Desert Relics
CG Miller
I see Jeff lurking in the back of the video store, browsing genres of movies he can't possibly enjoy so he can keep his distance and avoid striking up conversation. He watches us from the corner of his eye. It reminds me of the old days, playing next to him in a band, peering over at each other when things were clicking just right. Back when our hair was long or up in liberty spikes or fashioned into towering mohawks that took two bottles of hairspray and glue to keep from falling. I haven't seen Jeff since he became too big for this town. Since he outgrew us.
We were huge in relative terms. About as huge as an obscure band from a desert wasteland could be. Our shows emptied all the sad homes sprawled across the valley of their angst-ridden teenagers. We called ourselves, The Casuals. Fans of irony, there was nothing remotely casual about us. We played loud and fast punk-rock music. Songs barely scraping past a minute and a half. Tempo never letting up. Yelling stuff like "screw the system" and "destroy the establishment". Typical stuff. We really didn't know what we were saying, which system we wanted screwed or which establishment deserved to be destroyed in particular. I just sang it with heart and everyone believed it.
We always played the same abandoned skatepark right outside of town. One hidden behind hills of sand. Out of sight. Cracked concrete all over. It was like an earthquake made sure to split the ground before every perfect set of stairs and every gnarly gap that would make a skateboarder's eyes gleam. We'd play down inside the bowl. The crowd six feet above us. Skaters still trying to drop in like idiots. Trying to share in the limelight.
One time a skateboard crashed into the bass drum during a set. Our drummer, Donnie, didn't stop playing though. A true professional in every sense. He waited patiently until we finished our last song to kick the kid's ass. A drunk fight. A good show after the show. They became friends afterward and Donnie got a better kit out of it anyway. His parents had a lot more money than he was ever comfortable admitting to. There's nothing punk about being rich. But something very punk about being rich and being embarrassed by it. Donnie led the way for us.
That was just one of many weekend nights we lived like animals against the backdrop of a lifeless community that didn't bother to realize we were missing. We lit bonfires and leaped across flames. Pushed over vacant vehicles stripped bare. Graffitied over graffiti. Yelped like coyotes in the moonlight and made love with strangers before we ever knew a thing about true love. We lived our lives with urgency. Like we would die the very next moment. Flames that could be snuffed out in an instant.
The bands nowadays have no idea what they're doing. They haven't the slightest clue how to get the crowd amped-up like we did. There's no sense of urgency anymore. Everything's rehearsed. Trendy. The rehashing of things they've seen on videos or heard from word of mouth, probably originating from one of our shows. I feel for this new age. There’s no heart in it anymore. No passion.
That skatepark is gone now. They tore it down after our last show. A show we never finished because some moron lit his cheating girlfriend's car on fire. She was caught in the act. The flames got out of control. Started burning the cars of people that never cheated on anyone. The fire lit the night sky like a beacon and gave away our hidden oasis of music and chaos, signifying the death of those days forever. Police came. Fire trucks. Ambulance. I've never seen us load up our gear so fast. Luckily, our van was far enough away from the flames not to be devoured. Everyone who could, took off. Scattered. We all left those nights behind at the same time, watching the fire out our back windows as we drove away, orange-faced, wondering if we'd ever experience nights like that again. We never did.
Things got away from me after those days. Time slipped. Faces changed. Some people left town and others moved in. New buildings popped up here and there. A better skatepark was built within city limits. A little too pristine if you ask me. Too visible.
I stayed here against my better judgment.
I had my chances to leave too, sure. I almost joined the army along with Ryan, our guitarist. He was done with the punk scene pretty soon after the fire. No one wanted to practice after that. No one had anything left in them once we knew we didn't have a place to play anymore. At least, that's what we thought. Maybe we weren't all that punk to begin with. Just wanted people to look up to us. Be popular. I guess there's nothing really punk about any of that. Anyway, I didn't go. I thought about it down to the very last second. It wasn't for me. Nothing about it seemed appealing. I just thought it was the better option at the time; better than me sitting on the same curbs all the time, always watching Donnie huff the spray-paint cans he picks up from the hardware store.
