Trouble Bored Page 5

  I wasn’t kidding. A couple months prior, I’d really sliced into the base of my left thumb, awarding myself five hours in the hospital waiting for stitches and a bill Mega Bread refused to pay.

  “Look where you’re fuckin’ cuttin’” Wolf replied, “I get high every night. I’m the only one here from midnight until five-thirty, and corporate says I gotta keep the doors locked at all times. It all vents out before the prep crew comes in anyway.”

  I turned around and grabbed a big chocolate chip cookie from the dessert counter and bit into it.

  “You’re killing these fucking cookies, though, dude.”

  Wolf laughed.

  “You working with your dad between here and the show?” I asked.

  “My dad is taking down a couple pine trees in Scotia, but my brother is going to fill in so I can get some sleep quick. He’s pissed about giving me the day off, though.”

  “Word. Well, we have to be to Mario's at seven. So we’ll probably do the usual and meet at Steve's about six-thirty before heading to Albany, right?”

  “Yep. Have you heard from Steve yet?”

  “Nope,” I replied, “but I called him a couple times on the way here. He probably smashed his phone again.”

  Steve worked overnight shifts at Albany International loading packages off airplanes. During the day, he taught Muay Thai, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Krav Maga to all ages. Since he and Wolf both worked days and nights, one of them was usually in a really grumpy mood.

  While I was happily passed out in Natalie’s bed, Steve was throwing packages onto a conveyor belt with complete disregard for their contents. He used earbuds for ear protection but listened to Danzig and Dropkick Murphys at decibels nearly as hazardous.

  As Steve picked up a couple packages that had tumbled off of the conveyor belt, his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out to see “Dad” displayed on the small top screen of his flip phone, then silenced it.

  “Fuck off.”

  He continued chucking packages. The phone rang again. He ripped his earbuds out and answered the call in frustration.

  “What?!” Steve yelled.

  “Jesus. Don't yell at me,” Steve’s dad replied.

  “Well, what do you friggin’ want? I'm working.”

  “It's Friday. Can you drop me off at Venuto's around one?”

  “Why can't Mom do it?”

  “She's going to be out to lunch with your sister. Also, I'm your father.”

  “Well, when am I supposed to sleep?!”

  “At night, like a normal person!”

  “I WORK AT NIGHT!” Steve screamed before throwing his phone across the facility. It hit a wall and smashed into multiple pieces.

  “He's gotta stop doing that,” I expressed to Wolf.

  Wolf shrugged sympathetically. “Hey, man, he works two jobs; I work two jobs. I get it. Shit is fucking stressful.”

  Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice across the counter.

  “So are you guys working today or just jerking each other off?”

  Natalie was dressed professionally in a way that compensated for her pink hair—still pretty risky for an office setting back then. She had the confidence to pull it off and was so far doing fantastic settling into her nine-to-five routine.

  “Natalie! Hey!” I waved. “I thought you were working.”

  “I am. I'm just grabbing lunch for my work friends.”

  “Wow, friends that you work with? Must be nice.” I flipped the bird in Wolf's general direction.

  “Fuck you too, dude,” he responded.

  “Hi, Wolf.” Natalie waved.

  “Hey, Natalie. Bringing any of these friends to the show tonight?” Wolf asked.

  “Absolutely not. The last time I brought my girlfriends to a show, someone threw up on Lisa's shoes.”

  “Near Lisa's shoes,” Wolf clarified. “Just a little bit of it splashed on her ankle. Bungie is the one who did the puking—how is that my fault?”

  “I think at this point, you are all each other's faults,” Natalie responded. “Besides, I can't go tonight anyway. I have to go shopping with my mom after work to get supplies for Luna’s baby shower. Then I'm calling it an early night.”

  “Fine.” Wolf rolled his eyes and shuffled to the back of the house.

  As Wolf took off his apron in the back of Mega Bread, he ran into Miranda Garcia. She was younger than us, excitable and clingy. Not a bad person, just a tinge annoying. She was super enthusiastic about Trouble Bored, though. I didn’t mind her.

