. Don’t shake his hand, keep clear when he coughs. Otherwise, you might contract your own case, leaving you an estranged laughing stock. Too pitiful for pity. Too predictable for surprise.

The evening’s mission to go out and live a little is turning out to be a failure. Maybe he’s best at building games, best sequestered from the rest of humankind. Best suited for weekend dad status. Best living in a condo in Memphis. Best letting Gotthorm train his children in preparation for adulthood. He thinks about Ace’s guitar string snapping, how things break if you’re not watching out. What did Bob expect? Who’d been making sure things weren’t about to snap in his family?

Kat prances up to Coffen, places her hand on his elbow, a welcome steadying: “Ace wants to know if you’d like to be backstage with all of us.”

“I’d love to.”

“You don’t look so good. How drunk are you?”

“You look good, too. Is your hair naturally curly?”

“Have some water,” she says.

The members of French Kiss are dressed like the real Kiss. Their makeup is very convincing. In fact, they are a very convincing lot, clad in black leather, platform boots. To a layman like Coffen, if they were lined up next to the original band, he wouldn’t be able to distinguish between them.

Ace says to Bob, “Get ready, because French Kiss is about to rock your eyeballs loose from your heads. I’m telling you, we are fantastic. You won’t believe it.”

“Dude,” the drummer says to Ace, “I get so inspired when you talk about rock and roll. You love it so much. I feel like I’m wearing some serious jealousy-cologne when you talk like that.”

“Jealousy-cologne?” Ace asks.

“The musk of envy,” the drummer says.

Apparently, Coffen isn’t the only person whose bacchanalia has gotten the best of him, because now Ace says, “Keep drinking that coffee, Javier. Sober up. You hearing me? You can’t keep pulling this shit. I mean, feces. Stop with the feces, Javier. Let your feces go the way of the dodo.”

No one answers, so presumably Javier is not hearing him.

“Javier is more wasted than you are, Bob,” says Ace.

“Who’s Javier?”

“Him,” Ace says and nods toward a sleeping guy sitting in a folding chair and leaning his head against a wall, a coffee wedged between his legs. Despite his compromised sobriety, Javier’s Kiss makeup looks fantastic. “He’s our bassist. Showed up cooked out of his skull. Rock and roll can be a tiring mistress.”

“Will he be able to play?” Kat asks Ace.

“My queen,” Ace says, “they say that the show must go on, but I’ve never heard them say that Javier’s amp must go on. We’ll prop him up. We only need him to stand there. So we’ve got that loophole to exploit if his condition doesn’t drastically improve. We’ll make it work one way or another.”

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

“And I’ve missed you,” he says.

They kiss. There’s a kinetic energy between them that Coffen is immediately envious of, resentful of. It’s an energy that he’s not sure he ever had with Jane.

For ten minutes all is well.

Then Javier wakes up. Then he throws up on the floor. Then he threatens to leave, spastically saying that he’s thinking about quitting French Kiss forever because they don’t respect his hot chops on the bass and maybe he’ll take his talents elsewhere unless his prowess gets a bit more recognition.