Read Online Smiths' Meat is Murder by Joe Pernice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Pernice
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the shit,” I snapped, standing almost upright for the necessary extension. I grabbed the smoke, took a long, therapeutic haul and exhaled lamely, “I don’t even know her number.”
“You
cut the shit. You don’t know her number?” Ray said mockingly. “Why don’t you grow yourself a pair of balls? I mean, she’s pretty cool. She’s excellent. And she’s probably into you. So don’t be such a pussy.”
“What do you mean she’s into me? Did she say something to Murph’s sister?” The new light in my eyes must have looked pathetic to Ray.
“No, she didn’t say anything to Murph’s sister. At least not that I know of. Just call her, for fuck’s sake. What’s she going to tell you? Fuck off? Big fuckin’ deal.” He was on a roll, knee-deep in the kind of eloquent language a four-beer buzz brings on. He went on excitedly, using every last molecule of oxygen in his lungs, the way a chain-smoking Italian great aunt does when she’s trying to force a point of gossip across the post-dinner table. “If you don’t call her, some other asshole will, and you, my friend, will sulk the summer away at the Snip and Save with your dick in your hand. And I’ll never hear the end of it. So do it. Do it for my sake. Please. Do it!”
Ray was a good guy, and he was right, about a lot of things. Besides, I’d committed Allison’s number to memory weeks ago.
The next morning around ten, I called Allison’s house but her mother said she was still sleeping. I apologized obsequiously for calling so early. Her mother was really friendly and said it was okay because she’d beenup for hours and that Allison, “Well, Allison could sleep through an atomic bomb.” I made a mental note that Allison was a heavy sleeper. I would have thought the opposite. I left my name and number and hung up feeling like a weight had been shifted off of me and onto Allison. It was her move now.
I went to my room, cranked up the cassette player and plugged in. Figuring out the bass part to ‘What She Said’ had been giving me a lot of trouble. I knew I was biting off too much with this one, but I didn’t see myself as having much choice. I had absolutely no idea when (or if) Charles, the gay track star virtuoso pianist, was going to call me to practice with his band. I wanted to be ready so that I could seem nonchalant, even a bit aloof when he did call.
I had a cheap copy of a Fender Precision bass and a shoe-box sized Ross guitar practice amp. I’d bought the pair for a hundred and fifty bucks from this neighborhood flunky kid who had supposedly gotten his shit in a pile and joined the navy. After a few weeks of intense rock star bashing, I blew the six-inch speaker to shreds, so I had to play without an amp, sitting down, hunched over the bass, with my ear pressed against the body of the guitar. It wasn’t ideal, but in order to make any sound, I was forced to fret the notes more precisely, and my left hand got strong fast. My right hand was already plenty strong.
But I quickly figured out (while on a sneaky reconnaissance mission to reclaim some of my favorite shirts) that my sister Kathryn’s boom box (a Confirmation present from her sponsor) could be used as an amplifier. When she wasn’t around I’d grab it from her room and abuse it. At the most, it was built to handle a vocal microphone at low volume. I punished the fragile circuitry and nipple-sized speakers with countless damaging hertz of low end. I knew I was taking a serious risk because she loved her New Edition, Lisa Lisa and Billy Ocean as much as I loved The Smiths. If anything happened to that boom box, she’d cut me dead in my sleep.
I was pretty excited after talking to Allison’s mother. I knew I had made an okay impression on her with my manners and all, and I hoped she’d tell Allison that I seemed like a nice kid. All of this new positive energy filled me with confidence and focus, more than I’d felt in a while. In about twenty minutes I figured
“You
cut the shit. You don’t know her number?” Ray said mockingly. “Why don’t you grow yourself a pair of balls? I mean, she’s pretty cool. She’s excellent. And she’s probably into you. So don’t be such a pussy.”
“What do you mean she’s into me? Did she say something to Murph’s sister?” The new light in my eyes must have looked pathetic to Ray.
“No, she didn’t say anything to Murph’s sister. At least not that I know of. Just call her, for fuck’s sake. What’s she going to tell you? Fuck off? Big fuckin’ deal.” He was on a roll, knee-deep in the kind of eloquent language a four-beer buzz brings on. He went on excitedly, using every last molecule of oxygen in his lungs, the way a chain-smoking Italian great aunt does when she’s trying to force a point of gossip across the post-dinner table. “If you don’t call her, some other asshole will, and you, my friend, will sulk the summer away at the Snip and Save with your dick in your hand. And I’ll never hear the end of it. So do it. Do it for my sake. Please. Do it!”
Ray was a good guy, and he was right, about a lot of things. Besides, I’d committed Allison’s number to memory weeks ago.
The next morning around ten, I called Allison’s house but her mother said she was still sleeping. I apologized obsequiously for calling so early. Her mother was really friendly and said it was okay because she’d beenup for hours and that Allison, “Well, Allison could sleep through an atomic bomb.” I made a mental note that Allison was a heavy sleeper. I would have thought the opposite. I left my name and number and hung up feeling like a weight had been shifted off of me and onto Allison. It was her move now.
I went to my room, cranked up the cassette player and plugged in. Figuring out the bass part to ‘What She Said’ had been giving me a lot of trouble. I knew I was biting off too much with this one, but I didn’t see myself as having much choice. I had absolutely no idea when (or if) Charles, the gay track star virtuoso pianist, was going to call me to practice with his band. I wanted to be ready so that I could seem nonchalant, even a bit aloof when he did call.
I had a cheap copy of a Fender Precision bass and a shoe-box sized Ross guitar practice amp. I’d bought the pair for a hundred and fifty bucks from this neighborhood flunky kid who had supposedly gotten his shit in a pile and joined the navy. After a few weeks of intense rock star bashing, I blew the six-inch speaker to shreds, so I had to play without an amp, sitting down, hunched over the bass, with my ear pressed against the body of the guitar. It wasn’t ideal, but in order to make any sound, I was forced to fret the notes more precisely, and my left hand got strong fast. My right hand was already plenty strong.
But I quickly figured out (while on a sneaky reconnaissance mission to reclaim some of my favorite shirts) that my sister Kathryn’s boom box (a Confirmation present from her sponsor) could be used as an amplifier. When she wasn’t around I’d grab it from her room and abuse it. At the most, it was built to handle a vocal microphone at low volume. I punished the fragile circuitry and nipple-sized speakers with countless damaging hertz of low end. I knew I was taking a serious risk because she loved her New Edition, Lisa Lisa and Billy Ocean as much as I loved The Smiths. If anything happened to that boom box, she’d cut me dead in my sleep.
I was pretty excited after talking to Allison’s mother. I knew I had made an okay impression on her with my manners and all, and I hoped she’d tell Allison that I seemed like a nice kid. All of this new positive energy filled me with confidence and focus, more than I’d felt in a while. In about twenty minutes I figured
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