Born Again
The heart alone knows its
bitterness,
And no outsider can share in
its joy.
Proverbs
xiv: 10
Driving
home from work, his plastic dashboard Jesus leading the way, Wayne always tuned
the car radio to WTBM (“Tampa’s Best Music”) so he could sing along with the
Top Five at Five. Today he’d already croaked along as best he could to “Bad
Moon Rising,” by Creedence Clearwater, “One” by Three Dog Night, “Spinning
Wheel” by Blood, Sweat & Tears, “Honky Tonk Woman” by the Rolling Stones,
and was waiting for the number one song.
“And
now, the song you WTBM listeners love the most—for the third week in a row—Tommy James & The
Shondells’ ‘Crystal Blue Persuasion!’”
“Shit
dang!” Wayne turned the radio up. This was his favorite part of the day.
As heavy rain thundered down on the leaky
convertible top of his rusting ‘62 Ford Falcon, Wayne slapped the dashboard
with his right hand, held the steering wheel with his left, and moved in time
to the music as he sang along:
Better
get ready, and see the light
Love
is the answer, and that’s alright!
So
don’t you give up now, so easy to find,
Just
look to your soul, open your mind,
Crystal
Blue Persuasion—it’s a new vibration!
Tommy
James and the Bible were right about love being the answer: There is no fear in love; but perfect love
casteth out fear, John iv:18. Ever since he was a kid Wayne had loved Jesus
at least as much as he loved music, but lately music had been edging slightly
ahead.
The
song lifted his flagging spirit up, up, and away, far from the ineludibly dull
facts of his life: his job driving a fork lift at Cox Lumber and Supply, his
Pillsbury Doughboy physique—the result of his unbridled lust for southern
cooking (pork barbecue sandwiches, buttermilk biscuits and gravy, cheese grits,
fried chicken, pecan pie)—his understandably chronic shyness regarding women,
and most importantly to him, Wayne’s embarrassing state of virginity at the age
of twenty-one.
The way Wayne saw it, 1969 was turning out to
be the wildest year yet: psychedelic music, hippies, Woodstock, wild clothes,
something called the sexual revolution. Where could he join? As the only child
of a Baptist minister he felt as if the world was throwing a huge party and he
wasn’t invited.
Wayne
drove on past a 7-11 and the ABC Liquor Lounge and continued to sing along:
Maybe
tomorrow, when He looks down
at
every green field in every town,
All
of His children, in every nation
There’ll
be peace and good, brotherhood,
Crystal
Blue Persuasion...
He
hadn’t been to church since last spring. That was when his daddy stepped down
as pastor of Emanuel Baptist Church
after twenty years of service to the Lord and had retired with the missus to
Barlow up in the Florida panhandle. The
morning they left Wayne felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders as he
watched his mother and father wave goodbye and drive away in their ancient,
smoke-billowing Nash Rambler. Later in
the day, for the first time in his life, Wayne bought a Playboy and a pack of Swisher Sweets cigarillos, coughing
uncontrollably as he pored over Miss April. Smoking didn’t last long but the Playboy
had become a habit.
Despite
the unexpressed lust that burned in his heart, Wayne still read from the Bible
every night. He loved the wisdom it contained. In Playboy he simply found a second opinion.
“Things
go better with Coca-Cola, things go better with Coke, life is much more fun
when you’re refreshed, and Coke refreshes you best...”
The song had cross-faded into a commercial.
Wayne snapped out of his reverie,
clicked off the radio and eased into the carport of Number 14, Kozy
Court Trailer Park. Back home after another day of work. Home again to nothing.
Even
his dog Dixie seemed disheartened. At
the sound of Wayne’s car tires on the crushed gravel driveway, the female boxer
looked up briefly from her shady spot underneath the trailer, then lay her head
back down and sighed.
One
particularly humid Friday evening in July, Wayne sat in his trailer eating a
deluxe pork platter from the T&L Takeout as he watched “Hee-Haw” on his
tiny black-and-white TV, the windows open to lessen the stultifying heat. After the show he walked outside with a
citronella candle, then sat on the top step of his trailer, opened his bible
and turned to the Revelation. The steady drone of the crickets was interrupted
every few seconds by the rasping croak of a bullfrog. The evening air felt
oppressive, muggy, and close.