  “Hey, Wolf!” Miranda said.

  “‘Sup,” Wolf muttered.

  “I overheard you asking Natalie if she was bringing friends to the show. I was going to bring some friends to the show tonight, actually, since I'm going...to the show.”

  “‘Kay.”

  He cleaned up, clocked out, and bounced while Miranda stood there smiling at his slight acknowledgment of her existence.

  Back up front, I was ringing up Natalie’s order. I added my employee discount, then dropped a large stack of cookies in her to-go bag. Boggart yelled at me from across the dining room.

  “GODDAMMIT!”

  “I better go, Gray. Don't forget — you promised to help me tomorrow, so watch the drinking tonight,” said Natalie.

  “I always watch the drinking.”

  “Well, get everyone home in one piece, then you get home to me in one piece too. I want us to make this baby shower really special. Luna's been moping around ever since she got fired.”

  “Your sister got fired from work?”

  “She was about to go on maternity leave anyway...”

  “What the fuck did she do this time?”

  “Ugh, is it really that important?” Natalie asked.

  “For all the shit she talks about me, yes, it is important. What happened?”

  “Well, you know how she loves animals? Apparently, her coworker used to bring a service dog into work to help with his PTSD. He recently stopped bringing the dog in because he was having less freakouts, so…”

  “So what the fuck did she do?”

  “She really liked when the dog would visit, and she missed him. So last week, she threw firecrackers in her coworker’s trash can, thinking it would trigger his PTSD and he would need to start bringing the dog back.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah,” Natalie whispered. “The guy urinated on himself.”

  “She made him piss his pants?!”

  I didn’t mean to shout, but Luna's extreme fuck-ups always amazed me.

  “Gray!”

  “Sorry.” I said, softer, “She made the guy piss his pants?”

  “Yeah. I feel bad for him.”

  “Luna...”

  “Anyway, I need to get back to work. Pick up your mail from your Mom’s house so she stops harassing me about it.”

  I walked around the counter to hand Natalie her bag and kiss her goodbye.

  “And for the love of god,” she pleaded, “stay out of trouble tonight.”

  Eight

  “Good enough for punk rock.”

  I left work around four and started wrangling Steve and Bungie in for the show. I never had to worry much about Steve. Practice was at his parents’ house, so we always picked up our gear at his place before a show. Even though he wasn’t answering his phone, I could pretty much count on him being ready for us when we arrived.

  Bungie, on the other hand, was a wild card. His real name was Edward O’Malley, but we called him Bungie because he was hyperactive and reckless. He was younger than all of us and had the shortest attention span by far. He’d been playing punk shows since he was thirteen and getting drunk and high even before that. He was always doing stuff that could get him arrested or hospitalized.

  Years ago, back when I had just met Bungie, we were all hanging out in Colonie, his hometown. Wolf and I were fifteen, which would have made Bungie thirteen and Steve fourteen at the time. We smoked weed out of a soda can, then walked down Central Ave for a couple miles ex
periencing what doctors commonly refer to as “brain damage.” Central Avenue had two lanes for both directions of traffic and a median, so there were five lanes between us and a group of college age guys drinking on a front lawn across the street.

  I’ll never understand why this happened. Maybe they said something about the way we were dressed. All I remember is seeing Bungie pull a purple smoke bomb out of his pocket, light the fuse, and toss it across the street at them. The fuse was about three inches long, and the sound of it sparking drew the college guys’ attention. They braced themselves for an explosion—but when the purple smoke started bellowing, they got the joke and, like any drunk college bros, lost their fucking minds over it.

  One of them ran into the house. Seconds later, a legion of frat bros rushed out and began trying to cross Central Ave to beat the shit out of us. We took off as fast as we could, zigging down side streets and zagging through backyards. During our escape, I had jumped a chain-link fence. Two sharp, twisted metal prongs on top went into my right palm, leaving me a cool crucifixion scar I still have twenty years later.

