Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

Coffen had knocked on the front door once the band was all set up on the lawn. Margot opened the door and asked what was going on. Bob said, “Go get the whole family.” For once she did as she was told without making a big stink about not knowing why — or maybe she did know why and was rooting for Bob. Yes, he likes that idea quite a bit.

So:

See the whole Coffen clan congregated on the porch. Ace strums away on an acoustic guitar. The drummer keeps the beat on a snare drum that’s propped up on a stand in front of him. The French singer sings a yarn from the vault of the Kiss catalog, perhaps their most renowned ditty, “Rock and Roll All Nite.” They’ve done some progressive rearranging of the song’s components and currently, even though the rendition is only beginning, they are already playing the chorus, albeit a slower, jazzier, more romantic lilt than the original band ever intended.

Coffen wears his reconceived dental bib around his neck. On it is the following message: GOOD LUCK TOMORROW, JANE!

His family claps for French Kiss as the song ends.

Then Ace starts talking, “Thanks very much; you are too kind. Thank you. Wow. What a fantastic response. We’re really happy to be here playing the Coffen front lawn tonight.”

“Who are these guys?” Margot asks Coffen.

“My band.”

“Your band?” she says.

“Your band?” Jane says.

“Your band?” the band echoes.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Chump Change,” Ace says. “We’re not your band exactly.”

“I thought the gig went well,” Coffen says. “I want to learn bass and play with you guys. I’ll give my all and promise to practice night and day.”

“How about some beginner’s lessons and we’ll see how it goes?” Ace says. “We’ll start there.”

“So I’m in the band?” Coffen asks.

“No,” says Ace, “but you can consider yourself on a temporary French Kiss scholarship while we figure out the lineup situation. We won’t turn on your amp, but you’ll wear the signature look and work the signature moves. You’ll be our temp until we iron things out and who knows, if you prove to be a savant on your instrument, maybe you will find yourself a permanent addition to our lineup. That good enough for now?”

Bob nods, looks each member of the band in the eyes, and thanks them. He hadn’t expected to ask to be anything more than a onetime replacement, but it feels good to hear they’d consider him as a permanent member should he learn the bass inside and out. Now the onus is on Coffen. Do the work. Practice. And see what happens.

“I’m not totally sure what’s going on out here,” Jane says.

“Gotthorm wouldn’t like this,” Erma says.

“What’s going on,” Bob says, “is that I’m here to apologize to you, Jane. I’m here to say that I should never have suggested we go to Björn’s show tonight. I’m here because I love you and I love our children and I know you’re going to break the world record on this attempt.”

“You think I’m going to do it this time?” she asks.

“I really do. Get all the rest you need. Break that record. And we’ll talk after you’re the world champion.” Coffen grips the crumpled and bloodied napkins in his pocket, in case he needs to retrieve them to swipe at a bleeding nose, but not one drip falls from his nose. “Now can we get back to enjoying the music?” Bob asks.

Jane smiles, nods, stares at him.

“Yeah!” says Brent.

Even Margot, who’s got her iPad out to record all this, says, “Let’s hear another one.”

Ace laughs and says, “We love the enthusiasm we’re seeing from the crowd on the Coffen front lawn! Music is about the fans, and we love each and every one of you. You never know what to expect at a new venue, but the Coffen front lawn is winning a huge place in our hearts!”

The four Coffens all clap.

Erma stands with her hands on her hips.

Hopefully, no soulless spies from the HOA observe this unauthorized performance or they’ll no doubt pop off a belligerent email to Bob, a threat cluttered with propaganda and rhetorical questions— shouldn’t the music being broadcast within our subdivision’s collective earshot represent the tastes of all the residents rather than a mere few? Isn’t every one of our ears entitled to tones that tickle its tastes?

“Excuse me,” Jane says. “Will you play ‘Rock and Roll All Nite’ again? That’s one of my favorites.”

“Your taste in rock and roll is rock solid,” Ace says.

French Kiss strikes up the song again.

Bob pats his bib and says to Jane, “Good luck.”

If one thing is utterly obvious to Coffen once he leaves his family for the night and goes back to DG, it is he has to stop lying to himself. What an oddly timed revelation earlier in French Kiss’s van, realizing consciously for the first time that he didn’t really support his wife. And that makes him wonder what else he doesn’t know. He’s still dosed on Scout’sHonor! ®so he walks toward the bathroom to ogle his face in the mirror while he finds out about himself, one nosebleed at a time.

On his way there, however, he hears more Johnny Cash coming from LapLand. He opens the door and walks in. There the lifeguard sits, perched high in his chair, guarding an empty pool.

“Oh, fantastic, it’s the guy who thinks this is all a dream.”

“I now know this is real,” Coffen says.

“I’m pretty busy, so do you mind?”

“Will you play a game with me?”

“No thanks,” the lifeguard says.

“Is my nose bleeding?”

“Is that part of the game? Because I’m pretty sure I said that I didn’t want to play.”

“Is my nose bleeding?”

“You’re going to keep badgering me until I answer you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Your nose is not bleeding.”

“I love my wife and I believe in her,” Bob says.

“Okay.”

“Is my nose bleeding?”

“Nope.”

“I love my kids and I believe in them, too.”

Bob pauses, shrugs.

“Still no blood,” the lifeguard says.

“I love my job,” Bob says, not even needing to ask about his nose this time because he feels it rupture. The blood gushes and Coffen doesn’t even wipe it, lets it soak the front of his new suit. “I have to quit this job.”

“You and me both,” the lifeguard says. “You give me the creeps.”

“I’ve worked here for ten years.”

“You poor son of a bitch.”

“How do you make any big changes to your life once you have all these responsibilities?” Bob asks, although he’s turning to walk out without giving the lifeguard any time to answer.

Bob hadn’t expected any additional hours to work on Scroo Dat Pooch, but with an empty Sunday night, why not polish this turd to an incredible sheen? The code he writes makes the game look better, graphics getting downright good, and the better it looks — he reasons — the greater the opportunity for tomorrow morning’s status meeting to be an incredible unveiling, a self-sabotage of extraordinary measures.

“What time is it, Robert?” he says to himself.

“The plock strikes twelve, Robert.”

“Does it, Robert my boy?”

“Indeed, it does, Robert.”

Coffen codes away and his phone rings about an hour later. “Bob is me,” he says.

“Somebody gives you a gift of free tickets and you spit in his fucking face of generosity?” a voice says, slurring his words dramatically.

“Björn?”