Wayne read a chapter,
then closed the book, distracted. Dixie stood up from under the trailer,
stretched her rear legs slowly, lapped some water from her dish, then trotted
over to Wayne and snuffled. Wayne idly scratched the boxer under one floppy ear
and sighed. “Life does get daily. What sayeth you, Dixie?”
The
dog whined, wriggled the stub of her tail, then trotted off into the shadows
and returned with a small branch, laying it at Wayne’s feet.
“Too
hot. Can’t move. ”
Send
me a sign, Lord, Wayne thought, an epiphany. Tell me what to do to satisfy this
lust in my heart. After all, it was You who said It is not good for man to be alone; I will make a help meet for him,
Genesis ii: 18. I don’t want to
die a horny moron who spent his life in a trailer park watching “Hee Haw.”
Wayne closed his eyes and waited. But nothing happened.
Then
someone turned on a radio a few trailers down. A laxative jingle blared forth: “Creomulsion
works naturally, so naturally it works...”
Wayne
closed his eyes tighter, concentrating. Come on now. I’ve been good, Lord, I
deserve a life. After all, it was You who
said The race is not to the swift, nor
the battle to the strong, but time and chance happeneth to them all,
Ecclesiastes ix: 11. Isn’t it my
turn? Show me your presence.
The radio commercial ended and the sounds of
“I Saw The Light” by Hank Williams began drifting through the sweltering air of
the trailer park. A light magnolia-scented breeze rose up briefly, then died
down. Wayne inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. A mosquito buzzed past, then turned and landed on Wayne’s ear. He waited until he felt a faint
stinging sensation then slapped his ear, hard. The mosquito fell away and his
ear began to ring steadily, a high-pitched eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
The ringing filled his head.
Wayne stared at the blood-spot in the middle
of his left hand, transfixed by the images it brought forth. This is the sign I’ve
been waiting for. My own stigmata, just like Jesus on the cross. The Lord is telling me I’m going to die
someday, so I should do what I want with my life. Thank you, Jesus. I want to
play in a rock band and meet girls. He
gazed with excitement at Dixie, who began to whine nervously. He reached out,
held Dixie’s head in his hands and stared deep into her eyes. “Praise God!” he shouted with great
enthusiasm. Dixie reared back and
twisted away, running quickly back to her spot under the trailer. She shot
Wayne a worried look.
But
if I join a band, what instrument should I play? Wayne wondered. This was a
problem to be reckoned with. Guitar was out of the question; it seemed too
complex—all those strings—and his large callused hands just didn’t seem right
for the instrument. What about learning the drums? Not a good choice either; a
full kit was expensive and bulky, the trailer too small to hold them, and drums
were loud: he’d get kicked out of the Kozy Court the minute he began to
practice.
The
only thing left was bass guitar, Wayne decided. Four strings, big fat ones too.
He’d seen bass players in bands, they just sort of stood there, plunking away.
That was it!
The
following Saturday, Wayne Butler walked into Tampa Music Center with four
one-hundred-dollar bills and bought a Fender Precision bass, a Fender Bassman
amp and signed up for bass lessons. Worth a try, he figured: In all labor there is profit, Proverbs xiv:
23.
Every
Wednesday after work Wayne drove to the music store, walked down the hall
carrying his bass and entered the last practice room on the right. Two months
of lessons and he was still struggling with the damn thing.
His music teacher Flip, vegetarian-lean,
soft-spoken and clear-eyed, glanced up from the latest issue of Hit Parader (“The Who Conquer America!”),
stubbed out a Kent in the beanbag ashtray on his knee, and smiled. “Hey, Wayne.
Still losing weight?”
“Shit
I reckon. Don’t know about this juice diet though.”
Flip, a health fanatic, had introduced Wayne
early on to the virtues of soybeans, tofu, roughage, fresh fruit and vegetable
juice. Wayne had in fact dropped twenty pounds in two months, taking long walks
with Dixie down to Orange Lake and back every night, a couple miles each
way. He’d stopped eating at the T&L
and What-A-Burger the day Flip took him down to Mother Earth, an organic food
co-op. Flip wore his long brown hair in a ponytail, his beard neatly trimmed. Wayne
thought Flip was the coolest guy he’d ever met.