  I never knew what to expect with Bungie, especially the day of a show. I gave him a call while driving to my mom's house for clothes.

  “Hey,” Bungie answered.

  “‘Sup, buddy?” I asked.

  “Shit, just chillin’. What's up with you?”

  “Just checking in. Making sure you're good to meet up at Steve's house for six thirty.”

  “For?”

  “For the...goddammit, Bungie. For the show tonight,” I reminded him.

  “Show?” He paused for a second. “Ohhh, yeah! Yupyup. I'll be there.”

  “You sure?” I asked. “You kind of sound like you didn't remember.”

  “Nah, I remember. Just takes a while to jog the ol' memory.”

  “Alright, man, I'll see you there. Later.”

  I hung up and pulled into my mom’s driveway.

  * * *

  I grew up in a two-bedroom bungalow on Fiero Ave, but I spent as little time there as possible. There was constant conflict, and when I chose to drop out of high school, I became the center of it. The sociological blemish I left on the family’s history somehow absorbed the blame for most of the hopes and dreams that weren’t being accomplished there prior. But I wasn’t there to sort any of that bullshit out, just to snag my clothes and guitar picks. I was the only one there, but while I was in the shower, I heard my mom pull into the driveway.

  I popped out of the bathroom in my boxers and snuck down to my basement bedroom, trying to avoid confrontation. As I pulled on my black stretch jeans, my phone rang.

  “Nico! What’s good?”

  “Chillin’. Ryder is over here watching two potheads be idiots.”

  “Sick!”

  Nico and Ryder loved to mess around with their customers, whom they referred to as “custies” and “fiends”. They didn't mean anything by it—It’s not like they sold them fake drugs or ripped them off.

  “Six-thirty at Steve's,” Nico said. “We can't fucking wait, dude. These potheads were trying to act like they wanted to go. I told them you punkers don't play that hippie shit.”

  “Well, we're not The Grateful Dead, that’s for sure.”

  “The hippies want to know what you guys sound like,” said Nico.

  “I don't know,” I said, “I hate that question. It's punk rock. Not that whiny poppy shit on the radio. Tell them we're not pussies.”

  Nico laughed. “He says they're punks and not pussies.”

  “Sex Pistols?” one pothead asked.

  “Anarchy in the UK!” the other one shouted.

  Nico tried to confirm: “Sex Pistols?”

  “No,” I said. “More complicated. Like The Clash mixed with Rancid.”

  “You hippies know The Clash?” Nico said to the room.

  “Um, oh — yeah, yeah.” One burnout burst into song: “Should I stay or should I go now?!”

  The other chimed in. “The Clash are good!”

  “Good. Look ‘em up on Limewire, ‘cause you aren't going to this fucking show,” Nico responded.

  “Oh, shit, dude!” he continued, “We watched The Breakfast Club last night. You were right. That movie fucked us up. Ryder cried like a little bitch.”

  “I didn’t fucking cry!” Ryder yelled. “Ask Gray how the fuck these kids can smoke a joint the library, breakin’ windows and shit, and not get arrested?”

  Nico responded, “That’s, like, fucking...movie magic, dude.”

  “Yeah, fuckin’ white people magic!” Ryder argued.

  “Whoa! Alright, dude.” I attempted to stay on track. “I gotta go. Six-thirty?”

  “Six-thirty. Peace.”

  * * *

  I was dressed by the time I finished my conversation with Nico. I threw an extra set of clothes, my tuning pedal, and deodorant in my backpack. When I heard footsteps above me, moving toward the top of the stairs, I started to pack twice as fast.

  “Gray, are you home? I wasn’t sure if you just dropped your car off,” my mom yelled from upstairs.

  “Yeah, but I'm leaving. I have a show.”

  “Are you coming home tonight?”

  “No. I'm staying at Natalie's.”

  “When are you going to be home for more than five minutes? Your room is a mess, and you've got a pile of mail stacking up that you've been ignoring for two weeks.”

  I listened to her voice and footsteps fade in and out as she ranted from one end of the house to the other.

