Fight Song A Novel

Plucking and tightening


Half an hour later, Coffen arrives at the office with a bottle of rum, ready to return the favor and get Ace nice and buzzed. But that plan won’t work because Ace has company. Currently, Coffen’s wedged in a cubicle near his work’s kitchen, eavesdropping as Ace talks to a boy who looks about Margot’s age. Who is this mysterious lad who’s shown up with the tattooed janitor? Well, as Coffen has learned from his gutless spying, the boy happens to be the son of Ace’s girlfriend. Apparently, Ace normally lives with his girlfriend and her son. The janitor has been sleeping at the office this week since she told him to “poop or get off the pot” regarding the likelihood of a marriage proposal.

“That was how she phrased it to me, dude,” Ace says to the boy. “Your ma talks straight from the heart, and I love that about her. But she caught me off guard.”

Ace relates all this to the lad as they sit at the kitchen table, the very place where Coffen had plunked down and enjoyed Ace’s rum-soaked French toast. Ace has a guitar case across his lap, though he hasn’t opened it. Then he says to the boy, “I mean, I love your ma. You know that. You see us together. You see how I make her laugh, and once you become a man, you’ll realize there’s no greater feeling than making the woman you love laugh like crazy. I needed a few days to sort things out on my own, and now I clearly know what needs to be done.”

“Only a loser would sleep at his work,” the boy says.

“It’s a complex world, my man.”

“My real dad has a condo in Memphis.”

“Now that’s a town that loves its music.”

“My real dad owns his own plumbing business.”

“Can I talk to you honestly, big guy? Mano a mano?” Ace seems unfazed by the boy’s hostile words, which impresses Bob. It’s no easy feat staying calm in the face of being demeaned. Not always easy to turn the other cheek if you know the next smack is coming.

Speaking of the next smack, Ace rubs his bald head, which prompts the kid to say, “Why don’t you have any hair?”

“At your age, I had a coif.”

“Will my hair fall out when I’m old?”

“Did your gramps have a good set of hair?”

“Which one?”

“Your ma’s dad.”

The kid looks petrified. “He was bald!”

“Then you too shall cross this humiliating bridge.”

Coffen cracks the seal on the rum, holds it up to offer a commiserating cheers to the humiliating bridge of baldness, and has a slug.

Calm as can be, Ace opens the guitar case, pulls out the instrument, and lays it across his lap, loosening a string. He keeps talking, “I need to put some fresh strings on for the gig tonight. And on our way to the show, I’ll take you for some Korean barbecue before we meet up with your ma. Who knew effin’ Koreans could barbecue like kings, huh?”

The boy says, “I hate barbecue.”

Ace nods and keeps winding a new guitar string tight. “Dude,” Ace says, “this is an oddball world. Look around you, look outside—it’s only getting weirder. I firmly believe that we should all boogie to our own beat. I’m a firm believer in fulfilling whatever destinies we want. I don’t believe in God or any make-believe shit—sorry, I meant to say ‘feces.’ I don’t believe in any of that. Do you forgive my swearing? Your ma hates my swearing and I’m working on it because I want to be a good partner and also a father figure. What I’m trying to say is that in life we should all make up our own rules. Make a world that’s going to make us happy. I’m making up mine. I hope you’re making up yours. I bring this up for a specific reason … ”

Ace winds the next guitar string tight, the pitch of the string getting higher as he plucks it and tightens the tuning peg.

“My real dad thinks guitars are f*cking stupid.”

“You shouldn’t swear either, dude. Your ma doesn’t like it.”

Plucking, tightening.

“F*cking stupid,” the kid says.

“Anyway, here’s the message I’m trying to send to you: I love your ma. She’s the woman for me. I never thought I’d say that, never imagined myself settled down into the calm ballad of monogamy. But we change.”

Plucking and the note bends higher …

Coffen has another slug of rum.

“Let me get down to brass tacks,” says Ace. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re here together right now.”

The boy interrupts him. “You brought me here.”

“Of course. I meant that more metaphysically.”

“You picked me up from soccer and dragged me here.”

