The Damned Dance at Night Part 2
Chapter One: Joe’s Mixtape
Joseph James regarded the pale blue sky while he ran his feet through the grass. He put his hands in the air and admired the coat of cobalt-blue polish on his nails with the paler background. They looked lovely.
It was the first day of school, but he didn’t care because he didn’t attend school; he was on his lunch break. He ate a piece of jerky and wished it were dried moose meat. It made him miss his Atsoo. She was soft and round, and she chewed tobacco and beaded moccasins. She had paid his way off the Rez.
His earbuds blasted Push It by Salt N Peppa. The drum machine hit hard, always on time, but the song pulsed with life.
He went over his plan one more time: work, save up money, leave the West Coast, fly out to New York and become a hairdresser. He planned to make the world more beautiful, one person at a time, starting with himself. The city had movie stars, musicians, artists, and professional basketball players. If everything went according to plan, he would have saved enough in a year to move out of his basement apartment and into a basement apartment in the city.
His lunch hour stretched out, and a fresh cool breeze blew across his shaved head. He clipped the one guard up the side to where his head rounded and then a two on top.
He daydreamed that he would work at the most beautiful salon and have designer clothes and shoes and a haircut other than what he’d done himself with a clipper. THE Madonna would phone, “Listen, Joseph,” she would say, “my regular hairdresser has come down with rheumatoid arthritis. I need your services. My roots are out of control, and my ends are a tragedy. Please! I need you.”
“Madonna, I’m busy,” he would say, “with Janet Jackson. I might be able to fit you in. But -- I’m so busy.”
“Name your price,” Madonna would say, “You’re the BEST.”
“A cool half million,” he would reply, “But you have to tell me the deets on Tupac and Dennis.”
“And Jean-Michel,” she would say, and Madonna would become his best friend.
He succumbed to the cushion of grass and looked up at the clouds. He picked out soft shapes and named them ‘dog-faced horse’ and ‘venomous spider monkey.’ There was a dreamlike quality to today, and it made Joseph feel beautiful.
Me against the World started playing. Pac was a poet. His anger felt real, and the third verse was incredible.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. No one was coming to save him; he had to save himself—just him against the world.
His thoughts drifted to basketball. There was a game tonight. He watched every Chicago Bulls game. He loved Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and especially Dennis Rodman. Dennis was the hardest-working player and always had the most fantastic hair (pink, purple, leopard print). Dennis had tattoos and piercings and was the first man he had ever seen in a wedding dress. He looked so beautiful in that dress.
Joseph was a solid baller himself. He was quick, wiry, and just as likely to steal the ball from you as pump-fake you into the air. He was the type of guard you wanted on your team: he could shoot the three-ball, pass into tight traffic, and be a fierce defender. More specifically, His defense was maddening to those he played against. He bodied you hard from half-court and made you pay for every step. He made your life miserable on the court. He knocked you just enough if a ref was watching, and if you were playing Rez ball, he hacked at your arms until you couldn’t hold the ball properly. He worked a lot, but he still shot around at one of the nearby schools when he had the time.
He struggled to rise from the comfortable lawn and returned to the restaurant. His manager greeted him with a cold smile that drained his confidence. It was frowned on that he’d left the restaurant to eat his lunch outside. White people: they were always watching you. He put his apron on and headed into the bustling kitchen. He was looking forward to finishing work. He had promised himself a present, the mall had a two-for-one special on piercings, and he planned on taking advantage of it.
Chapter Two: Sam’s Mixtape
Basket Case – Green Dayhttps://open.spotify.com/embed/track/6L89mwZXSOwYl76YXfX13s
1997 was the worst year, and Sam Graves had decided to end it; he was going to kill himself on Friday night. Punk and comics weren’t working as diversions anymore; all he could think about was death.
Green Day’s Dookie played on his yellow Walkman. It clicked and whirred annoyingly as it played. Its chassis was made of bright canary yellow industrial-strength plastic scarred from carelessness. He carried it with him everywhere.
Tapes were cheaper than CDs, but he wanted a Discman. All the cool kids had them, but he didn’t classify himself as cool; he felt like everyone overlooked him. He stuffed his Walkman further into the bottom of his jacket pocket, pushing his fists into the denim, hoping no one could see how poor he was.
Welcome to Paradise’s solo kicked in, and his stride quickened to the bass drum. He was halfway to school. It was the first day of his senior year, and he had just turned seventeen. He hardly remembered the party. There was a montage of cake and presents in his head, muddied by his depression.
When I Come Around started playing as he stopped to look at his High School across the street. He noticed most kids had all-new clothes, shoes, and backpacks and looked down at his outfit, feeling embarrassed. He had picked up used Levi’s that were too big for him, a second-hand Rolling Stones tongue-logo shirt and an old black jean jacket that he tie-dyed himself.
