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Bud Smith: F 250

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Bud Smith F 250

F 250: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Lee Casey plays guitar in a noise band called Ottermeat, about to leave NJ, to try and make it in Los Angeles. For now, he's squatting in a collapsing house, working as a stone mason, driving a jacked up pickup truck that he crashes into everything. As a close friend Ods in his sleep, Lee falls into a three-way relationship with two college girls, June Doom and K Neon. F250 is a novel equal parts about growing up, and being torn apart.

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Seth would tell me why Ace Frehley, the Spaceman or Space Ace, was the most amazing guitar player as Detroit Rock City got turned up as loud as it’d go. You’d just have to sit there and deal with it. Otherwise, he’d get mad as hell, almost fight you over it. So I’d just nod my head for a little bit and listen to Seth iterate why KISS was such an important band, if not the most important band, in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.

You couldn’t make fun of their makeup or say their songs had no art. For your own safety, you had to pretend they’re “alright.”

It was only because Seth was so high or drunk. When he was sober, I don’t think he’d ever put KISS on once — not even once. He’d cross the threshold with that one last slug of whiskey, that last pill, then … KISS, all KISS, for about twenty minutes. Then he’d go puke for a while. When he came back, everything was fine. You could talk about something else.

A theory I had, and one I’ve never proven, was that his dad, who’d died when Seth was little, had been a fan — a true fanatic. Maybe a roadie. Maybe he even died on tour with KISS. I thought that the crate of KISS records in Seth’s room had come from him, this mysterious ghost father KISS fanatic, who even now was painted up in Heaven with white grease makeup and giant, knee-high, silver platform boots.

But later, I found out Seth had bought all the records at Englishtown flea market while I was away in California.

3

Lagoon house was trashed. Dirty laundry. Spaghetti plates. Gunked-up silverware. Pizza boxes. Beer cans. Milk jugs.

We couldn’t keep the place in any kind of order. Strange degenerates came over almost every night, partying with us, leaving an army of empty bottles lined along every flat surface in and around the place. It was the party house.

There were too many objects crammed into the tiny bungalow. It was a claustrophobic obstacle course. To get in the front door, I had to climb over Seth’s drum kit and my amp and then snake through a maze of cardboard boxes packed with vinyl records, VHS tapes, toys, paperback books, ancient concert posters — rolled up and scotch taped.

That junk all belonged Feral. That’s how he made the legal portion of his money; he was a scavenger. He sold whatever he could at the flea market on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

Feral’s claim to local fame was that in 1998 he accidentally burnt down Commando Video, the local VHS rental shop. Back then, he rented a room above the store and passed out in bed with a joint. The curtain went up in flames. As the fire spread, he jumped out the second story window and landed on the sidewalk. All those movies downstairs melted. He’s walked with a limp ever since.

I walked out of my room, kicking one of the boxes out of my path. Some of the VHS tapes in it were half melted, remnants of that long ago fire. It didn’t matter. Feral was still trying to sell them at the flea market.

“You got too much junk,” I called through two rooms.

“Maybe,” he said.

Feral was sitting on the ripped-to-shreds love seat, smoking a cigarette and watching Twin Peaks with the sound off while listening to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports.

Lagoon House had a haunted, ethereal feel, as if time was stuck in heavy slime.

Feral waved, “Sup, sleepyhead?”

“I killed Laura Palmer,” I said.

“Don’t ruin it for me!”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was upside down, hands all wrong, but I could tell it was 2 p.m.

Feral still had about 100 stitches in his head from the first night I’d met him. He saw me looking and said, “They’re coming out soon. Then I’ll be purty again.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, I’ll be so handsome. I’ll be so suave again. I’ll even let you blow me. It’ll be great.”

“Saying shit like that to people is how you got those stitches to begin with.”

“That’s some heavy-duty wisdom, man. Really.”

“You’ll thank me one day.”

Seth was passed out on the other couch, his long legs hanging over the side. One foot had a black sock, the other foot was bare.

I checked the fridge. It made me think of Antarctica. Soulless. White. Empty. I noticed there was a box of Lucky Charms cereal on top, but the milk had gone bad. It was cottage cheese now. I poured the cereal into a red solo cup.

“Damn,” I said, realizing Seth had taken all the marshmallows out and left the crappy bits of plain, tasteless cereal. In life, marshmallows are needed.

Feral laughed at something. It could have been anything or nothing. I walked into the living room and plopped down on the filthy shag rug. Dust shot up like sparks.

Feral was shirtless, belly hanging out like Buddha with the wrong answers. He was greasy. Gap-toothed. Kept rubbing his face. He’s been up all night grinding his teeth and jaw, chewing on crazy straws with pastel stripes that sat in a pile on the table next to his green Martian bong. He was like a big stupid kid that couldn’t get out of the 8th grade. How had be made it 32 years?

“Bad news, maing,” Feral said looking up, “Johnny DiSanto came over here this morning. Pissed. Guy wanted to rumble.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Seth with both eyes closed, “You haven’t paid him rent in four months. What’d he say?”

“We gotta be out by the end of the month. Out, out,” Feral said. “Up the road, off in the distance, into the sunset.”

“Ahhh shit.”

Seth stuck his head up, “But he said that last month too.”

We nodded. It was hard to tell how serious the situation was. DiSanto, our landlord, was a state trooper who’d been kicked off the force for some kind of shady goings on. Drugs. Underage girls. More drugs.

He was Feral’s high-school buddy though, so the two of them had some kind of weird link up. Total cahoots. Pills mostly. Coke. Hash. Weed … whatever was around. DiSanto supplied, Feral sold it. I turned a blind eye.

Things were grim. Supposedly, Lagoon House was up for sale, even had an interested buyer. But the deal kept getting delayed, so we stopped paying rent.

At first, DiSanto didn’t seem to care. He’d just drop by and say, in a real stern tone, “House is about to get bought. You guys better start packing.” He’d kick a cardboard box full of VHS tapes and laugh. Then Feral would pack a bowl, and we’d all smoke out of the green Martian bong, put a record on to ease the tension, and pretend we were all friends.

But that morning brought a change of tone. Alarm bells were beginning to go off.

“We’ll be out on our ass.”

“Sleepin’ in the marsh.”

“They’ll level this house, build a three-story Crackerjack McMansion like the one across the street,” Seth said.

“Let them tear it down. Who cares?” Feral said, “We’ll rent a place that’s not such a dump. With a Jacuzzi.”

Sure we would. I had visions of winding up on Aldo’s couch again. My previous experiences had been enough. Truth is we’d probably just disband in separate directions. Seth never had money, nothing enough for rent. My attempts at getting him side cash by dragging him along to work with me had failed. He always spent it on the wrong stuff.

Seth sat up, his hair frizzy and wild.

“We’re going to L.A. anyway,” Seth said.

I looked down at the carpet. I don’t get off on fairy tales.

Feral snickered.

Seth changed the subject, tired of fighting the disbelief of the naysayers. “Talked to my bro, Mark. My aunt died.”

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