“Yes, I did. I called your ma and said I had to talk with you man to man. See, dude, I’ve been wanting to ask your ma to marry me. But only if her son approves of our union. So your ma says, ‘Poop or get off the pot.’ That’s what she’s telling me, and I know the answer clear as day.”

Ace is smiling at the boy.

The boy is not saying anything.

“The answer is that Acey shall poop,” Ace says and smiles even larger.

“Shit wherever you want. I don’t care,” the boy says. “My dad might still come back someday.”

“I don’t have to tell you how awesome your ma is,” Ace says. “I know you’ve had a hard life with your pops moving to Memphis. To be honest, Acey didn’t exactly get the red carpet treatment himself. Look closely—that’s not a silver spoon in my mouth, dude. It’s a horse’s bit. That was how my family treated me, like a dang animal with a bit in its mouth. You don’t even want to hear about an unnamed boy named Ace whose dad liked to drag him to the racetrack with him, and sometimes the old man would get so tanked that he’d leave the boy behind, this unnamed boy named Ace, forced to fend for himself until his mom finally drove to the track to pick him up. So be sure that I know hard living. I know parents who shouldn’t be allowed to have library cards, let alone children. And your pops splitting town … Jesus H, what a bastard, not that I want to speak ill of your flesh and blood. But I feel terrible for you. Your whole world was turned upside down. You’re brave for marching on. But right this second, I have to tell you, I’m glad my path crossed with you and your ma’s. I am glad we give each other shelter.”

“You freeload at our house,” the boy says.

“I think of it as being the house where we all live.”

“Then why are you sleeping here?”

Coffen can barely stand the mouth on this smart-ass kid. He needs to get yelled at, or spanked, or water-boarded. He needs consequences. It makes Bob thankful for the manners of his own children. Jane would never let them speak that way. She’s such a good mother. He has another slurp of rum.

Ace says, “This conversation is giving me the strength to come out and say it. It’s important to me that this is okay with you. I want your blessing, dude. I want to know that you see this as a good thing. It’s what she wants. We’re happy. I’m good to her. Please tell me that we have your blessing.”

Ace is plucking and tightening with another bending note moving higher. He looks hopefully at the boy, waiting for a blessing. He’s right about it being an oddball world.

“Tonight at the show,” he says to the boy, “I’m going to call her onstage and ask her to marry me. I haven’t even told the guys in the band. I want everybody to be surprised. Except you and me. We will know what’s coming. What do you think of all that?”

“Your band sucks.”

“This is a lot to ingest, I know.”

“Asking her to get married at your shitty concert is a shitty idea.”

“I’m not trying to replace your dad, my man. I want to be a good husband to your ma. She deserves that. And I bet me and you can become pretty good friends if you decide to give me a chance.”

Nothing from the boy. Just the stink-eye.

“Blink once if you caught the gist,” Ace says.

“Barry hates his stepdad. Barry says stepdads are bullshit.”

“Sure, some stepdads suck.”

“Why do you give a f*ck what I think?” the boy asks.

Ace still has the huge smiley face. “Because you’re important to me.”

“Fine, ask her,” the kid says. “I don’t care what you guys do anyway.”

“Thanks, my man. I’m thrilled to have your blessing.” He says this with no bitterness or sarcasm. He says this with sincerity. Bob can’t believe it. This kid tried everything to rattle Ace and he only wound his strings, kept his cool. Coffen needs to remember that. Needs to remember the beauty of calm discourse. Ace told the boy exactly what was on his mind, the plain, whole truth, never getting sidetracked or rattled. That’s what Bob has to do with Jane: honesty without resorting to Gotthorm cracks. Honesty without self-sympathy. Honesty without playing the martyr. Honesty without irony.

Another guitar string tightening. Ace must be paying more attention to the boy than the guitar. The skinniest string gets higher and higher and its pitch goes too high because the thing snaps, and Ace says, “Damn. Dang, I mean. You gotta pay attention or things break on you. Am I right, my man?”

Ace starts over, winding a new string to replace the busted one.

Bob staggers into the kitchen with the rum.

Ace and the kid look over at him.

The plucking and tightening stop.

Ace giggles. “Hey, Chump Change, what’s with the long face?”