But, like I said, against my better judgement, I decided to stay and watch life play itself out; watch Donnie huff as many different colors of spray-paint as the hardware store carried. Ryan went to the army just like he said he would and never looked back. But only because he physically could not look backward. He saw action in Afghanistan, the last thing he ever saw, and took shrapnel to the face while clearing a room. Grenade waiting for him on the other side. Destroyed his eyes and ears and everything. Wears hearing aids now. We talked on the phone about it when he got back home. He told me his vision is like the moment you get hit in the eye hard enough to see stars and lights, but he says that’s all he can see now. Feels like he's flying through space. Told me things tasted better than ever though.
I thought that was punk as hell.
Jeff was our bassist. Still is a bassist. Son of a bitch kept practicing even though he told us he was done with music. Guess he was just done with us. He started playing with a band called The Yellow-Bellied Bastards and got a decent fan base going. Signed to an independent label and started touring. Their fanbase changed over the years, when kids stopped caring about punk rock; when they started caring more about how they appeared and how they could fit themselves into carbon-copy lifestyles portrayed across social media platforms. This new age died before it ever began.
Now they only play shows for middle-aged men with studded belts and mohawks that can't stand up anymore. A strong core of fans still steeped in denial about their age. The Bastards are probably between tours right now. The only reason Jeff would be back in town, like today, circling the aisles, browsing the racks of movies he's already browsed several times over, like he's trying to get up the nerves to apologize for leaving us.
Donnie and I both work at the last video store in town. Possibly the last video store in the entire state. Maybe on Earth. The last relic of our times. Besides ourselves.
We work more often than not, picking up shifts when we're bored, depressed, lonely, or when we want to immerse ourselves in the shelves of a dying breed of entertainment. Or when Donnie needs more money for spray-paint. Whichever comes first.
We have nowhere else to be. Nothing else calling us. Donnie doesn't even speak to his parents anymore. He disowned them for being too materialistic though I think they disowned him first. Not sure which one. I never even knew my parents. I had an alcoholic uncle who raised me to the best of his ability when he could see straight; when he wasn't seeing double and thinking he was rearing twins. The bottle eventually killed him.
This is where Donnie and I belong.
"Good to see you guys again," Jeff says with a look of defeat in his eyes, finally drawing up enough courage to make his presence known. He hands over the King Kong vs Godzilla collector's edition. His backup excuse for being here.
The shame in his eyes. Like he cheated on us. Like we're scorned women.
"What's up, asshole?" Donnie says and snatches the movie out of his hand. "King Kong wins by the way. Just to let you know."
"I knew that," Jeff says to the ground.
"Look, Jeff. It was twenty plus years ago. Let’s just be adults and move on," I say, feeling sorry for him as I'm prone to do. "That's 5.99 by the way."
"We could've been the ones who opened for Burn Thy Neighbor instead of you reject bastards. Your drummer could never hit triplets like I could." Donnie slurs his words as he bags the movie and slips a discount coupon inside though I can tell it hurt him to do it.
Jeff's move affected Donnie more, what with them being the rhythm section and all. They had to bond to play in the pocket as well as they did. It was a real betrayal for Donnie. Left for another drummer. One who couldn't even hit triplets, apparently. People always cheat with less. I don't know why.
"I know. I know. I'm a terrible friend." Jeff still can't look up. Even when he pays. He makes me think the floor needs cleaning. "I mean it's not all what it's cracked up to be. Sure, I have a band to play with. But touring is tough. Gets old. Don't have as much freedom. It feels sad sometimes."
"Good. I hope it's sad as shit," Donnie says and hands him his bag. "We need this back by Thursday before we close. Can you do that? Are you gonna still be here by then? Or are you gonna take off with that, too?"
"I'll bring it back. I'm home all week." Jeff grabs his bag and stands there, thinking.
"You want candy now or something?” Donnie asks. I can tell he's itching for a cigarette break. Or worse, a brown paper bag and an array of colors to take him somewhere that isn't here.
"Would you guys want to go to a show?" Jeff asks. "For old time’s sake?"
His real plan now materializing.
