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Authors: Trish Cook
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any rock star I’ve ever seen.”
I scuffed my black Converse against the cement floor. “Bummer.”
I knew the love-at-first-sight—and then without-sight—theory I’d been conjuring up in my head was too good to be true. Because if my blindfolded partner was, say, Mr. Forever 21 Purple Skinny Jeans, we just weren’t going to click on a physical level.
And knowing my luck, the hottie probably wasn’t my partner at all—but he probably was just another dickhead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DECLAN
DAD IS SUCH AN AS SHOLE. I MEAN, I HAD A REALLY great sulk going on that I figured I could keep going more or less until I graduated. I was prepared to stay mad at him, at least on a low level, for many hundreds of days.
And then he had to go and do something really cool. He and his babymama went and bought the single coolest house in our bullshit cookie-cutter suburb. I mean, this thing looked like the Addams Family moved out of it because it was too creepy. It was awesome.
It was also a total wreck. Which I thought was cool—it was more metal that way. I could totally picture Demonic Stain, my new favorite Scandinavian metal band, shooting a video in the entrance hall. When Dad heard me gurgling under my breath about Satan rending my flesh as we walked through, he just smiled and said, “I take it that means you like it?”
“Dad,” I said, “this is the most metal place I have ever even thought of. It’s the most metal place anybody’s ever thought of.”
“Well, Jimmy Page did buy Aleister Crowley’s house,” Dad said, smiling. “I looked into that, but, you know, it turns out to be in another country.”
I cracked up at my dad, the least cool person on Earth, invoking Aleister Crowley, famous English occultist. “Do what thou wilt,” I growled at Dad, because lots of metal bands used that Crowley quote.
“You know, they always get that quote wrong,” Dad said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what he actually said was: ‘Do what thou wilt. This shall be the whole of the law.… Love is the law, love under will.’ Now, I don’t really understand what he’s getting at there, but it’s a little more complicated than just do whatever you feel like. I think he’s working with a different definition of will than the one we use today.”
I was literally speechless. “Who the hell are you, and where’s my dad?”
“Dude,” Dad said in this stoner drawl, “if it has anything to do with Led Zep, I know it.”
Led Zep. I mean, I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that my dad is into some geezer band they play on Cadillac commercials, but it was. I mean, as long as I can remember, Dad’s musical taste has run to Whatever Crap They’re Currently Selling at Starbucks.
So Dad was suddenly acting cool and buying the Mansion of Metal. But then he told me he was going to fix it up, which, I mean, I have to say I understood. I didn’t want my baby brother killing himself on some splintery door frame or getting a shock from the exposed wiring or taking a rusty nail through the foot.
And then he did something else cool. He wanted me to help him fix it up. For money. So I could supplement my sexton salary with some carpentry cash and learn some cool stuff in the process. In the unlikely event that I ever got a date, I might actually have some cash to spend on taking the girl someplace.
They closed on the house in record time—a quick computer search showed it had been on the market for a full five years, so we were in there painting and hammering within two weeks.
“Trust me,” Dad said one day as we were retiling the bathroom, “when you get to be an adult, the ability to do stuff like this will be way more attractive to a woman than the ability to catch a stupid ball.”
I looked at him—what little hair he had on his head was full of dust, his clothes were filthy, and his lush carpet of back hair was poking out of the back of his T-shirt collar—and I figured, well, if this guy can bag a MILF like
I scuffed my black Converse against the cement floor. “Bummer.”
I knew the love-at-first-sight—and then without-sight—theory I’d been conjuring up in my head was too good to be true. Because if my blindfolded partner was, say, Mr. Forever 21 Purple Skinny Jeans, we just weren’t going to click on a physical level.
And knowing my luck, the hottie probably wasn’t my partner at all—but he probably was just another dickhead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DECLAN
DAD IS SUCH AN AS SHOLE. I MEAN, I HAD A REALLY great sulk going on that I figured I could keep going more or less until I graduated. I was prepared to stay mad at him, at least on a low level, for many hundreds of days.
And then he had to go and do something really cool. He and his babymama went and bought the single coolest house in our bullshit cookie-cutter suburb. I mean, this thing looked like the Addams Family moved out of it because it was too creepy. It was awesome.
It was also a total wreck. Which I thought was cool—it was more metal that way. I could totally picture Demonic Stain, my new favorite Scandinavian metal band, shooting a video in the entrance hall. When Dad heard me gurgling under my breath about Satan rending my flesh as we walked through, he just smiled and said, “I take it that means you like it?”
“Dad,” I said, “this is the most metal place I have ever even thought of. It’s the most metal place anybody’s ever thought of.”
“Well, Jimmy Page did buy Aleister Crowley’s house,” Dad said, smiling. “I looked into that, but, you know, it turns out to be in another country.”
I cracked up at my dad, the least cool person on Earth, invoking Aleister Crowley, famous English occultist. “Do what thou wilt,” I growled at Dad, because lots of metal bands used that Crowley quote.
“You know, they always get that quote wrong,” Dad said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what he actually said was: ‘Do what thou wilt. This shall be the whole of the law.… Love is the law, love under will.’ Now, I don’t really understand what he’s getting at there, but it’s a little more complicated than just do whatever you feel like. I think he’s working with a different definition of will than the one we use today.”
I was literally speechless. “Who the hell are you, and where’s my dad?”
“Dude,” Dad said in this stoner drawl, “if it has anything to do with Led Zep, I know it.”
Led Zep. I mean, I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that my dad is into some geezer band they play on Cadillac commercials, but it was. I mean, as long as I can remember, Dad’s musical taste has run to Whatever Crap They’re Currently Selling at Starbucks.
So Dad was suddenly acting cool and buying the Mansion of Metal. But then he told me he was going to fix it up, which, I mean, I have to say I understood. I didn’t want my baby brother killing himself on some splintery door frame or getting a shock from the exposed wiring or taking a rusty nail through the foot.
And then he did something else cool. He wanted me to help him fix it up. For money. So I could supplement my sexton salary with some carpentry cash and learn some cool stuff in the process. In the unlikely event that I ever got a date, I might actually have some cash to spend on taking the girl someplace.
They closed on the house in record time—a quick computer search showed it had been on the market for a full five years, so we were in there painting and hammering within two weeks.
“Trust me,” Dad said one day as we were retiling the bathroom, “when you get to be an adult, the ability to do stuff like this will be way more attractive to a woman than the ability to catch a stupid ball.”
I looked at him—what little hair he had on his head was full of dust, his clothes were filthy, and his lush carpet of back hair was poking out of the back of his T-shirt collar—and I figured, well, if this guy can bag a MILF like
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