Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“We recognize your prowess,” Ace answers on the band’s behalf, “but if I’m speaking honestly here, your chops are only lukewarm. You are proficient on your instrument, no doubt, but let’s keep it real. A genius you are not.”

“You shouldn’t be under any delusions of grandness, bro,” says the drummer to Javier.

“Grandeur,” corrects the French singer.

“I’m a native English speaker, dude,” the drummer says, “and your ass is writing checks your mouth can’t cash.”

“Respect my hot chops!” Javier screams, knocking his coffee over to mix with his vomit.

Javier is probably not going about this the right way, Bob thinks, but doesn’t everyone want to have their hot chops recognized?

Javier rants on, “I’m out of this hellhole. You guys try playing this gig without me. Let’s see how you fare without an artist of my magnitude. Let’s see if anybody even wants to hear this band without my hot chops highlighting the action.”

He stands up to go, slips in his vomit/coffee.

“Dude, we need you,” says the drummer. “Don’t do something you’re going to regret tomorrow.”

“Javi, just relax, bro,” the French singer says.

“We pride ourselves on bringing the rock to the people,” Ace reminds all. “If you leave now, we have to cancel the gig, and French Kiss does not cancel. Grandness, grandeur, whatever — don’t make us flake on the show. Don’t make us out to be liars to our legions of loyal fans.”

“Adios, you who fail to recognize talent when it’s waved right in your faces,” Javier says and stomps out of the room.

The other bandmates follow after him, leaving only Coffen, Kat, and her son in the backstage dressing room.

At least for a few seconds …

Then Kat says, “I’m going to get a mop for that,” motioning at the vomit/coffee and walking out.

Just Bob and the boy …

He looks at Coffen, which makes Bob nervous, especially after the venomous things Bob heard him say to Ace back at the office. But Bob also heard what he said at Korean barbecue, something nice, something sweet, so he tries to talk with him. “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“So’s my daughter. My son is nine. I can’t go home this weekend.”

“I bet they think you’re a douche bag,” the boy says.

“You’re probably right.”

“I only met you awhile ago and I think you’re a douche bag.”

“I’m not big on you, either. You should be nicer to Ace.”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

“He’s only trying to make you guys happy.”

“Why can’t you go home?”

“Because I did some dumb stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Bob is me.”

“That’s a douche bag answer,” the boy says.

“I’d like to see you talk like that in front of your mom.”

“I’m not fucking afraid.”

“We’ll see.”

Kat wheels a mop bucket in, does the dirty work, slowly wiping the vomit/coffee up.

“I think your son wants to tell you something,” Bob says.

“What is it, baby?” she asks the boy.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too,” she says.

The boy flips Bob the bird while she keeps mopping.

“Did Javier leave?” Coffen says to her.

“They’re out there begging him to stay. He needs to go to rehab. Plain and simple. He’s always doing things like this for attention. Did you drink your water? You should finish that water. What were you two talking about while I was gone?”

“He did something dumb,” the boy says.

Satisfied that she’s swabbed the decks clean, Kat puts the mop back in the bucket. “What did you do?” she says.

“I embarrassed myself in front of my wife,” he says and starts crying. “She kicked me out of the house.”

The boy laughs. “Look at the crybaby.”

“Shh,” Kat says to him. Then to Bob: “You shouldn’t drink alcohol when you’re in a bad place. It only makes things worse. I’m sure she’ll take you back. Ace speaks very highly of you.”

“Why should she take me back? I mean, what do I offer her? When was the last time I was actually interesting?” Bob says, and his sobs really get cranking.

“Please don’t cry.”

Despite Kat’s pleas for him to stop, the booze and the agony have slithered themselves into a kind of astonishing knot and now that Coffen has given in, there’s no stopping it — the liquor is a lubricant to tease out what had previously been dammed.

“We’ll give you your privacy,” she says.

“I’d love it if you stayed.”

“That’s okay.”

“Please?” he says.

“We need to check on Ace,” Kat says and ushers the boy out.

Bob is left alone with the mop bucket. Left alone with his memories, not just of this weekend but everything: all the bundled up personal experiences, labeled and ignored like cardboard boxes in a garage. Jane is sick of him. His kids barely notice him. It reminds Bob of his own childhood, the divorce he observed. Coffen can’t allow himself to be the same absent father.

When he was a kid, Coffen’s mom made the world’s best fermented dills. Not that she only pickled cucumbers. No, she did all kinds of fruits — peaches and cherries and plums and nectarines. In the few months after Bob’s dad first left, Coffen’s mom didn’t much feel like cooking meals that emphasized all four food groups and so she and Bob hunkered in the garage in beach chairs in front of her pickling fridge and ate whatever vinegary fruit tickled their fancy.

Across the back wall of the garage were the boxed-up memories. Not the stuff that belonged to Bob’s dad. No, in the first days after he left, Bob’s mom swerved around the house, throwing everything that reminded her of her husband into boxes and stacking them in the garage. By the time she was finished, their house had been pared down severely. Even the television had been boxed up, though Bob was able to convince her to get it back out again.

“Do you know what we are?” she said one night as they sat in front of the pickling fridge.

“What?”

“We’re a couple of pickling rocket scientists.”

“What’s that?”

“Rocket scientists are probably the smartest people in the world. And no one knows more about pickling than us. So we’re a pair of pickling rocket scientists.”

“Cool.”

“What’s on the menu tonight, garÇon?” she asked.

“What did we have last night?”

“Cherries.”

“Then not cherries.”

“What will it be?”

“Nectarines?” Coffen said.

“A fine choice.”

She stayed slumped in her beach chair while he went to retrieve the nectarines from the pickling fridge. It was always Coffen’s job to grab whatever jar, which meant he had to get close to the plums, their likeness to human hearts always scary. Like they’d been cut from their chests and dropped into spicy brining solution, saltier than tears.

Coffen tried to open the jar but couldn’t. Brought it over to her and she cracked the seal. “Would you like to do the honors and taste the first bite?” she said and handed it back to him. “I’m not all that hungry tonight, garÇon.”

She only had four bites of cherries last night, and Coffen knew that without some prodding, she’d barely have any tonight, too. “You need to eat.”

“That’s what they say, but I haven’t been this skinny since high school,” she said. “We should tell the world about the pickled fruit diet. Get everyone in shape. Honestly, I’ve lost eleven pounds since he left.”

Coffen stuck a fork in the jar and impaled a nectarine, then took a bite off it. Vinegary juice dripped down his hand and wrist, which he licked off, running his tongue all over his forearm.