“Hey,
Flip, I figured out ‘Crystal Blue Persuasion.’ ”
“Groovy.
Hey, what’s that smell?”
“Patchouli
oil. Did I put too much on again?”
“Uh...
yeah. A little dab’ll do ya, Wayne. Also,
let your hair grow out some. Jesus was actually the first hippie, did your
daddy ever preach that? ”
“No,
I don’t believe he ever did say that. Anyhow, they don’t like long hair too
well down at the lumber yard.”
“When it gets real long you buy a short-hair
wig, wear that at work. You wanna get
in a band, you gotta look like a musician.”
“That’s
for true.”
Wayne
unpacked his bass, plugged into the tiny Ampeg amp against the wall, and sat on
the stool. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward. Sweat had already formed on
his forehead and was working down his nose. “O.K.,
let’s start again. This is the major scale,” Flip began, pointing to a spiral
bound notebook on the black music stand: “G...A...B...C...D...”
Wayne
held the bass close to his chest and began to pluck the strings furiously.
Flip
frowned at him. “Gently. You don’t have to attack the thing. Let the amp do
some of the work. You have to coax the sound out, not beat it to death. You
know, like when you’ve gotten to third base with a gal and you’re about to make
that final move....” Flip winked at him, man to man.
Wayne
felt his face flush. I’m doing the best I can, damn... He squeezed his eyes
shut. Whoso loveth instruction loveth
knowledge: but he that hateth reproof is brutish, Proverbs xii:30. O.K.
O.K. Gently, like making love to a beautiful woman. Like Sharon Summers, Miss
September. Wayne made love to Miss September every night, in his own way. He
imagined himself kissing her and plucked a string, softer this time.
“Better.”
Wayne
put little stickers on the neck of the bass with the names of the notes on
them. Learning became his obsession. He practiced at night, and on weekends,
his amp turned low. He discovered that
the best bass parts were usually the simplest: the less notes you played, the
better the song sounded. After a while he gamely began playing along with the
radio, and soon realized that songs were made up of similar musical patterns
and these could be learned through repetition.
Two
months passed, and Wayne finally felt he was ready for the next step. One day
at the end of his lesson he asked Flip if there were any bands who needed a
bassist.
Flip
leaned back in his folding metal chair and lit up his post-lesson Kent. “Well.
Hmm. You’re already better than our bass player. You memorize songs quicker’n
anyone I know. And you’re interested in getting better. Coleman’s a party dog,
never wants to rehearse, just a pretty boy with a drinkin’ problem. He always
gets snot-flyin’ drunk by the end of the night. Doesn’t want to learn new songs
either. Takes him ages when he finally tries. That boy was born tired and
raised lazy. Told him he was too drunk to play
one night and he got me in a headlock, damn near choked me to death! The
guy was captain of the wrestling team his senior year. Has an arm like a vise.
Didn’t remember doin’ it the next day neither. I’ll talk to the guys in the
band about you. Yeah, The Intruders could use some fresh energy.”
Wayne felt his heart pounding. My oh my. To everything there is a season, and a time
to every purpose under the heaven, Ecclesiastes iii:1.
“In
fact, come by my house at six tomorrow. We usually start rehearsals at eight,
so we’ll have a couple hours before Coleman shows up. If he does show up.”
Flip
helped Wayne lift his speaker cabinet out of the car trunk and they carried it
into the garage, placed it next to the drummer.
“What
do ya wanna start with, Wayne?” asked Flip.
“ ‘Crystal Blue Persuasion.’ I brought the record.”
The
band played along with the record a few times as Wayne wrote the lyrics down
for Flip.
The drummer counted off the song: one, pause,
two, pause, one two three pause...
Wayne kept his eyes focused on the drummer’s
bass drum pedal, following the rhythm pattern exactly. Flip strummed his guitar
and leaned into the mike, reading the
words from a sheet of paper taped to the mike stand: “Crystal Blue Persuasion,
it’s a new vibration...”
Later, Flip and the other guys huddled
briefly next to the fridge in the corner of the garage. Flip broke from the
huddle and walked over to Wayne, shook his hand. “You got it if you want it. We’re
playing the Winter Bash Weekend in three weeks, so we’ll have to get down on
it. And you’ll need some clothes.”
“Cool.”
Wayne grinned crookedly but kept it together, nodding and shifting his weight
from one foot to another. “Alright.