It reminds me of when he first asked to be a part of our band. Timid as hell. So unsure of himself I didn't even believe he played an instrument at all. Then he pulled out his Rickenbacker bass and played it like he was about to die. Sweat pouring out from him like his body was weeping. It looked like his soul flew up to heaven and came crashing back down the moment he plucked his last note. Donnie and I didn't even look at each other or say anything. We all felt it inside. No words were needed.
"I don't know. I may be busy," Donnie lies. Donnie hasn't been busy in twenty years.
"Where at?" I ask.
"The Red Ballroom down the street. The old theater back in the day. We watched Robocop there, remember?" Jeff asks, trying to conjure up nostalgic memories of us not hating him. "Well, if you guys want to, you know where it's at. Free show tonight."
"Who's playing?" Donnie perks up and asks. The word "free" lowering his guard.
"Just a couple of young bands. No one you'd know."
Donnie's face contorts. "What kind of music?"
"Electronic. Shoegaze. Dream pop. Stuff like that."
"What the hell is that?" Donnie looks lost. His warped mind and ringing ears can't wrap themselves around anything other than fast playing and an anti-everything mindset.
"Lots of synth layers, dreamy chords, spacey feel," Jeff explains.
"I get that huffing paint."
The theater seems so much smaller than I remember it. Robocop filled this place better. I'm not sure what to do with myself as I wait for Donnie to inhale an air duster in the alleyway. No one looks inviting. Most faces are tilted downward and glowing blue. Phones out everywhere. Everyone preoccupied. Guarded.
I pull out my phone though I'm low on battery and my cracked screen makes it impossible to see a thing. I only use it for actual phone calls. And those rarely happen. I stare at it and think to call Donnie, to ask when he'd be done sucking air to come join me. Then I remember he doesn't own a phone. So, instead, I put it away and stare straight ahead, with confidence, probably making everyone else uncomfortable, wondering if they were missing out on something.
"This place feels like a funeral. Everyone just standing around like there's an open casket and no one knows what to say to the bereaved," Donnie comes up from behind and says.
"I know. I feel a sense of dread. No wonder teenagers are depressed."
We see Jeff across the floor, by the old popcorn machines, talking to people half his age, trying to fit in the best he can, probably gloating about his talents and the bands he’s opened for. But the kids look uncomfortable. They don't know him or his band. It's like they're speaking to a parent. They're gazing over his head, looking for which teenager was responsible for bringing him. But he's alone, or even worse, with us. He looks our way and points and we both dodge within the newly gathered crowd. The show's about to start.
The lights dim. Little blue screens peak out over the heads of everyone. I can barely see the stage over the amount of phones I'm suddenly dealing with. I can't make out any drums or guitars on the part of the stage I can see. It feels very empty. Too clean. No cords or anything. There's just a laptop on a table. A chair. Some speakers. I'm not sure if this is something before the show. Maybe a distraction for a late band.
Then a drum loop plays over the speakers, and I can't help but look over at Donnie who hates drum loops more than just about anything. Even worse than being replaced by another drummer is a drum machine. Any drummer can still tip their hat to another, even if they can't hit triplets. But there's no respect for a drum machine.
"I wasted a can for this?" Donnie says.
A small woman in a white tank top and baggie jeans comes out and sits at the computer. Bobs her head to the drums. Looks over the crowd like she's accomplished a lot already. She leans over and types and… there’s a bassline. Not bad, but it's not real so I’m not sure how to feel about it. I see Jeff bobbing his head, so he obviously isn't bothered by the sound of a computer bassline. Maybe I'm too hard on this generation. Too hard on Jeff.
"Does anyone play a real instrument anymore?" Donnie says loud enough I'm sure she heard. If not, then the phones captured it and it'll be on repeat a million times over by tomorrow. Or maybe just a few hundred. Who am I kidding?
Guitar chords start weaving in and out of a synth line that I actually enjoy. She starts to sing, and it makes me jealous. Not necessarily of her ability to sing but having a crowd gathered to hear her voice. Something I've longed for since the last time I did it on that fiery night. When everyone believed every word I said. Hung on every last drop of whatever the hell it was Donnie wrote. I guess people never really cared about a single thing I had to say. I was just spouting edgy propaganda so I could get girls. I couldn’t blame them.
