Read Online Au Revoir, Crazy European Chick by Joe Schreiber - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joe Schreiber
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he seemed to think this was 1985, when his parents had been his age.
With the downtown crowd continuing to ignore him, Sasha decided to give formal notice that the show was about to begin. He communicated this by executing a flying roundhouse kick, letting out a Comanche warrior's shriek, and picking up a Stratocaster, an instrument I'd seen him play only when he was drinking tequila and the guitar itself was invisible. Meanwhile, behind him, Norrie attacked the bass. Caleb, normally our lead guitarist, had settled himself behind the drums.
That was when I realized that in my absence, Norrie had reassigned instruments. The only reason I recognized the results—a cover of Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart"—was that we'd planned on opening with it.
The crowd responded by continuing to ignore them, slightly more aggressively.
Remembering the plastic explosives in the basement of my house, I turned back to my mother, who appeared to be on the verge of tears. "Mom, where's Annie?"
"What?"
" Where's Annie? "
"She's at home."
"In the house?"
"Yes, Perry, that's usually where people are when they're at home."
"You need to call her and tell her to get out of there, right now!"
"I can't hear you over this racket!"
"I said—"
Dad appeared between us, blocking Mom out entirely. He leaned in close so that I could hear him. "Perry. We need to talk."
"Dad—"
"Those things that Gobi was talking about, I don't know where she heard them or what she thinks she knows, but those were legitimate business trips."
"Dad," I said, "you're obviously lying, but right now I couldn't care less."
Holy shit—had I just said that? I was still trying to figure out whether the actual words had left my lips when my dad grabbed me by my tuxedo shirt and shook me, slightly harder than I'd expected. I knew that he went to the gym, but he was also fifty-two years old and his favorite foods were bourbon and bacon.
"Now you listen to me," he said. "I'm your father and right now you are way off the reservation on this one—you understand?"
Over his shoulder I saw Gobi come out of the crowd. She froze and looked at us, and I saw she was holding what looked like a taser, pointing it at my dad's neck. I shook my head sharply.
"No?" Dad asked, misinterpreting my head shake. "Well, let me make it crystal clear. As long as you live under my roof, you will obey certain rules. You're not a child anymore. Your music, this little game you play, is over. It's time to focus on more pressing matters."
I glanced back at Gobi again. A man in a leather jacket had appeared behind her. He was probably in his twenties, and his face looked like a sculpture made by a disturbed metal-shop student with a fond ness for veins. His haircut was shellacked with gel product, giving it the resinous, bulletproof appearance of a Ken doll's. At that exact same moment, a second man, the same age, with eyes cut out of the same semicolorless agate, materialized to my immediate right. He wore a barn coat and his shoulders gave him the tight, heavy look of a man who'd done prison time, maybe a lot of it. A teardrop tattoo was suspended under his left eye. There was a density about both of them that made me think of guns concealed under layers of Teflon and Kevlar.
I thought instantly about the black Humvee.
"Are you even listening to me?" Dad asked. "I'm talking to you."
"Dad, we have to get out of here."
I looked for Gobi, but she had vanished. But not Teardrop Tattoo. He was striding straight toward me with an expression of dawning purpose, as if every nagging uncertainty in his life, every unresolved question and crisis of faith, had been answered in the form of the idea of kicking my ass. He shoved my dad aside without even looking at him, and my dad, for his part, went over without a bit of resistance.
Teardrop Tattoo locked eyes with me, and I saw my own death reflected there. It was not heroic or meaningful or even particularly interesting, just bloody, painful,
With the downtown crowd continuing to ignore him, Sasha decided to give formal notice that the show was about to begin. He communicated this by executing a flying roundhouse kick, letting out a Comanche warrior's shriek, and picking up a Stratocaster, an instrument I'd seen him play only when he was drinking tequila and the guitar itself was invisible. Meanwhile, behind him, Norrie attacked the bass. Caleb, normally our lead guitarist, had settled himself behind the drums.
That was when I realized that in my absence, Norrie had reassigned instruments. The only reason I recognized the results—a cover of Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart"—was that we'd planned on opening with it.
The crowd responded by continuing to ignore them, slightly more aggressively.
Remembering the plastic explosives in the basement of my house, I turned back to my mother, who appeared to be on the verge of tears. "Mom, where's Annie?"
"What?"
" Where's Annie? "
"She's at home."
"In the house?"
"Yes, Perry, that's usually where people are when they're at home."
"You need to call her and tell her to get out of there, right now!"
"I can't hear you over this racket!"
"I said—"
Dad appeared between us, blocking Mom out entirely. He leaned in close so that I could hear him. "Perry. We need to talk."
"Dad—"
"Those things that Gobi was talking about, I don't know where she heard them or what she thinks she knows, but those were legitimate business trips."
"Dad," I said, "you're obviously lying, but right now I couldn't care less."
Holy shit—had I just said that? I was still trying to figure out whether the actual words had left my lips when my dad grabbed me by my tuxedo shirt and shook me, slightly harder than I'd expected. I knew that he went to the gym, but he was also fifty-two years old and his favorite foods were bourbon and bacon.
"Now you listen to me," he said. "I'm your father and right now you are way off the reservation on this one—you understand?"
Over his shoulder I saw Gobi come out of the crowd. She froze and looked at us, and I saw she was holding what looked like a taser, pointing it at my dad's neck. I shook my head sharply.
"No?" Dad asked, misinterpreting my head shake. "Well, let me make it crystal clear. As long as you live under my roof, you will obey certain rules. You're not a child anymore. Your music, this little game you play, is over. It's time to focus on more pressing matters."
I glanced back at Gobi again. A man in a leather jacket had appeared behind her. He was probably in his twenties, and his face looked like a sculpture made by a disturbed metal-shop student with a fond ness for veins. His haircut was shellacked with gel product, giving it the resinous, bulletproof appearance of a Ken doll's. At that exact same moment, a second man, the same age, with eyes cut out of the same semicolorless agate, materialized to my immediate right. He wore a barn coat and his shoulders gave him the tight, heavy look of a man who'd done prison time, maybe a lot of it. A teardrop tattoo was suspended under his left eye. There was a density about both of them that made me think of guns concealed under layers of Teflon and Kevlar.
I thought instantly about the black Humvee.
"Are you even listening to me?" Dad asked. "I'm talking to you."
"Dad, we have to get out of here."
I looked for Gobi, but she had vanished. But not Teardrop Tattoo. He was striding straight toward me with an expression of dawning purpose, as if every nagging uncertainty in his life, every unresolved question and crisis of faith, had been answered in the form of the idea of kicking my ass. He shoved my dad aside without even looking at him, and my dad, for his part, went over without a bit of resistance.
Teardrop Tattoo locked eyes with me, and I saw my own death reflected there. It was not heroic or meaningful or even particularly interesting, just bloody, painful,
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