Radical. Far away.”
“Far
out,” Flip corrected. “We’ll take care of Coleman, don’t worry.”
“How
do I know he won’t come looking for me and put me in a headlock?”
The
drummer laughed. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just a big drunk jerk.”
Exactly,
Wayne thought. Wine is a mocker, strong
drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise, Proverbs xx:1.
Three
weeks later, after work, the phone rang in Wayne’s trailer just as he had
finished up a quick session with Miss December. “Hello?”
“Wayne?
Flip. Here’s the dirt. We go on tomorrow at four p.m., so be at the Tampa
Municipal Bandshell at two p.m. with your gear. We’re on just after the Second
Coming, and before Plant Life. It’s right next to the pier on the beach. You’ve
been there, right?”
Wayne
had. The band shell, an outdoor concert venue, was at the edge of a parking lot
next to the beach. Long rows of bench seating faced the open-air stage. Every
year WTBM sponsored the Winter Weekend Bash, where bands played and most of
teenage Tampa met and danced, scuffled and checked each other out. Wayne
confided to Flip that he was already nervous.
“You’ll
do fine,” Flip said. “We’ve rehearsed these songs a lot. And remember, you’re
just the bass player. Nobody will notice you anyway.”
“What
would I do without you, Flip?”
“Nothing.
I’m your saviour!” Flip said laughingly, then hung up.
Wayne
glanced at Miss December and wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Under
a cloudless sky seagulls picked at a few French fries near the dumpster behind the concert stage. The
temperature was in the high eighties but an offshore breeze cooled the young
crowd, a mixture of college kids, teenagers, longterm hippies, bikers from
Daytona Beach, rednecks ogling the young girls in bikinis, skateboarders in
striped Gant shirts flicking their bleached blond hair with a studied toss of
the head, grinning fraternity boys in tank tops with recently-purchased peace
signs on leather thongs around their necks. On the beach a dog with a red
bandanna was busy chasing sandpipers and catching a Frisbee in mid-air.
Wayne
unloaded his amp and bass behind the band shell where two other bands had
stored their gear, then drove off to find a parking spot as Flip stood near the
equipment.
As
he walked back he saw that two girls had joined Flip and were talking. The first was a willowy blonde wearing a
white miniskirt, oversize sunglasses and a huge floppy hat: her blasé attitude
perfectly matched her appearance. To Wayne she looked like she’d fallen out of
heaven from the pages of a fashion magazine and inexplicably landed in Tampa,
Florida.
He
turned his attention to the other girl, a rawboned, freckled redhead in a
purple macramé bikini top and cutoff jeans, barefoot. A dirty white feather boa
hung askew from her shoulders; her hair, more coppery than red, had been teased
into a massive Afro. She was furiously
smoking a cigarette and laughing every few seconds at something Wayne couldn’t
hear.
The breeze brought the scent of tanning
oil to Wayne’s nostrils. He inhaled deeply.
Ahh, coconut oil on hot skin. He was surrounded by acres of naked flesh
covered with fragrant lotion. A bible verse lay just out of reach, tormenting
him. Oh yeah: Be not forgetful to
entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. What
was it from, Hebrews? Proverbs?
The
tall blonde was the angel, Wayne decided, and therefore completely
unattainable. The redhead, however, was definitely from Earth.
Harsh metallic guitar chords abruptly pierced
the hot afternoon air. The Second Coming were known as the loudest band on the
Florida circuit and the sound was deafening.
Flip pointed in Wayne’s direction and the redhead turned around to see.
Wayne waved and felt a brief wave of nausea pass through him. I must look like
a real geek in these new bellbottoms, he decided. I sure feel like one. The
redhead nodded briefly to Flip, and then quickly strode over to Wayne.
“WHEN
DO YOU GUYS GO ON? MY NAME IS CINDY!” she shouted into his ear. She certainly
wasn’t shy.
“AT
FOUR. MY NAME IS WAYNE!”
The
redhead beckoned toward the tall blonde, who kissed Flip on the forehead and
slowly walked over toward them. Cindy leaned close and shouted.
“THIS
IS MY ROOMMATE, JANICE!” The icy blonde
extended her hand and Wayne shook it gingerly.
Her
hand was cool, delicately-boned and unbelievably soft.
