Bud Smith: F 250

Aldo, stocky, with a big silver beard, shaved head, Dickie pants, full sleeve tattoos. He was 58 years old, I think, unless the birthday candles I put on his last cake were wrong.

We helped him move the pool table. He was gravelly voiced and groggy. It was eight o’ clock at night, but he’d just woken up. He slept in a rail car apartment above the bar. Yeah, I lived up there too for a while with him, a roommate of sorts, a stepson of sorts. Five and a half years. I knew the deal.

Aldo leaned in to give me a quick hug. I faked like I’m gonna slap him in the nuts. He grabbed my hair and put me in a headlock. “You little shit,” he said. “Hey, Seth, should I break his neck?”

“FINISH HIM,” Seth yelled.

“Aldo, let me go,” I said. “You need new deodorant. You reek.”

“Such is the cost of living: smelling bad, smelling bad things. What’s new?” he asked in a louder voice that seemed directed mostly at me.

“Nada,” I say.

“Nada, sure, sure. I bet.”

He’s a little sore that I wasn’t his roommate anymore, that I was living with Seth and Feral now. But I couldn’t sit at the table up there and drink with him. I didn’t wanna wind up like my early dead dad and my long gone mom.

“This fucker do the dishes with you guys?” he asks Seth.

“Dishes? No. Guy’s a scumbag. A savage. Filthy.” Seth gave Aldo a fist bump.

“You maniacs still call the band Ottermeat?”

“Yeah,” I said, we changed it so often that it was hard to keep track.

“Bringing anybody tonight to see you?”

“Hope so.”

Aldo said, “First band canceled. Flaked. I’ll be doing a reading. Then you guys play … half hour or whatever. Then, Waxslut.” Aldo was a poet. He was gonna read some of his stuff like he always did.

“Alright.”

I sat down at the bar. Seth bought me a beer, but I didn’t plan on drinking it. He’s persistent. Didn’t believe I’d quit drinking. It pained him greatly that I’d lasted these three months so far. I tried to give Gail a tip for the beer I won’t touch. She took my dollar and slid me back four quarters. She pointed to the jukebox.

“Pick some good ones,” she said.

Big lips. Blue eye shadow. A wall of a woman. Actually, that was her wrestling name, The Bayonne Wall.

Sometimes they played VHS tapes of Gail’s matches back when she was on TV. Her signature move was jumping off the top turnbuckle and smashing down onto her victim of the moment — smothering her with her balloon boobs. The crowd loved it. 1984. I was just 3 years old. Now, Gail’s balloon boobs were fatal blimps. On a rowdy night, everybody had to do shots off them. She required it.

I picked some songs on the box.

As the weird music starts, the worker guys from the warehouse stood up. Happy hour was over. Beer is back to full price. They couldn’t stomach the songs I’d picked.

Then the bar truly was empty. I had that sour feeling in my stomach: guilt. No-one was gonna come see us play. Oh man, there’s not much worse than that. Plus the club owner would give you shit, and you don’t get to play again. Forget the money. You’re not gonna make any money playing at these bars in this town.

Aldo sat down at the bar, leaned in to me, said low, “How’s mom?”

“Haven’t heard from her — still.”

“Ah sonofabitch,” he said. “I hope she’s okay.”

“The number’s the same upstairs,” I said, “and down here.”

“True.”

“Besides, who’s okay in the world?”

“Goddamn you’re wise.” He grabbed my hair and tugged. I didn’t pull away. I just smiled at my sweating beer.

“Got you one,” I said and handed him the bottle.

Aldo turned and started talking to Seth. I had a hard time with my feelings towards Aldo. A part of me wanted to kill him. Another part of me was proud of him for cleaning up, for getting off drugs. The other part of me wanted to crack him in his head with a bar stool. It’d always been my suspicion that he’d been the one that got her into the shit that’d crushed her life and sent her away, far away. Who’s responsible for anybody else’s life though?

I got up and started setting up my amp on the stage. I had tons of guitar pedals. Fuzz. Delay. Wah. Flanger. Noise boxes for making havoc. I unzipped the guitar from its case, and the headstock came tumbling out, suspended by the nickel wound strings. It was broken. Totally snapped off.

I was in shock. I picked up the headstock like I’d be able to just stick it back on, but that’s not how these things work.

Seth came over, “Oh no …”

I cursed and kicked my pedals around as if it mattered. Seth said he’s got an idea. After getting some more quarters from Gail, he goes down the rotten hallway by the bathroom and gets on the pay phone. He called Ethan.

I sat on the stage, in shock. Some college chicks came in off the street. They were from the dorm up the block, but it was cool ‘cause Gail didn’t check IDs. I used to drink here when I was 16, but I had a beard. I looked over at them, but they didn’t pay me any mind; they were trying to order margaritas from Gail.

“We don’t have that kinda stuff here.”

“Oh, then … apple martini?”

Gail pointed at the single draft beer handle.

Tension rose to a pinnacle over this decision.

Seth lurched over. Big Bird. He’s got the same hair cut.

“Alright, Ethan’s gonna bring his guitar for you to use.”

“That fucker.”

“What? He’s helping you out.”

“You probably had to threaten him.”

“Well, kinda.”

Ethan is the lead singer in our “main” band, The Bedspins. The one that was gonna make us famous. Haha, what a thing. I didn’t get along with Ethan for a few reasons. I put up with him because he was a real good singer. Believe me, there was nobody better in the area. I hung a hundred thousand flyers, stapled them to telephone poles, stuck them under windshield wipers, tacked them to bulletin boards anywhere I could find a bulletin board. Well, anywhere but the college. I refuse to go there. Fuck all that noise.

I sat back down at the bar and drank a Coke. I try to talk to the college girls, but I don’t make much headway.

I said, “You gonna stick around for the show?”

“No,” all three said in unison.

“What if I stand on my head and drink this Coke?”

“Why would you do that?”

“My band is playing. Sucks to play for no-one.”

They sipped their drinks unhappily.

“Ah fuck it, never mind. I don’t know why I’m bothering.”

It got worse when Aldo stood up on the stage and started speaking to us all from the microphone.

“Thanks for coming out to Spider Bar. I’m Aldo, this is my place.” He waved to the girls, the only patrons. They didn’t care one bit. “Okay, we got some live music for you all tonight, but first, let’s do some poetry. You ladies look like poetry lovers! Buckle up. Here it comes.” Aldo began to holler and roil as he read free verse in a demonic, gravelly voice to the six of us.

“Cryogenic hallucination of a paycheck and Uncle Sam riding a unicorn blowing coagulated bubbles ‘cause you think you deserve your money back. Every day I’m in a world of shit, ankle deep and there’s never any reason to watch TV, get your plastic injection dildo and aim your rockets up your own ass space/time traveler voodoo …”

The girls got up to leave halfway through their beers, and Aldo just kept rambling and rambling all his nonsense. He was drunk, spouting off beneath a leather pork pie hat with spittle in his beard. Half an hour I sat there listening with Seth. He didn’t even wanna go outside and smoke a cig because he thought it’d be rude.

Finally, the door opened. In walked Ethan. Designer leather jacket. Spiked hair. That was a recent development. His hair used to be down past his shoulders.