Coffen doesn’t want to be alone any longer. He’s crying, but he can’t care about that. Things do break if you’re not watching. He asks, “Can I get Korean barbecue with you guys?”

“Our entourage,” says Ace.





Three happy Kiss-loving clams


“Tell me the name of a genius,” says Ace, eating meat off the bone while sitting in a booth at Korean barbecue with Coffen and the boy. The restaurant is pretty empty. It’s about an hour before they have to be at Empire Wasted for sound check.

“I don’t give a shit about geniuses,” his girlfriend’s kid says.

“Shakespeare,” Bob says.

“Koreans are meat-Shakespeares,” Ace says.

“That’s racist,” the boy says.

“It’s a compliment.”

“It’s still racist.”

“Come on, name a genius.”

“No,” the boy says, “your racism is ruining my appetite.”

“Einstein,” Bob says.

“Koreans are Meat=MC2,” says Ace.

“It’s racist because you’re making a generalization about a whole group of people,” the boy points out.

“It can’t be racist to celebrate the Koreans’ meaty geniusness,” Ace says. “I refuse to believe that. And if it is, then lock me up and throw away the meat-key because I’m a racist for how much I love freakin’ Koreans! Name another.”

The boy is mum.

“Michael Jordan,” Coffen says. Hearing Ace and the boy banter makes Bob think of Brent, so he texts his youngest: I miss you very much. You are a terrific son.

Then Bob sends the same message to Margot, forgetting to change the word “son” to “daughter.”

Within three seconds, she texts right back: I’m a girl. Thankz for noticin

Coffen: Yeah, but you get the main message, right? The “you are terrific” part?

R u guyz divorcing?

No

STFU

What’s that mean?

Shut the eff up

You are a terrific daughter. Sea horses tomorrow?

She never answers, probably enjoying the Great Barrier Reef from the comfort of her bedroom.

“Koreans slam-dunk their meat like Mr. Mikey Jordan!” Ace says, suddenly an advertising exec, setting back international relations with every new slogan.

“This tea is terrible,” Coffen says, putting his phone in his pocket.

“Drink beer, for god’s sake,” says Ace. “We’re on our way to a rock and roll show, and you’re totaling tea? Grow a pair, Bobby-boy. Let down the eight hairs you have left and live a little. Go mano a mano versus the world.”

In Coffen’s opinion, Bobby-boy does not need to grow a pair. It’s true that he will soon be switching to beer, not because Ace peer-pressured him into it, but due to the fact that Korean tea is horrible. Now that’s something worth being racist about.

“Tonight I ask your beautiful ma to be my lawfully wedded wife,” Ace says to the boy. “I’m thrilled to have your blessing, dude.”

The boy frowns at Ace.

“What’s wrong?” Ace asks.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You can tell me, my man. I know this is hard for you. Go ahead—put the screws to Uncle Acey. I can take it. You won’t scare me off. Me, you, and your ma are going to be good together.”

The boy’s frown fades.

Is that a small smile?

Yes, indeed, the boy small-smiles at Ace and now the kid says, “Ace Frehley from Kiss.”

“Are you saying Ace Frehley is a genius?” asks Ace, looking like he might start sobbing with oodles of pride.

Coffen’s phone vibrates, alerting him that there’s a new text, hopefully from Brent, hopefully confirming a father-son date to the sea horses. After watching Ace struggle with this boy, the task that Coffen has is easy—encourage some other activities besides gaming. Get Brent out of the house. Do stuff together. He can game, too, just not every waking second.

But the text isn’t from Brent.

It’s from Schumann.

And it is not good news.

It’s what might be called the opposite end of the spectrum from good news.

Schumann texts: Bagged me a magician.

Bob: ?

Stalked him and secured him.

Why?

Tied him up and stuffed him in the back of the SUV.

Tied up??

Like a turkey.

Let him go!!

Where R U?

Coffen: Meet me at Empire Wasted in 45.

That sad dank bar that doesn’t have any big screens?

45 mins!!

Hut, hut, hike are the final words texted from Schumann.

“Do you mind if one of my friends meets us at the club?” Coffen says to Ace.

“You already said your friend from Taco Shed was coming.”

“Her, too. This is my neighbor, Schumann.”