Cindy
leaned toward his ear again. “FLIP TOLD ME TO SAY HI. LET’S WALK ONTO THE BEACH
SO WE CAN TALK!” She backed away and grabbed Janice by the elbow and they
hopped over the knee-high wall and toward the water.
Wayne
followed them, his mind racing. Cindy. Sin with a D.
At
the edge of the shore Cindy stopped and turned toward him, the music a dull
roar in the distance. The blonde
continued to gaze impassively toward the ocean, watching a line of pelicans as
they swooped down in a single file parallel to the cresting waves, searching
for fish. Cindy squeezed Wayne’s arm
lightly and smiled, revealing surprisingly perfect teeth.
“We
really like The Intruders. We saw them here last year.”
“Thanks.
I wasn’t playing bass for them back then.”
As
if on cue, Janice spoke. “I know. I used to date Coleman until he got
fired. Ever since then he’s turned into
a permanently drunk asshole. And he punched me, look.” Janice lifted up her tee
shirt and Wayne saw a large purple bruise on her stomach. “I wanted to see you
guys play without him. Jerk.” Cindy
reached into a tiny metal-mesh purse she wore around her neck.
“And
we have a joint of some good Jamaican weed if you’d like to turn on before you
play.”
She showed the
lumpy yellow-papered marijuana cigarette to Wayne.
That
stuff’s illegal, he thought. “Maybe
later. I should go back now. We’re on next.”
The
sun sagged low to the horizon and a single-engine plane buzzed by, close to the
shore, towing a banner: TAN DON’T BURN—COPPERTONE.
Just after four o’clock, Wayne
stood on the band shell stage, ready to play. He could see everything from his
vantage point: the beach on the right, the crowd in front, the buildings that
fronted the boardwalk to his left.
He
hugged his bass close to his body and waited for Flip to finish tuning. His
left leg began to twitch involuntarily. Suddenly the nausea returned and Wayne
gazed nervously out toward the crowd. They all know I’m a fraud, he decided,
all those people out there know I’m just a fake, a preacher’s son masquerading
as a musician. Oh I wish I was back in my trailer right now watching “Hogan’s
Heroes” with Dixie. But it’s too late. I’m a fool;Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, Ecclesiastes i: 2.
A man in a white turtleneck, dark slacks and sunglasses dashed in front of them and
grabbed the mike with both hands. “H-e-l-l-o-o, Tampa! I’m Bob Norris, WTBM’s best-looking, grooviest DJ! Are we
havin’ fun yet?”
“Eat
me!” someone shouted from the rear of the crowd.
Bob
paused a moment, coughed into his hand off-mike, then continued. “Thank you.
The WTBM Good Guys welcome you to the Winter Bash, and I’ve gotta say you are
lookin’ good out there! Now, all the way from across Tampa Bay, we’ve got the
bossest, hippest, most totally fab band to hit the stage since the Second
Coming just a few minutes ago! Please give a huge WTBM Winter Bash Weekend
welcome to the In...tru...ders!”
The
drummer tapped his sticks three times and the guitars joined in on the
fourth. Wayne held his breath—here we
go!—and began playing; tentatively at first, then with more confidence,
focusing intently on the drummer’s bass drum and snare drum pattern, matching
the rhythm with a simple three-note bass figure. Wayne stood directly in front
of his bass amp, anchored in place like a statue, feeling himself becoming engulfed in the music: the crash of
the cymbals, the silvery jangle of Flip’s rhythm guitar, the high, manic wail
of the second guitarist’s fuzz-tone lead; and, beneath it all, holding it
together, Wayne realized, was the steady throb of a bass guitar—his bass guitar.
This
is heaven on earth, Wayne thought. He began to sway a bit to the music, his
clip-on sunglasses fogging up from sweat.
The
Intruders finished the first tune and the applause was immediate. Wayne felt
something inside him relax. No one’s
laughing at me, he realized, allowing himself a brief smile, and I didn’t screw
up, not yet anyhow.
Their
next song was a cover tune (“Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” by the Buckinghams), and
Wayne relaxed a bit more, having played along with the record that very morning
in his trailer. The drummer nodded at him and Wayne smiled back. I’m a
musician, he thought.