"Let's leave," Donnie says. "Jeff can enjoy all the circuit music he wants."
We both shuffle backwards, squeezing ourselves out of the crowd, watching Jeff's bald spot disappear behind converging heads. Blending in. I don't know exactly how he pictured tonight going. But I'm sure Donnie and me ducking out early wasn't something he considered. Or maybe it was. Maybe that's exactly what he expected from us. He'd offer us to come to a show and we'd go reluctantly. Disappear before the first song ended. He wouldn't even have to look back to check. He knows. He knows we're gone. He also knows he has King Kong vs Godzilla as insurance; his reason to come back to see us. Retry his rekindling another time. When the dust settles. When the anger's subsided.
After another stop at the hardware store to grab a few cans of spray-paint and a 4-pack of air dusters, Donnie and I take to the road to a location we don't have to speak about. Not that he can speak much anyway after blasting through two air dusters before we even got to the highway. We coast down the interstate, windows down on my Ford Ranger, the desert air reeking of God only knows, not listening to anything but the wind.
I wonder what kind of stuff Donnie's seeing right now. He looks glazed over. Every so often extending his hand out like he's about to grab something. Then drops it again. Maybe it's something like what Ryan sees forever now. Lights streaking past him. Shooting through space like a star.
I can't help but feel like Ryan got something right that we didn't. Charging headlong into suffering like that. Happy without eyes and a good set of ears. Tasting the world in a new way. Bravery, for anyone else, but just life to him now. Nothing to be brave about, he'd say. All punk as shit. Inspiring even. If punk could inspire.
I missed out not going with him when I had the chance. I have perfectly good eyes and ears and I feel miserable all the same. Things taste like they always have. Worse, even. I want the clarity only losing body parts gives you.
"We're almost there. Just around the bend," Donnie sobers up and says, his internal radar firing.
The sandy hills break the horizon and glow in the pale moonlight. We made this drive so often it hurts a little bit; driving toward something that isn't there anymore. Nothing to stop at. Nothing to pull the truck over for. Just a random patch of earth that once held the spot where Donnie and I gave everything of ourselves.
There's a barely visible dirt road you'd miss if you didn't know it was there, one that trails off into the expansive nothingness. No skatepark at the end of it anymore. But we knew that much already. We get off the highway and start down the road, bouncing up and down in our seats with every oversized rock the truck struggles over. I'm not even sure how far down this road the park would've been. Everything's disorienting in the desert night. We drive until we decide to stop driving. Cut the truck off. Hope there's a landmark that stands out against the cacti and the sprawling landscape of sand. Maybe the moon gleaming off a staircase railing that withstood destruction.
But there's nothing like that. I don't know why I thought there'd still be some sort of concrete slab or a wall standing. Or the black skeletons of vehicles that burned that night. Nope. None of that. There isn't a single proof anything ever happened here. Just dirt now. Might as well always been dirt. Not a historical moment anyone would care about or think meant a damn thing happened here. Just some dumb memory now. Probably wasn't even as cool as I remember it.
"Well, isn't this something?" Donnie laughs and picks up sand. Blows it like a kiss.
"It's definitely something," I say.
"Well, what now?"
"I don't know."
Donnie gets a look across his face I'm not used to seeing. Like he's really thinking about something.
"One last set?" he asks.
He lets out a scream that cracks his voice and makes him stop prematurely. It echoes throughout the brisk night sky. He covers his mouth and laughs and then cups his hand like he's about to do it again. But louder.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Screaming my ass off," he says. "What's it look like?"
He screams again but this time it turns into more of a howl than anything. Like a wounded dog.
"Come on. Do it too. It feels good. Use that instrument of yours."
I let out a sudden scream that shocks us both. It does feel good. Good in a cold sweat kind of way.
Donnie laughs. I laugh too.
"There you go. That's my lead singer."
We both take in air at the same time. A large amount.
We scream like children, or more like men who wish they were children again. We scream like animals. Like lunatics. Like idiots. We scream at the sky. We scream into the dirt. We scream at each other and none of it sounds like music. Not in the slightest. But we do something together we couldn't pull off as a band, as The Casuals… we don't care if anyone can hear us. And there's something very punk about that.