  “...and your father wants you to mow the lawn. And when are you going to apply to school? Stop sitting around doing nothing all day and staying up all night…”

  As her voice and footsteps faded toward the opposite end of the house, I spotted my chance. I slipped up the stairs and out the back door of the house undetected, hopping in my car and taking off.

  Steve’s house was only a five-minute ride, over on St. Anna Drive near High Bridge Road. Almost every band practice I had in my life took place there. His parents sacrificed their basement and quality of life for us to make noise in it, sometimes for eight hours straight. His dad was a pisser and loved breaking our balls, but he supported our passions and never really got in our way.

  I listened to Rancid’s Indestructible album on the way over, getting hyped. Show days always seemed to drag until we all met up. I learned to try to show up in the best mood possible to counterbalance anyone who might show up in a shitty one. Between gear failures, promoter issues, fights, being too wasted to play, getting kicked out, you never knew what was going to go down. It was best to get everyone on the same page feeling right from the start.

  As I rounded the corner onto St. Anna Drive, I saw Nico, Ryder, Bungie, and Wolf standing in Steve’s driveway. I parked against the curb and stepped out with a smile I couldn’t hide if I wanted to. The energy was awesome; I could tell everyone was in a great mood. The night could have ended there for all I cared.

  “What uuup?” I said as we all shook hands. “Is Steve good?”

  “Yup,” Wolf responded, “he’s inside grabbing his shit.”

  “Alright, sweet. This is good. I’m feeling it.”

  “The fuck is all over your car?” Wolf asked.

  “Someone decided to make my car their fuckin’ art project when I was at Nico’s. Looks kind of cool, though, right?” I said.

  “Looks like fuckin’ paint is on your car,” Wolf replied.

  Steve walked out of the garage carrying his backpack, guitar, and amp.

  He shouted from the top of the driveway, “Wyatt Earp!”

  Wyatt Earp was a real person characterized in the 1993 American Western film Tombstone, which Steve watched too many times. He thought “Wyatt Earp” sounded like What up? So that became a thing.

  “Wyatt Earp!” I shouted back. “I tried calling you.”

  “Yeah. I smashed my phone,” he responded. “Ran and got another one after dropping my dad off at Venuto's.”

  We loaded a basemen
t-full of gear and merch into Nico’s car, my car, and Bungie's van.

  Steve went over The Checklist with me.

  “We got everything? Guitars?”

  “Guitars...check,” I responded.

  We had four: Steve’s clementine-orange Gretsch semi-hollow body, Wolf’s white Gibson Les Paul Jr., my vintage Fender Jazz bass, and Steve’s dark blue Fender Stratocaster as backup.

  “Amps?”

  “Check.”

  Three small Line 6 combo amps with a ton of effects on them (most of which we never used). Steve’s was a Flextone II if I remember correctly. Wolf’s was a Spider II. Mine was one of their first combo bass amps ever made; a Low-Down 150.

  It had four programmable channels, and I used them all:

  Clean standard bass tone

  Really distorted, fuzzy

  Octave divider (way too deep, but perfect for one of our songs)

  Synth (for one of Wolf's songs)

  We'd decided to retire our giant amps a long time ago. We used to show up with two Marshall half stacks and a huge bass cabinet. They looked cool and “professional,” but they were such a pain in the ass to haul around so we figured to hell with it. Sound guys would put mics in front of our amps, and my bass was always directly fed into the PA system, so those big amps were never turned up above like the fourth volume notches anyway. Did they sound good? Yes. However, my back still hurts from carrying them.

  “Pedals?”

  “Got the pedals.”

  Each of us used a tuning pedal so we could talk into our microphones and tune our guitars at the same time. Steve also used a Cry Baby wah pedal, Big Muff fuzz, and an MXR Distortion pedal. Five pedals meant a lot of cord management setting up—and a lot of double-checking after our set that we had everything packed up again.

  “Fresh batteries?”

  Also a lot of 9v batteries.

  “Changed 'em last week.”