After
the song ended and the applause died down, Flip walked up to the microphone. “We’re
gonna play something kind of different,” he told the crowd, and then began a
long spacy Eastern-influenced instrumental that Wayne kept grounded with his
one insistent bass note.
More
applause. So far so good, Wayne thought, but Lordy, here come the new tunes:
two uptempo originals. Wayne ignored the girls dancing in the front row,
ignored the Frisbee that sailed past his head and landed behind his amp, even
ignored the sweat dripping off his nose onto the bass, as he moved closer to
the drummer, barely noticing the applause between the next two songs. A rock ‘n’
roll medley of Chuck Berry tunes flew by. Too fast, the drummer mouthed at Wayne
as they played the final chorus. Wayne’s left hand was beginning to tighten a
bit and he felt a twinge of panic. Now what? The medley was over, thank
goodness. Wayne realized he’d been holding his breath and let it out with a
sigh of relief.
The
crowd responded with a thunderous ovation and the drummer stood and tossed both
his sticks far into the crowd. Wayne felt himself return to earth; heard Flip
thank the audience, saw Flip hand his pick to a squealing blonde who reached
out toward him from the edge of the stage, felt Flip pull at his sleeve as he
ran past.
Somewhat
in a daze, Wayne unplugged his bass and walked quickly down the steps behind
the drummer. It was over. He’d played his first gig. He’d done it!
Behind
the band shell, Wayne’s heart was pounding as he chugged a Yoo-Hoo and ate a
box of Cracker Jacks he’d saved for after the performance— if he hadn’t made
any mistakes. He hadn’t. Flip squeezed his shoulder. “You were beautiful, man.
Great first gig.”
“Thanks.”
This
is perfect, Wayne thought. Just perfect.
Cindy
and Janice walked quickly up to him. Cindy touched him on the elbow and
grinned.
“You
guys were great. Where’s the party at?”
In
my pants, Wayne thought, feeling oddly confident.
“I dunno,” he grinned, grabbing a handful of
Cracker Jacks and shoving them into his mouth. He felt energized, wicked.
“Wanna
come back to our apartment and get high? It’s just on the other side of the
pier.”
Just
say yes, Wayne thought. “Sure.”
He felt in his
pocket for the Binaca and the condom. They were still there.
An
hour later, Janice had stumbled from the candle-lit living room to the
kitchenette of the two-bedroom apartment and poured more Gallo Spañada into her
green plastic tumbler.
Cindy leaned back onto Wayne as they sat on the
sagging brown sofa. She held the
half-empty pint of Southern Comfort up in her left hand. “Want a sip?” He took if from her, held it to his mouth
with his lips closed, tilted it back and returned it.
“I
wanna dance,” Cindy announced.
She stood up, chose an album, Iron Butterfly’s
“Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida,” put it on the stereo, then began dancing slowly in a
circle in the middle of the room, her arms extended. Janice returned from the kitchenette and plopped down on the far
side of the sofa, morose.
“That
bastard Coleman just takes me for granted,” Janice sobbed. She drained her
drink, lay back on the sofa, closed her eyes and immediately fell asleep, her
head lolling forward.
Cindy
stopped dancing, took Janice’s drink from her clenched hand, lay it on the
coffee table in front of the sofa, and beckoned to Wayne. “Come here, I wanna
show you something.”
And
I want to show you something, Wayne thought.
He
followed her swaying hips through a purple beaded curtain into the bedroom: a
waterbed, a bookshelf made of wooden boards and concrete blocks that held a
squat green candle, a portable stereo and a small pile of albums. Jim Morrison pouted from the wall above the
bed, Jimi Hendrix leered down from the ceiling above the mattress.
Cindy
lit a cone of sandalwood incense and cleared a spot for it in the ashtray on the bedside table. She flopped down on the bed. Her body seemed to undulate, as if she was
riding an air mattress in the ocean. “I
took a red a few minutes ago. Come here.” She giggled and raised her
arms toward Wayne.
What
was a red? She seemed awful relaxed. His heart was pounding, his throat dry.
Lord, give me strength. She giggled again and reached out further, pulling at
his wide leather belt until he lost his balance. He fell next to her and the
bed gurgled and sank under his weight.
Wayne tried to lean on his left elbow and it slid from under him.
“What’s
the matter, you never been on a waterbed before?”
“Sure,”
he lied.