CG Miller
I see Jeff lurking in the back of the video store, browsing genres of movies he can't possibly enjoy so he can keep his distance and avoid striking up conversation. He watches us from the corner of his eye. It reminds me of the old days, playing next to him in a band, peering over at each other when things were clicking just right. Back when our hair was long or up in liberty spikes or fashioned into towering mohawks that took two bottles of hairspray and glue to keep from falling. I haven't seen Jeff since he became too big for this town. Since he outgrew us.
We were huge in relative terms. About as huge as an obscure band from a desert wasteland could be. Our shows emptied all the sad homes sprawled across the valley of their angst-ridden teenagers. We called ourselves, The Casuals. Fans of irony, there was nothing remotely casual about us. We played loud and fast punk-rock music. Songs barely scraping past a minute and a half. Tempo never letting up. Yelling stuff like "screw the system" and "destroy the establishment". Typical stuff. We really didn't know what we were saying, which system we wanted screwed or which establishment deserved to be destroyed in particular. I just sang it with heart and everyone believed it.
We always played the same abandoned skatepark right outside of town. One hidden behind hills of sand. Out of sight. Cracked concrete all over. It was like an earthquake made sure to split the ground before every perfect set of stairs and every gnarly gap that would make a skateboarder's eyes gleam. We'd play down inside the bowl. The crowd six feet above us. Skaters still trying to drop in like idiots. Trying to share in the limelight.
One time a skateboard crashed into the bass drum during a set. Our drummer, Donnie, didn't stop playing though. A true professional in every sense. He waited patiently until we finished our last song to kick the kid's ass. A drunk fight. A good show after the show. They became friends afterward and Donnie got a better kit out of it anyway. His parents had a lot more money than he was ever comfortable admitting to. There's nothing punk about being rich. But something very punk about being rich and being embarrassed by it. Donnie led the way for us.
That was just one of many weekend nights we lived like animals against the backdrop of a lifeless community that didn't bother to realize we were missing. We lit bonfires and leaped across flames. Pushed over vacant vehicles stripped bare. Graffitied over graffiti. Yelped like coyotes in the moonlight and made love with strangers before we ever knew a thing about true love. We lived our lives with urgency. Like we would die the very next moment. Flames that could be snuffed out in an instant.
The bands nowadays have no idea what they're doing. They haven't the slightest clue how to get the crowd amped-up like we did. There's no sense of urgency anymore. Everything's rehearsed. Trendy. The rehashing of things they've seen on videos or heard from word of mouth, probably originating from one of our shows. I feel for this new age. There’s no heart in it anymore. No passion.
That skatepark is gone now. They tore it down after our last show. A show we never finished because some moron lit his cheating girlfriend's car on fire. She was caught in the act. The flames got out of control. Started burning the cars of people that never cheated on anyone. The fire lit the night sky like a beacon and gave away our hidden oasis of music and chaos, signifying the death of those days forever. Police came. Fire trucks. Ambulance. I've never seen us load up our gear so fast. Luckily, our van was far enough away from the flames not to be devoured. Everyone who could, took off. Scattered. We all left those nights behind at the same time, watching the fire out our back windows as we drove away, orange-faced, wondering if we'd ever experience nights like that again. We never did.
Things got away from me after those days. Time slipped. Faces changed. Some people left town and others moved in. New buildings popped up here and there. A better skatepark was built within city limits. A little too pristine if you ask me. Too visible.
I stayed here against my better judgment.
I had my chances to leave too, sure. I almost joined the army along with Ryan, our guitarist. He was done with the punk scene pretty soon after the fire. No one wanted to practice after that. No one had anything left in them once we knew we didn't have a place to play anymore. At least, that's what we thought. Maybe we weren't all that punk to begin with. Just wanted people to look up to us. Be popular. I guess there's nothing really punk about any of that. Anyway, I didn't go. I thought about it down to the very last second. It wasn't for me. Nothing about it seemed appealing. I just thought it was the better option at the time; better than me sitting on the same curbs all the time, always watching Donnie huff the spray-paint cans he picks up from the hardware store.