“You’re doing French Kiss a favor, helping us fill every seat in the house. The more, the merrier,” Ace says, and then he looks at the boy again. “Like our household, right, dude? We’re three happy Kiss-loving clams.”

“Happy f*cking clams,” the boy says, which makes Bob think of his household: Would they be considered four unhappy clams, their shells boxing them away from everything in the world, much like the subdivision’s electric fence?

Dumping salt in Coffen’s wound, Ace starts humming here comes the bride, here comes the bride …



The three of them roll into Empire Wasted before Schumann or Tilda arrive. Coffen dismisses this place, shaped like a big rectangle, as a dump. The walls are stacked cinder blocks, neither painted nor covered, only nude gray concrete. The stage is pretty low to the ground with an empty dance floor in front of it. No tables anywhere. There’s a bar at the back of the room. An old man behind it wearing a tank top. Bald on his head but not on his shoulders.

Bob helps Ace carry his amp in. Coffen is amped himself, paranoid-thinking about a kidnapped magician who’s probably mighty pissed and ready to cast some nasty curses or, worse, call the cops and rat them out, not solely for Schumann’s solo kidnapping tonight, but also for what he and Bob did to the magician last night.

Empire Wasted technically isn’t open yet. The only people there are the staff, the band—the rest of French Kiss’s chubby, bald members setting up gear—groupies, if you can call them that, and a few friends.

Coffen makes his way to the bar to order a beer and another text from Schumann comes through: The eagle has landed.

Which makes no sense to Bob, who responds simply with: ?

Code for I’m out front.

So Coffen gets going out front. Sure as sure can be, there’s crying Björn hog-tied in the back of the SUV, not pleased with the whole kidnapped situation that’s unfurling before his eyes.

“This can’t be good,” Coffen says. “We’re going to get shipped off to prison for round-the-clock sodomy sessions.”

“In the right hands, sodomy can be beautiful.”

“That’s not really what we’re talking about,” Bob says.

“I have made a breakthrough,” says Schumann, still wearing his football uniform, although thank god for small miracles, he’s not wearing the helmet.

“Breakthrough with what?”

“I know what my gladiator identity was missing. I needed to stop using my white man name.”

“You are white.”

“I was. Or maybe I am normally, but not right now. Not while I’m wearing the cloth of my tribe. I’m a Native American warrior.”

“I don’t think so,” Coffen says.

“From this moment on, I’ll only answer to the name Reasons with His Fists.”

“I refuse to call you that.”

It looks like Schumann might start arguing with Coffen, but Björn makes these really angry mumbling noises.

“How did you even do this to him?” Bob asks.

“That show you saw last night. He did the same one tonight. So I waited outside and then snuck up and cold-cocked him and tied him up and taped his mouth and here we are.”

“He’s going to kill us.”

“We scored a touchdown.”

Coffen, once worried about being a weekend dad, now is crippled by fear that he’ll be a prison dad, rotting away in a cell, scribbling letters that his children never respond to. They’ll certainly never visit him. Prison dad doesn’t spend holidays surrounded by loved ones. He spends them slow-dancing with his cell mate, resting his head on a muscled, tattooed shoulder.

“I’ll never see Margot’s graduation,” says Bob. “Somebody else will explain the birds and the bees to Brent.”

Schumann points at Björn: “We are the winners. I beat your ass, sucka!”

“I never asked you to do this,” Bob says.

“We went for the jugular and were handsomely rewarded,” Schumann says.

“What are you talking about?”

“The killer instinct of competition.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about, Schumann. What if he kills us once we let him go? What if he takes back his word about not calling the cops and he tells them everything?”

“I am Reasons with His Fists,” he says, “and I fear no man.”

“You are Schumann, and you should fear that man,” Coffen says, pointing at the wiggling magician, still making angry mumbling noises.





You are my testes-hero


Bob Coffen flees Schumann and goes back in Empire Wasted to figure out what to do about Björn. He decides a beer is in the cards, goes over toward the stage once he consumes it in four panicked swigs. Ace is talking with a woman, presumably his girlfriend. The boy is hugging her. She pats his back.

“Here he is,” says Ace and points at Coffen, by way of a weird introduction.