He felt poor and stupid. He didn’t want to be here. He turned up his music, put his head down and walked forward.
Chapter Three: Kim’s Mixtape
Energy Flash – Joey Bertram
Kim stopped at the fridge to grab a beer on her way out of the house. It was the first day of school after a fantastic summer. She slipped on her pink gumboots, popped the top off her Budweiser with the flick of a wrist, and bounded out the front door.
The first school day was always disappointing, and she planned on ditching. Kim walked down her driveway, taking small sips of her beer and scheming. She stopped, took a slug of beer, and admired her two-door 1986 AMC Eagle 4x4, a blocky black vehicle that resembled a tank more than a car. She drove it over everything. She took it everywhere, off-road down thin trails to beaches, over meridians in the center of the road; whatever she threw at the Eagle, it took and kept going.
Kim took her last sip of beer and poured the rest on the front lawn before entering the Eagle and firing the bottle into the backseat. She turned the engine over, felt it ‘BRRMMMM’ to life underneath her, and surveyed the road.
She barreled along the roads to the school, following Sarah’s route. Sarah was her best friend. She enjoyed walking -- said it was an excellent way to clear her chakras and invigorate her mind.
Kim liked driving. Peasants walked.
She placed her hand on the black onyx necklace Sarah had gifted her. It protected her from negative energy and made her patient and determined. She wasn’t sure about the patience piece, but she felt more determined with the necklace. She felt optimistic about her senior year.
She noticed someone walking down the sidewalk. What was his name? He strutted with his headphones on and looked rugged and handsome with tousled auburn hair and jeans worn out in the ass and knees. He looked like he never straightened his shoulders because he wanted to appear smaller. His jaw looked chiseled, but not from working out, more like from grinding his teeth together. Was his name Nick? Didn’t he use to be a soccer player or something? He was mysterious. Did he hang out with the skids or the nerds now?
She arrived at school and noticed Sarah in the gravel parking lot, chatting with one of the Goths. She drove over to her and turned up her music. The stereo flooded the parking lot with Mental Cube’s Q. She skidded to a stop, spraying gravel, and Sarah turned around with a smile. Kim jumped out, leaving the car running and the stereo blaring. Sarah’s face went bright red, but she smiled and danced along.
“Who’s this hot boy?” she said, “Too hot to stay at school today.” She ushered Sarah to her car. “We need beers and bikinis and a beach.”
Sarah pulled away, pondering the right course of action, and then piled into the passenger seat, “Okay,” she said, “but get us out of here before someone sees us.” Kim got into the driver’s seat, hit the gas, and nearly ran into ‘Nick.’
“Hey, you!” Kim shouted, “What’s your name? Nick?”
“No,” he said quietly, “My name is Sam.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Nothing,” he said, staring at his feet.
“Well, how about you hop in with some babes, and we go to the beach?” She looked at Sarah for verification, and she shrugged.
She grinned at him, “Last chance.”
“Sure,” he stammered, and Sarah got out and let him climb into the back of the car. His face was flushed red from excitement.
Kim snickered to herself and hit the gas.
Chapter Four: Sam’s Mixtape
Until It Sleeps - Metallicahttps://open.spotify.com/embed/track/63aVbch5VRXtQnCITdeDTZ
Sam stood in the back of the CD store, browsing the metal section to put space between himself and his schoolmates.
“Whatcha looking at?” Kim surprised him, looking over his shoulder at the CD he held. She plunked her chin on his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. Sam felt her breasts on his back, and his breath quickened. Her energy was frenetic, haphazard, chaotic, and provocative. It was hard to break away once you got sucked into her gravity field. She was incredibly charismatic.
“Oh yeah. Those guys used to be cool. Back when they had long hair. They sold out and cut it off.” Kim picked up the album Load. “I heard they mixed all their blood and semen for the cover image. You might get AIDS from the album.”
She rubbed the album on him. He backed away, and the album clattered to the floor. Kim laughed at him as he bent to pick it up, “You can’t get AIDS from just touching something,” she changed topics, “What do you want to do? We’ll buy some hot bikinis and then head to the river. We could bring a picnic. Go grab a couple of beers.”
Sam’s heart leaped into his throat. Beer? He didn’t drink.
“That sounds great,” he heard himself say, and he immediately regretted it. Sam’s heart pounded in his chest.
“And I’ve got magic mushrooms at my place that I’ve been saving for a special occasion. We should get those too.”
Sam looked down at his feet. He sighed and looked back up at Kim’s beaming face.
“It’ll be great. Trust me,” she said, “I might even let you listen to Metallica in the car.”
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