But, like I said, against my better judgement, I decided to stay and watch life play itself out; watch Donnie huff as many different colors of spray-paint as the hardware store carried. Ryan went to the army just like he said he would and never looked back. But only because he physically could not look backward. He saw action in Afghanistan, the last thing he ever saw, and took shrapnel to the face while clearing a room. Grenade waiting for him on the other side. Destroyed his eyes and ears and everything. Wears hearing aids now. We talked on the phone about it when he got back home. He told me his vision is like the moment you get hit in the eye hard enough to see stars and lights, but he says that’s all he can see now. Feels like he's flying through space. Told me things tasted better than ever though.
I thought that was punk as hell.
Jeff was our bassist. Still is a bassist. Son of a bitch kept practicing even though he told us he was done with music. Guess he was just done with us. He started playing with a band called The Yellow-Bellied Bastards and got a decent fan base going. Signed to an independent label and started touring. Their fanbase changed over the years, when kids stopped caring about punk rock; when they started caring more about how they appeared and how they could fit themselves into carbon-copy lifestyles portrayed across social media platforms. This new age died before it ever began.
Now they only play shows for middle-aged men with studded belts and mohawks that can't stand up anymore. A strong core of fans still steeped in denial about their age. The Bastards are probably between tours right now. The only reason Jeff would be back in town, like today, circling the aisles, browsing the racks of movies he's already browsed several times over, like he's trying to get up the nerves to apologize for leaving us.
Donnie and I both work at the last video store in town. Possibly the last video store in the entire state. Maybe on Earth. The last relic of our times. Besides ourselves.
We work more often than not, picking up shifts when we're bored, depressed, lonely, or when we want to immerse ourselves in the shelves of a dying breed of entertainment. Or when Donnie needs more money for spray-paint. Whichever comes first.
We have nowhere else to be. Nothing else calling us. Donnie doesn't even speak to his parents anymore. He disowned them for being too materialistic though I think they disowned him first. Not sure which one. I never even knew my parents. I had an alcoholic uncle who raised me to the best of his ability when he could see straight; when he wasn't seeing double and thinking he was rearing twins. The bottle eventually killed him.
This is where Donnie and I belong.
"Good to see you guys again," Jeff says with a look of defeat in his eyes, finally drawing up enough courage to make his presence known. He hands over the King Kong vs Godzilla collector's edition. His backup excuse for being here.
The shame in his eyes. Like he cheated on us. Like we're scorned women.
"What's up, asshole?" Donnie says and snatches the movie out of his hand. "King Kong wins by the way. Just to let you know."
"I knew that," Jeff says to the ground.
"Look, Jeff. It was twenty plus years ago. Let’s just be adults and move on," I say, feeling sorry for him as I'm prone to do. "That's 5.99 by the way."
"We could've been the ones who opened for Burn Thy Neighbor instead of you reject bastards. Your drummer could never hit triplets like I could." Donnie slurs his words as he bags the movie and slips a discount coupon inside though I can tell it hurt him to do it.
Jeff's move affected Donnie more, what with them being the rhythm section and all. They had to bond to play in the pocket as well as they did. It was a real betrayal for Donnie. Left for another drummer. One who couldn't even hit triplets, apparently. People always cheat with less. I don't know why.
"I know. I know. I'm a terrible friend." Jeff still can't look up. Even when he pays. He makes me think the floor needs cleaning. "I mean it's not all what it's cracked up to be. Sure, I have a band to play with. But touring is tough. Gets old. Don't have as much freedom. It feels sad sometimes."
"Good. I hope it's sad as shit," Donnie says and hands him his bag. "We need this back by Thursday before we close. Can you do that? Are you gonna still be here by then? Or are you gonna take off with that, too?"
"I'll bring it back. I'm home all week." Jeff grabs his bag and stands there, thinking.
"You want candy now or something?” Donnie asks. I can tell he's itching for a cigarette break. Or worse, a brown paper bag and an array of colors to take him somewhere that isn't here.
"Would you guys want to go to a show?" Jeff asks. "For old time’s sake?"
His real plan now materializing.