“Bob is me,” Bob says to the woman, shaking her hand, watching the other one still patting on the boy.

“I’m Kathleen. Call me Kat.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

“Told you he was all manners,” Ace says.

“Are you excited for the show tonight?” Coffen asks her.

“No matter whether me and Ace are fighting,” Kat says, “I never miss a French Kiss concert. They are incredible, and Ace loves playing music so much.”

Bob is impressed with Kat’s commitment to Ace even when they’re fighting—fighting to such an extreme that he’s sleeping at work. “You are a good woman,” Coffen says. “Sometimes people who you want to support don’t want you around them. Sometimes they say that their Norwegian coach is the only team they need.”

“What?” Kat asks.

“Let’s cool it with the moping,” Ace says to Bob. “We’re here to live a little, right?”



Soon, Tilda saunters into the bar. She sees Coffen right off because the place is pretty empty. He’s hunkered alone at the bar. Ace and the other members of the French Kiss contingent are all backstage putting makeup on one another’s faces, getting into their facsimiles of Kiss characters.

Bob has switched from beer to vanilla vodka.

And he’s well on his way to being intoxicated. If intoxication is like putting on a pair of pants, Coffen has one leg in for sure and is now working the other through.

Bob is so happy to see Tilda. Can Coffen call her a friend? He’s going to. She chose to come here and spend time with him and that’s what friends do, after all—they enjoy each other’s company. Or so Bob’s heard around the water cooler.

Tilda’s wearing a cotton tank top and tight jeans. Muscles galore. Tanned muscles making lumpy stacks on her shoulders. She could be a cage fighter. In fact, Coffen doesn’t know for sure that she isn’t a cage fighter, so the first vanilla-vodka-atrophied idea that escapes his mouth is “You ever kill a man with your bare hands?”

“Always wear gloves because these days with all the DNA technology, killing with your bare hands is like signing a confession.”

“Is that a metaphor?”

“Which part?”

“The whole thing.”

“Sure,” she says.

“I need to believe you haven’t killed a man with your bare hands.”

“Then why’d you ask the question?”

It’s here that Coffen decides to enlist this bawdy Taco Shed confidant into Schumann’s kidnapping ring. Why would he do such a thing? Why involve anyone else? Simply put: He’s telling her because he’s buzzed and feeling useless and like an outcast, a looming divorcé, a weekend dad destined to fail his kids (and that’s not even to mention the terrifying prison dad hallucination), or to be replaced by somebody new, someone like Gotthorm—a man of strong body and mind, one blessed with a severe, Nordic bone structure, one well over six feet tall who can breed a platoon of bloodthirsty Vikings. This avalanche of panic isn’t all that’s going on inside Bob. Add to this the scene he’s recently witnessed at Korean barbecue: the boy who’d been so cruel to Ace suddenly saying that Ace Frehley is a genius; the boy meeting Ace somewhere near the middle, compromising, extending an olive branch of sorts. Will that smart-ass kid do everything in his power to put Ace through the ringer during his teenage years? No doubt about it. But it was touching to see some effort from the boy tonight. Maybe that’s all anybody’s really after: effort. A stab to meet in the middle. All of this piles on Coffen’s shoulders, plus the simple fact that there is a kidnapped sorcerer outside and Bob has no idea what to do next.

And so Coffen spills the beans to Tilda: “I’m tangentially involved in criminal activity this evening.”

“Guess you’re not the prude I pegged you for.”

“You know how you used to think I was a cop?”

“I’m still on the fence.”

“Really?” Coffen says, his feelings growing even more wounded. “Why?”

She nods. “I have trust issues. And if you are a cop, we’re back standing on the fertile soil of entrapment.”

“What if I was to say that I can prove I’m not a cop right this very second beyond any reasonable doubt?”

“That sounds like something a cop would say. Are you drunk?”

“Probably,” he says, taking another swig of vanilla vodka, “and I’d like to let you in on my crime, if you’d be interested in such information.”

“I’m listening.”

“What we did was—”

“Wait, who’s ‘we’?”

“I’m talking about me and Schumann.”

She smiles mischievously. “Schumann’s here?”



