Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“Is it FDA-approved?”

“If you don’t wanna tell me the truth from your mouth, your nose will tell me what I need to know,” says Tilda.

“Why’d you lace my lasagna?”

“I have to know the truth. So please say it once more: Is that mouse really my lover, Reasons with His Fists, a.k.a. your neighbor, Schumann?”

Bob doesn’t know how to answer that. His head says no, of course not. His heart says, I doubt it but it is the tiniest bit conceivable, after Bob saw Björn morph the ballroom floor into ice baths. In a sense it doesn’t matter what he thinks about the likelihood of Schumann’s mouse status. It’s up to Scout’sHonor! ®.

Bob decides to go with his heart: “Yeah, I’m pretty sure the mouse is Schumann.”

“I need a definitive answer.”

“It’s him.”

She ogles Bob’s nose, which stays bone dry. Tilda looks surprised. So does Coffen. Then once she’s convinced that there’s nary a deception on the premises, Tilda says, “Now that I know for certain you’re not lying, I’m happy to baby-sit.”

“Maybe the truth serum doesn’t work,” says Bob.

“I don’t know if I can believe your story, and I certainly don’t believe that hustling magician. But I’ve used Scout’sHonor! ®many times on many men and I know that it works like a charm.

“Life is getting weirder,” she says, taking the mouse from Bob, holding her palms flat so Schumann can nose around, walk in little circles, tickle with his whiskers. She brings him up close to her face and makes smooching noises. He responds with squeaks that seem jubilant.

Then she holds him right up to her left eye: “My god, it might really be him.”

“It’s a lot to stomach, I know.”

“Sorry for dosing you.”

“I understand why.”

“You’re a good friend,” says Tilda.

“So are you.”

“And our list keeps getting longer.”

“Our list?”

“Cops, monsters, prudes, and mice,” she says, still eyeballing Schumann.

Bob, his new dental bib, and French Kiss are all in the band’s van, driving to Coffen’s house. It’s time to launch OPERATION WIN BACK JANE.

The band members are all in full French Kiss makeup.

Bob is wearing a new black suit. He’s going all-in to get Jane to come along to Björn’s show tonight.

His secret weapon, at least from Coffen’s own perspective, is the dental bib. He’s been lamenting what to write on it, deciding only a matter of minutes ago to write their names on it: JANE, MARGOT, BRENT.

If Jane needs a reason to keep trying, won’t this bib be the perfect answer for her? Obscenely bigheaded over his bib idea, he shows it to Ace. They are in the back of the van with all the gear. The French singer drives. The drummer rides shotgun.

“What do you think?” Bob says, fluttering the bib with pride.

“Meh,” Ace says.

“What do you mean ‘meh’?”

“It’s pretty sentimental.”

“This is the exact time to be sentimental. This is the life and death of my family.”

“Listen, I’m only one man,” says Ace. “I’m only one mortal man named Ace commenting on this dental bib, but I don’t think it’s the way to go.”

“If there’s ever a time to go sentimental, it’s tonight.”

“I’m only one mortal balding man named Ace, but I think you can do better.”

“Turn right up here?” the singer says.

“Yeah, right, then second left,” Bob says.

“Check.”

“I’m with Ace,” the drummer says, “don’t be so sappy.”

“You guys, I have to convince her to come along to the show. She’s not going to want to come and I have to make her.”

“Why won’t she want to come?” Ace says.

“She’s trying to break the world record for treading water starting tomorrow morning. Her coach says she shouldn’t go anywhere tonight, needs her rest.”

“The coach is right, dude,” the drummer says. “She needs to be well rested and hydrated.”

“Of course,” Coffen says, “but she’ll still get plenty of rest. The show is only from 7:30 to 9:00. We’ll have her in bed by 10:00 PM.”

“Chump Change, I’m on your side,” Ace says. “No doubt, you’re my dog in this race. We’re on our way to try and help you, remember that. But I have to ask: Are you doing the right thing? Shouldn’t you be in favor of her doing everything she can to prepare for the race, even if that means skipping this magic thingie?”

“She’s probably not even going to break the record,” Bob says.

“Whoa, that’s fucked,” the French singer says.

“That’s disgustingly fucked,” the drummer says.

“I gave up cussing,” says Ace, “but allow me to weigh in with Pig Latin: That’s uck-fayed .”

“It’s not uck-fayed ,” Bob says.

“Dude, it’s totally uck-fayed ,” the drummer says.

“I’m not being mean,” Coffen says. “I’m only saying she’s tried and failed at breaking this record four times already. We have to be realistic.”

“Dude, do you think she can break the record or not?” the drummer says.

“That’s not important,” Bob says.

“It’s pretty important,” says Ace. “Do you?”

“Of course I think she can break it.” The Scout’sHonor! ®racing through Coffen’s bloodstream goes to work, its formula producing the promised results. Bob has lied. Now his nose starts bleeding.

“Did you do some blow or something?” Ace asks.

Coffen wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “No, it’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing.” Ace asks the drummer to see if there are any leftover fast food napkins in the glove compartment. Luckily, there are. Bob holds a bundle up to his face.

“Am I a rock star, Chump Change?” says Ace.

“I don’t understand the question,” Coffen says.

“Am I a millionaire rock star playing concerts at sold-out arenas around the globe?”

“Is this the left I take?” the singer says.

“Yes,” Bob says.

“Then what after that?”

“Then your third right into my subdivision.”

“Got it.”

Coffen says to Ace, “You aren’t a rock star.”

“Exactly right I’m not a rock star. But I am one to Kathleen. She comes to every gig I play. She loves me. She cheers like crazy. She believes in me, no matter what. Do you believe in Jane like that?”

“Of course I … ” Bob trails off. He feels the faucet in his nose open up a bit more, the blood coming at a faster rate. Wow, had he not known this before? Was he aware of the fact he didn’t think Jane could break the record? It makes him feel like complete shit, this idea that he doubted her chances. Because Ace is right: He should be more like Kat; he should believe in Jane’s talent and skill and practiced abilities. He should believe that she can do anything she puts her mind to.

And it’s occurring to Bob that they’re also right about this evening’s itinerary. He is being uck-fayed . He is being selfish. He should not be asking Jane to go to Björn’s show. He should be encouraging her. He should be doing everything in his power to make sure she succeeds at everything that’s important to her.

“You guys are right,” Coffen says. “Let’s make a couple changes to what we’re going to do once we get to my house.” He turns the bib over, writes something else on the back of it, and fastens the sign around his neck.

Ace reads it and smiles.

Early evening, the sun creeps down the horizon. Coffen’s wife, two children, and Erma all stand on the front steps of the light gray house, summoned by Bob and his cohorts: the dulcet stylings of French Kiss, sans Javier Torres, of course, who’s moved onto greener pastures, ones where all passersby are no doubt awestruck by his sonic chops. The three remaining members — in full French Kiss makeup — serenade Coffen’s entire family.