It reminds me of when he first asked to be a part of our band. Timid as hell. So unsure of himself I didn't even believe he played an instrument at all. Then he pulled out his Rickenbacker bass and played it like he was about to die. Sweat pouring out from him like his body was weeping. It looked like his soul flew up to heaven and came crashing back down the moment he plucked his last note. Donnie and I didn't even look at each other or say anything. We all felt it inside. No words were needed.
"I don't know. I may be busy," Donnie lies. Donnie hasn't been busy in twenty years.
"Where at?" I ask.
"The Red Ballroom down the street. The old theater back in the day. We watched Robocop there, remember?" Jeff asks, trying to conjure up nostalgic memories of us not hating him. "Well, if you guys want to, you know where it's at. Free show tonight."
"Who's playing?" Donnie perks up and asks. The word "free" lowering his guard.
"Just a couple of young bands. No one you'd know."
Donnie's face contorts. "What kind of music?"
"Electronic. Shoegaze. Dream pop. Stuff like that."
"What the hell is that?" Donnie looks lost. His warped mind and ringing ears can't wrap themselves around anything other than fast playing and an anti-everything mindset.
"Lots of synth layers, dreamy chords, spacey feel," Jeff explains.
"I get that huffing paint."
The theater seems so much smaller than I remember it. Robocop filled this place better. I'm not sure what to do with myself as I wait for Donnie to inhale an air duster in the alleyway. No one looks inviting. Most faces are tilted downward and glowing blue. Phones out everywhere. Everyone preoccupied. Guarded.
I pull out my phone though I'm low on battery and my cracked screen makes it impossible to see a thing. I only use it for actual phone calls. And those rarely happen. I stare at it and think to call Donnie, to ask when he'd be done sucking air to come join me. Then I remember he doesn't own a phone. So, instead, I put it away and stare straight ahead, with confidence, probably making everyone else uncomfortable, wondering if they were missing out on something.
"This place feels like a funeral. Everyone just standing around like there's an open casket and no one knows what to say to the bereaved," Donnie comes up from behind and says.
"I know. I feel a sense of dread. No wonder teenagers are depressed."
We see Jeff across the floor, by the old popcorn machines, talking to people half his age, trying to fit in the best he can, probably gloating about his talents and the bands he’s opened for. But the kids look uncomfortable. They don't know him or his band. It's like they're speaking to a parent. They're gazing over his head, looking for which teenager was responsible for bringing him. But he's alone, or even worse, with us. He looks our way and points and we both dodge within the newly gathered crowd. The show's about to start.
The lights dim. Little blue screens peak out over the heads of everyone. I can barely see the stage over the amount of phones I'm suddenly dealing with. I can't make out any drums or guitars on the part of the stage I can see. It feels very empty. Too clean. No cords or anything. There's just a laptop on a table. A chair. Some speakers. I'm not sure if this is something before the show. Maybe a distraction for a late band.
Then a drum loop plays over the speakers, and I can't help but look over at Donnie who hates drum loops more than just about anything. Even worse than being replaced by another drummer is a drum machine. Any drummer can still tip their hat to another, even if they can't hit triplets. But there's no respect for a drum machine.
"I wasted a can for this?" Donnie says.
A small woman in a white tank top and baggie jeans comes out and sits at the computer. Bobs her head to the drums. Looks over the crowd like she's accomplished a lot already. She leans over and types and… there’s a bassline. Not bad, but it's not real so I’m not sure how to feel about it. I see Jeff bobbing his head, so he obviously isn't bothered by the sound of a computer bassline. Maybe I'm too hard on this generation. Too hard on Jeff.
"Does anyone play a real instrument anymore?" Donnie says loud enough I'm sure she heard. If not, then the phones captured it and it'll be on repeat a million times over by tomorrow. Or maybe just a few hundred. Who am I kidding?
Guitar chords start weaving in and out of a synth line that I actually enjoy. She starts to sing, and it makes me jealous. Not necessarily of her ability to sing but having a crowd gathered to hear her voice. Something I've longed for since the last time I did it on that fiery night. When everyone believed every word I said. Hung on every last drop of whatever the hell it was Donnie wrote. I guess people never really cared about a single thing I had to say. I was just spouting edgy propaganda so I could get girls. I couldn’t blame them.
