but I was still
a long way from downtown. After I passed the turn-off to NASA at
Webster, I counted four malls before I came to the Telephone Road
exit.
I slowed for the exit, turned back to the
left under the Freeway, and started looking for addresses. Hardly
any were posted, but The Sidepocket turned out to be easy to find.
It was practically next door to one of the ten-dollar-an-hour
motels with "FREE IN-ROOM MOVIES." The sign did not add my favorite
line from the ads I'd read in the men's magazines when I was a kid:
"The kind men like!" They might as well have added it, though. I
had a feeling they wouldn't be showing Bambi .
The Sidepocket was a rambling building with
about a fifty-foot front. Half of it was one story, but on the
other half there was an additional level with what might have been
an office, or living quarters, or both. The building was painted a
medium pink, and the roof was green. Or at least that's the way it
looked in the light from the parking lot, what little light there
was. Near the only entrance there was an enormous 8-ball painted on
the wall. Peering over the ball was a strange-looking individual
who appeared to be gripping the ball and hanging his nose over the
top like Kilroy. Only his hands, eyes, nose, and spiky black hair
were visible. The eyes were wide and staring.
In front of the parking lot was that bane of
the Gulf Coast, the portable sign. No one seems to care that every
little wind blows the things all over town, smashing into cars,
heads, and show windows. This one was lit up from the inside, a
bright yellow with black letters stating that tonight's band was
"AMYL NITRATE AND THE WHIPPETS."
I could see that I was in for a real treat.
I could also see that the extension cord from the sign ran right
across the white gravel parking lot to an outlet on the wall of the
building. I wondered how frayed the cord would get from the cars
driving over it and what would happen in a good rainstorm, or if
someone picked it up to move it. Oh well. It wasn't my sign.
For a Tuesday night, the crowd wasn't bad.
There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, and while there
weren't any BMWs, there weren't any '62 Falcons, either. And only
one '79 Subaru.
I parked as close to the building as I could
get and stepped out of the car. The walls weren't vibrating,
exactly, but I swear I could feel the vibrations in the ground
through the soles of my Nikes. It was only then that I thought of
ear plugs, and by then it was much too late. I told myself that I
was a tough P. I. on a case and that ear plugs were for wimps. I
didn't convince myself, but I went on inside.
The lighting was dim, but not too bad. I
could see all I wanted to see. Amyl and the boys were on stage,
flanked by amplifiers the size of the car I had just parked. There
were two guitars, a bass, a drummer, and someone on keyboards. The
lead singer, or screamer, was at the microphone yelling something
about poison and death. He was wearing a leather vest, ripped
jeans, and a survival knife strapped to his right calf. Except for
his head, which was covered with very long black hair, he was
hairless as a snake and just about as skinny. He had the bass. The
other members of the band were just as fashionably dressed, and all
of them sported tattoos--skulls, dragons, tigers--that sort of
thing.
I forced my way through the wall of sound up
to the bar. The bartender looked at me, and I pointed to the Lone
Star sign at his back. He went away and came back with a bottle of
beer and a glass. I didn't need the glass.
I took a swallow of beer from the bottle and
turned to look around. I drink beer only when I can't get Big Red,
and the taste didn't improve my outlook. The crowd was about half
punkers and half headbangers. I felt momentarily disoriented, as if
I'd wandered onto the set of some B-grade rip-off of the Mad Max
movies. One of the punks had hair that looked like Tina Turner's
might, if Tina had stuck her finger in a light socket. Another
a long way from downtown. After I passed the turn-off to NASA at
Webster, I counted four malls before I came to the Telephone Road
exit.
I slowed for the exit, turned back to the
left under the Freeway, and started looking for addresses. Hardly
any were posted, but The Sidepocket turned out to be easy to find.
It was practically next door to one of the ten-dollar-an-hour
motels with "FREE IN-ROOM MOVIES." The sign did not add my favorite
line from the ads I'd read in the men's magazines when I was a kid:
"The kind men like!" They might as well have added it, though. I
had a feeling they wouldn't be showing Bambi .
The Sidepocket was a rambling building with
about a fifty-foot front. Half of it was one story, but on the
other half there was an additional level with what might have been
an office, or living quarters, or both. The building was painted a
medium pink, and the roof was green. Or at least that's the way it
looked in the light from the parking lot, what little light there
was. Near the only entrance there was an enormous 8-ball painted on
the wall. Peering over the ball was a strange-looking individual
who appeared to be gripping the ball and hanging his nose over the
top like Kilroy. Only his hands, eyes, nose, and spiky black hair
were visible. The eyes were wide and staring.
In front of the parking lot was that bane of
the Gulf Coast, the portable sign. No one seems to care that every
little wind blows the things all over town, smashing into cars,
heads, and show windows. This one was lit up from the inside, a
bright yellow with black letters stating that tonight's band was
"AMYL NITRATE AND THE WHIPPETS."
I could see that I was in for a real treat.
I could also see that the extension cord from the sign ran right
across the white gravel parking lot to an outlet on the wall of the
building. I wondered how frayed the cord would get from the cars
driving over it and what would happen in a good rainstorm, or if
someone picked it up to move it. Oh well. It wasn't my sign.
For a Tuesday night, the crowd wasn't bad.
There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, and while there
weren't any BMWs, there weren't any '62 Falcons, either. And only
one '79 Subaru.
I parked as close to the building as I could
get and stepped out of the car. The walls weren't vibrating,
exactly, but I swear I could feel the vibrations in the ground
through the soles of my Nikes. It was only then that I thought of
ear plugs, and by then it was much too late. I told myself that I
was a tough P. I. on a case and that ear plugs were for wimps. I
didn't convince myself, but I went on inside.
The lighting was dim, but not too bad. I
could see all I wanted to see. Amyl and the boys were on stage,
flanked by amplifiers the size of the car I had just parked. There
were two guitars, a bass, a drummer, and someone on keyboards. The
lead singer, or screamer, was at the microphone yelling something
about poison and death. He was wearing a leather vest, ripped
jeans, and a survival knife strapped to his right calf. Except for
his head, which was covered with very long black hair, he was
hairless as a snake and just about as skinny. He had the bass. The
other members of the band were just as fashionably dressed, and all
of them sported tattoos--skulls, dragons, tigers--that sort of
thing.
I forced my way through the wall of sound up
to the bar. The bartender looked at me, and I pointed to the Lone
Star sign at his back. He went away and came back with a bottle of
beer and a glass. I didn't need the glass.
I took a swallow of beer from the bottle and
turned to look around. I drink beer only when I can't get Big Red,
and the taste didn't improve my outlook. The crowd was about half
punkers and half headbangers. I felt momentarily disoriented, as if
I'd wandered onto the set of some B-grade rip-off of the Mad Max
movies. One of the punks had hair that looked like Tina Turner's
might, if Tina had stuck her finger in a light socket. Another
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