Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“Fancy manners,” she said.

“We’re out of paper towels.”

“Bon appétit, I guess.”

“Bon appétit,” he parroted back.

“Sorry I can’t cook right now.”

“These are good.”

“I’ll get it together soon.”

“Want some?” Coffen held his nectarine-on-a-fork out to her, offering it with a hopeful smile. And it was a sincere expression. He meant that smile. The American Medical Association might not have pimped this skewered nectarine dinner as a rounded meal, but Coffen could not have cared less: These were happy memories, the two of them together on the beach chairs in the garage.

Happy memories don’t have to be of happy times.

Bob’s mom took the forked nectarine back from him and bit a small bite, mostly nibbling skin. “Bon appétit,” she said again. “The chef highly recommends it. The chef has guests from all over the country come to dine on this delicacy.”

“You already said that.”

“Oh.”

“Will I see Dad again?”

“Now I remember saying that. Sorry.”

“Will I see him soon?”

“My mind is jumpy right now.”

“When?”

“He’ll come to his senses. You don’t leave your family. He knows that. Everyone knows that.” Coffen’s mom smiled at him without much conviction. Then she added, “For our next course, can we have a plum? I’m in the mood for something sweeter. I didn’t already tell you that, did I? I’d hate to think I’m retreading all my material tonight.” She handed the stabbed nectarine back to Bob.

Obviously, he didn’t want to go to the fridge and fetch a jarred plum, the fruit that reminded him of harvested hearts. But the idea of getting his mom what she wanted was more important to him. She needed to eat. Eleven pounds was too much weight to lose. A bite of cherries and a nibble on nectarine skin was no way for her to take care of herself.

Coffen peeked in and grabbed the jar. He was able to open this one on his own, the seal popping. Then he lodged a fork in the heart and handed it to her.

“He could come back soon,” she said and took a bite of it, which made him feel great, seeing her eat something.

“He could come back tomorrow,” Coffen said.

She nodded.

“He could come back tonight,” Coffen said.

“You never know,” she said, handing the plum to him, but he didn’t dig in; he was too excited.

“He might be parking the car right now out front,” Coffen said. “Right?”

She slunk down a bit in her beach chair.

“What do you think, Mom? Couldn’t he be parking?”

“I doubt it.”

“Maybe I’ll go out front and look. Do you think he’s out there?”

“Anything’s possible,” she said.

“Can I go check?”

“If you want.”

“I hope he’s out there,” Bob Coffen said, holding and finally eating the heart.

Now, sitting with the mop bucket, sitting miles away from his wife and kids, it’s hard for Coffen not to think that this is rock bottom. Maybe his mother-in-law had been right when she called Bob an anchor around Jane’s neck. Maybe he was dragging the whole family under. Maybe they’ll all drown because how can they be expected to keep their heads above water with him contributing nothing? He’s still crying and kicks the mop bucket. It doesn’t tip over, only travels a few feet away.

He has to fight, he thinks. There’s still time. But how? Maybe it’s a choice to live your life tarred and feathered in fluorescent orange. Maybe Bob Coffen can shower it off.

It’s not long before the bandmates, sans Javier, clamber backstage, along with Kat and her kid. It appears as if Javier’s threat had legs and he’s flown the coop, leaving French Kiss no choice but to cancel the gig. The remaining members are incensed. They are speaking in terms of vengeance. It’s Ace who spearheads these violent delusions. He advocates for immediate retribution and has been expressing these prerogatives via a manifesto on the high points of wanton carnage: “There will be justice,” he filibusters while pacing, the rest of them forced to soak up his venom like bored sponges, “and I’m not talking about that judge-and-jury justice. Nothing civilized. Nope, there will be some extracurricular justice. Let’s say that Acey isn’t afraid to haunt the dark shadows of the law. I won’t shy away from menace. It’s in my blood. My granddaddy was a bootlegger, and his granddaddy was a bootlegger. I come from a lineage of those unafraid of an eclipse of conscience, if you know what I mean. I’ll make sure Kathleen and me have an alibi. We’ll go out of town for a weekend. We’ve been talking about Vegas or maybe something more relaxing. Catalina is supposed to be stunning. Who knows? It might be something as simple as the mud baths up in Calistoga. And while we’re safely out of the area, Mr. Javier Torres will be the victim of”—Ace uses air quotes for the next two words—“‘random violence.’ I won’t rest until I’m wearing that bastard’s Adam’s apple like it’s an ascot.”

“Let’s get bloody!” Bob says, using the signature line from Disemboweler IV as a way to commiserate with Ace.

“I knew I dug your style,” Ace says and rubs Bob on the shoulder.

“It’s only one show,” Kat says. “I know you’re disappointed, baby, but it’s not your fault.”

The other bandmates attempt to console Ace with low-grade clichés:

“We’ll come back better than ever once we dial in a new bassist.”

“We can be even greater than the great band we already are.”

“French Kiss will climb higher on the throne of rock and roll.”

“Tonight was supposed to be special!” Ace blurts, his voice getting really agitated. “I’d planned something really special and Mr. Javier Torres bastardized my special evening.”

“You can’t bastardize a time of day, bro,” the French singer corrects again.

“I can’t believe he did this to us,” says Ace. “Tonight was going to be a really important night.”

The room goes quiet.

Coffen is in a unique position to understand why Ace is so upset. Certainly, Kat’s kid knows, too, but he doesn’t seem to be locked into what’s bothering Ace right now. Bob empathizes. He knows how deadly it can feel when you envision how something will play out, much like reading the signs at Björn’s show: He and Jane were supposed to take in the information and use it as a way to better their marriage, but somehow Bob messed it up, made her so mad she walked out. Bob felt that sting so viscerally, watching Jane leave him in the ballroom, and he doesn’t want Ace to endure something similar. He wants Ace to be saved from it. “Do it anyway,” Bob says.

“What?”

“You know what,” Coffen says. “Do it now.”

“Do it backstage here?”

Bob nods and smiles. He’s stopped crying. “Why not? Why wait one second longer?”

“Yeah?”

“Live a little,” Coffen says.

Ace’s eyes bounce between all present — the remaining members of French Kiss, Coffen, the boy, and finally, Kat. He fumbles through his pocket for something and kneels in front of her, still in his Kiss makeup and leather ensemble. “I meant to do this onstage in front of our legions of loyal fans. I wanted to make this something really special for you, my queen, but alas, there’s nothing I can do about that now. And maybe it’s better for Acey to do it like this. Because we’ll never have a fancy life. Ours will be a modest existence. I’m not rich or famous and I never will be. I’m just a janitor.”

“My dad has a better job than you,” the boy says.

Ace only smiles at him and continues: “I’m another person getting by who’s trying to do my best. But I’ve done hard living, which has taught me that when something makes you smile, that’s what really matters. Like they say, life is short and life can be hard, but you and me, we make the world better for each other. I promise to always try to do that. I’ll never quit trying to make you happy, and I’ll always try to provide for you. I love your son.”