"Let's leave," Donnie says. "Jeff can enjoy all the circuit music he wants."
We both shuffle backwards, squeezing ourselves out of the crowd, watching Jeff's bald spot disappear behind converging heads. Blending in. I don't know exactly how he pictured tonight going. But I'm sure Donnie and me ducking out early wasn't something he considered. Or maybe it was. Maybe that's exactly what he expected from us. He'd offer us to come to a show and we'd go reluctantly. Disappear before the first song ended. He wouldn't even have to look back to check. He knows. He knows we're gone. He also knows he has King Kong vs Godzilla as insurance; his reason to come back to see us. Retry his rekindling another time. When the dust settles. When the anger's subsided.
After another stop at the hardware store to grab a few cans of spray-paint and a 4-pack of air dusters, Donnie and I take to the road to a location we don't have to speak about. Not that he can speak much anyway after blasting through two air dusters before we even got to the highway. We coast down the interstate, windows down on my Ford Ranger, the desert air reeking of God only knows, not listening to anything but the wind.
I wonder what kind of stuff Donnie's seeing right now. He looks glazed over. Every so often extending his hand out like he's about to grab something. Then drops it again. Maybe it's something like what Ryan sees forever now. Lights streaking past him. Shooting through space like a star.
I can't help but feel like Ryan got something right that we didn't. Charging headlong into suffering like that. Happy without eyes and a good set of ears. Tasting the world in a new way. Bravery, for anyone else, but just life to him now. Nothing to be brave about, he'd say. All punk as shit. Inspiring even. If punk could inspire.
I missed out not going with him when I had the chance. I have perfectly good eyes and ears and I feel miserable all the same. Things taste like they always have. Worse, even. I want the clarity only losing body parts gives you.
"We're almost there. Just around the bend," Donnie sobers up and says, his internal radar firing.
The sandy hills break the horizon and glow in the pale moonlight. We made this drive so often it hurts a little bit; driving toward something that isn't there anymore. Nothing to stop at. Nothing to pull the truck over for. Just a random patch of earth that once held the spot where Donnie and I gave everything of ourselves.
There's a barely visible dirt road you'd miss if you didn't know it was there, one that trails off into the expansive nothingness. No skatepark at the end of it anymore. But we knew that much already. We get off the highway and start down the road, bouncing up and down in our seats with every oversized rock the truck struggles over. I'm not even sure how far down this road the park would've been. Everything's disorienting in the desert night. We drive until we decide to stop driving. Cut the truck off. Hope there's a landmark that stands out against the cacti and the sprawling landscape of sand. Maybe the moon gleaming off a staircase railing that withstood destruction.
But there's nothing like that. I don't know why I thought there'd still be some sort of concrete slab or a wall standing. Or the black skeletons of vehicles that burned that night. Nope. None of that. There isn't a single proof anything ever happened here. Just dirt now. Might as well always been dirt. Not a historical moment anyone would care about or think meant a damn thing happened here. Just some dumb memory now. Probably wasn't even as cool as I remember it.
"Well, isn't this something?" Donnie laughs and picks up sand. Blows it like a kiss.
"It's definitely something," I say.
"Well, what now?"
"I don't know."
Donnie gets a look across his face I'm not used to seeing. Like he's really thinking about something.
"One last set?" he asks.
He lets out a scream that cracks his voice and makes him stop prematurely. It echoes throughout the brisk night sky. He covers his mouth and laughs and then cups his hand like he's about to do it again. But louder.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Screaming my ass off," he says. "What's it look like?"
He screams again but this time it turns into more of a howl than anything. Like a wounded dog.
"Come on. Do it too. It feels good. Use that instrument of yours."
I let out a sudden scream that shocks us both. It does feel good. Good in a cold sweat kind of way.
Donnie laughs. I laugh too.
"There you go. That's my lead singer."
We both take in air at the same time. A large amount.
We scream like children, or more like men who wish they were children again. We scream like animals. Like lunatics. Like idiots. We scream at the sky. We scream into the dirt. We scream at each other and none of it sounds like music. Not in the slightest. But we do something together we couldn't pull off as a band, as The Casuals… we don't care if anyone can hear us. And there's something very punk about that.