He takes her out front to Schumann’s SUV, which is still parked in the same spot as before, which was where Schumann had promised to leave it while Bob went back in the bar to formulate some kind of crackpot plan to deal with Björn, though once alone it occurred to Coffen that a) Schumann probably won’t listen to his plan anyway, seeing as how he went ahead and swiped Björn on his own quarterback accord, and b) he kidnapped a master of the dark arts without any concrete idea what to do with him, simply stole him for some kind of contorted notion of victory, and c) nowhere in Schumann’s cranium does there seem to be ample fear over the very real possibility of incarceration, and d) Schumann might be mentally ill or so hardwired for competition that he’s somehow untrained for civilian life.

Coffen and Tilda approach. Schumann exits the driver’s seat, walks toward the back but doesn’t open it, keeping Björn obscured.

“Hello, big fella,” Tilda says to Schumann, ogling his football uniform, the implied musculature underneath his sporty shell. “I was hoping our paths would cross when I wasn’t working.”

“I’ve changed my name to Reasons with His Fists,” he says.

“Your name’s as meaningless as these jeans I’m wearing,” says Tilda.

“I’m married.”

“Let’s not ruin our first non–Taco Shed impression with too many details from our personal lives,” she says.

“You’d make a good running back,” Schumann says to her. “You see an opening and hit the hole hard, hoping to score.”

“You’re going to make me blush, Reasons with His Fists,” she says.

“We need to focus,” Coffen says inconsequentially.

“My name is a tribute to my tribe,” Schumann says.

“Are you part Native American?” she asks.

“I am a warrior ready to ravage at the drop of a hat.”

“I’m prepared to drop much more than my hat,” says Tilda, enhancing her flirty words with a fellatio-impersonation, her hand moving back and forth in front of her open mouth. She looks like a demented sex-ed teacher trying to scare the kids into abstinence.

Schumann watches the demo and smiles. “You have the body of a fearsome warrior, too.”

“I’ve taken my lumps over the years.”

Coffen can’t take his inconsequentialness any longer and throws open the back of the SUV. The three of them stand, staring at the squirming, angrily mumbling magician.

“Who’s that guy?” Tilda asks, cool as a sociopath.

“Our vanquished foe,” says Schumann.

“He looks pretty pissed,” she says.

“His arms are probably asleep,” Schumann says. “Not to mention I had to knee his testes to properly subdue him before pitching him in there.”

“I like the way you say ‘testes,’” Tilda says. “Can I hear it once more, except this time, make it a little breathier, like you’re seducing me?”

Schumann answers in a baritone Don Juan playboy voice, “Testeeeeez.”

“You are my testes-hero,” she says.

“Anyway, this is the guy we kidnapped,” Coffen says.

“I am your testeeeeez-hero,” Schumann says, sexy voice doused with aftershave and five o’clock shadow.

“Maybe I’ll wait for you guys in the bar,” Coffen says, already sulking.

“That’s a great idea,” Tilda says. “Maybe Reasons with His Fists would like to take me for a drive so we can get to know each other more intimately. What do you say, daddy?”

“This will be like the glory days,” Schumann says. “Pillaging a coed to mark an important victory. Hail Purdue!”

“Nobody’s called me a coed in years,” Tilda coos.

“What about him?” Coffen asks and points at squirming Björn.

“He’ll be fine,” she guarantees. “He might even enjoy the show.” Tilda winks at Bob and then walks over and gets in the SUV via the passenger’s side. Shrugging, Schumann hops back in, too, and starts the engine.

Coffen traipses up to his window and says, “I think we should deal with the problem at hand.”

“We’ll troubleshoot soon,” Tilda says.

“I was talking to Schumann.”

“Do you mean my new friend Reasons with His Fists here?” she asks.

“Yes,” Schumann says, “who is this Schumann you keep referring to?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Coffen says to her.

“I’m a gal hoping to take a relaxing ride with a friend.”

“He has a family.”

“And I have a daughter, who’s partial to living in Roy’s car.”

Making zero headway with Tilda, Bob turns his attention to Schumann, saying, “What about your wife?”

He revs the engine.

“You’re not seriously about to drive off,” Coffen says.

Then Schumann seriously drives off with Tilda giddy in the passenger seat.