“You
want to have some fun?”
“Yeah.”
She
pulled Wayne close and kissed him softly, her tongue deep in his mouth. She
wiggled the tip.
Wayne was suddenly spinning through space,
dizzy, floating. She tasted of Southern Comfort and grape lip gloss.
Cindy
reached down and slowly unzipped the front of his purple crushed-velour
bellbottoms. As she began to reach in Wayne felt a sudden involuntary spasm of
release and a warm, sticky wetness. He rolled away and faced the wall, quietly
stifling a sob.
“What
happened?”
Through
the open window a police siren wailed in the distance.
“I
think...it’s...ohh.” He curled up into a ball.
“Don’t
you wanna get naked?” Her eyes were half-open, her speech suddenly slurred and
husky.
“I
surely do, Cindy. A real lot.”
“Gonna
do something about it?”
“Can
we wait a few minutes? I need to use the bathroom.”
She
nodded and closed her eyes, lay back on the pillow. “Wha’ever you want.”
“Back
in a sec.”
In
the bathroom Wayne frantically wiped himself dry, quivering with anger and
adrenaline. Damn! Damn! Damn! What’ll I do? Well, I can’t ask the Lord to help
me on this one. What would Flip tell me? he wondered. Hmm. He’d say you’ve
still got a chance, come on now, this is it, she wants you, don’t screw this
up. Yeah.
Wayne
took a few deep breaths, pulled out the tiny bottle of Binaca and touched the
tip of it to his tongue, nodded at himself in the mirror, then swaggered out
toward the bedroom.
Cindy was asleep on her side, snoring
peacefully.
Wayne
backed quietly out of the room, the beaded curtain rattling and clicking as he
entered the living room and turned to face the sofa. Janice was asleep too. The
record on the turntable had ended and was skipping over and over on the final
groove: click...click...click...
He shook Janice’s shoulder and she awoke with
a start.
“Whaa?”
her eyelids heavy.
He
leaned down to kiss her, felt her hands push him away.
“Heyyyy,
what are you doin’?”
She
lay back down and closed her eyes.
There was a loud knock on the door.
Wayne stared at the door, frozen. Janice
rolled off the sofa, falling on to her hands and knees, stood up and gazed at
Wayne groggily, then turned toward the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s
Coleman! Let me in! I just wanna talk to you! Are you alone?”
Janice
was fully awake now. She stared at Wayne for a moment, raised her eyebrows,
then walked up to the front door. “No. I’m not alone. I’m with somebody
special. Someone that doesn’t hit women! A real gentleman! He does everything
better than you. Everything! Wanna meet him? He’ll kick your ass!”
Wayne ran two steps to the open window facing
the street, unhooked the screen and rapidly lowered himself down the few feet
to the sidewalk, then turned and ran like hell.
* *
*
Two minutes later he arrived at the band
shell, panting and gasping for breath. Streetlights shone pools of light on the
deserted parking lot. Trash was scattered everywhere. Plastic cups, beer
bottles, paper wrappers, watermelon rinds and empty cigarette packs littered
the ground. The bands, crowd, everyone had left. Wayne sat on the edge of the
empty stage, his pulse pounding, surveying the scene, collecting his thoughts.
His left ankle began to throb, and he realized he’d sprained it landing on the
sidewalk beneath the window.
A
half moon hung in a cloudless sky above him, and a bonfire lit up a small
circle of the beach to his right. In the distance he heard a girl laugh and
then scream in mock terror as a boy chased her toward the surf.
Two kids skateboarded down the center aisle of
the seating area, the wheels clacking over the cracks in the concrete. One of
them recognized Wayne.
“Hey,
aren’t you an Intruder?”
“Reckon
I am.”
“You
guys really kicked ass.”
“Yeah?”
Wayne leaned back casually, feigning indifference. Flip suddenly appeared from
around the corner of the stage. “There you are, man! You disappeared! I was
worried. What happened?”
“Oh
man!”
“I loaded your gear. Lucky you left when you
did, actually. Coleman showed up all pissed off, looking for you. I cooled him out
and he finally split. How was Cindy? She’s kind of well-known around town.”
Wayne’s heartbeat had slowed to normal. He laughed.
Flip
looked at him, puzzled. “What’s so funny?”
“Everything! When’s our
next gig?”