Pinheads
“What the fuck are you doing back here? You aren’t even working tonight.” One of the other managers at Bowlero, the new bowling alley and venue, says to me.
“I’m playin’ tonight.” We all wish we had known the Stools were doin’ a live album recording down at OLL tonight before we booked it though. Rae said Chuck told her before I picked her up that they don’t play till midnight. So the goal is to rush the sets so we can get there in time for their set.
“That explains the war paint on the eyes.” Chip, the mechanic that once got fired as a carny, says as he spits dip into a coffee cup. “Ya know ya got some jeans with those holes though Mike?” Damn. That’s pretty clever.
My mom’s side of the family is down at lane one. And my dad’s side is hangin’ in the lounge. Even my uncle from New Mexico is in town for the holidays. Jordan is setting up the kit. Sound checkin’ the violin. Drew walks into the storage room we use as a green room for bands too. Me and Greg the bartender are hittin’ a vaporizer before I get on stage. We play first. “You see how Drew walked in here man? He walked up like he owns this bitch!”
And the scene really does own this bitch. I’m the bar manager at twenty one. Drew just started training to bartend. Dom works the front desk here and there. Everyone else askin’ if we can pull some strings to get them hired or booked. Just waitin’ on Sugar Tradition. Gotta make sure they don’t get carded. The kids are still in high school. And we’re eighteen up. Like the owners would really care though. They got history too. One of ‘em owning the Garden Bowl. The other is one of the top lawyers in Oakland County. Used to own the Falcon Club in Hamtramck in the nineties. Actually even was Johnny’s lawyer to get Outer Limits their liquor license.
We open with “Haunted House.” I’m fuckin’ baked. And already forgettin’ the lyrics. That shot of jezy Greg fed me probably didn’t help. Nobody is here yet besides my family. A few members of the Hand. And some Royal Oakies waitin’ on lanes that don’t understand what the fuck is happening. We’re botchin’ even our classics. At least the Oakies are gettin’ a real weird show.
Yelp into a drone cover of “Real Cool Time” as Jordan saws away at his violin behind me. Antonio rollin’ across the stage in front of me. Glad they got in alright.
Fuck it. We got a show to get to tonight. “This is gonna be our last one.” A piece of glitter falls into the corner of my eye. “It’s about when it’s five am. You’re blacked out. Shirtless. Pissin’ on the side of a 7-11. Smokin’ a spliff. Shotgunnin’ a tall boi. If you could all raise your drinks.” Rip through “Miller High Life” before boltin’ for a cig while Sugar Tradition sets up.
“Dude!” Jordan says to me as we load some gear into the car. “I think that was the worst set we ever played.”
Dee comes up behind us. “What are you talkin’ about? That’s the best part about Just Guys Being Dudes. There’s no bad sets. Every set is it’s own experience. I really dug it. The owner was behind me and Rae vibin’ too.”
Take a drag. “Thanks Dee. That means a lot to me.”
Walk back inside. Didn’t even realize how many people had showed up. Sean’s dad, my old high school film teacher, is here. Still doesn’t know he showed my dick at the student film show at the end of the year. Even fuckin’ Ian Ruhala showed his bitch ass. There’s no way that was coincidental. Not when his girlfriend’s sister is performing with Zilched at the Stools show. Joey’s gonna lose his shit when he gets here from the wedding.
“That was sick Michael!” My coworker Reagan says to me. “Wanna celebrate by doin’ a shot of Jager with me? You don’t even gotta give me a drink ticket.” I’m about to be trashed tonight. What am I talkin’ about? I already am.
“Why not? I’m gonna need seven shots of jezy too though.”
“Wakin’ up I got a nothin’ to do!” Sugar T kicks into one of their many rippers.
Cy, my GM, walks over to me. “These guys are really good.” I can barely make out her words over Kevin’s spastic style of jazz drumming. “They’re like a psychedelic Mudhoney.”
“Yeah. They’re also only seventeen too. Don’t tell the managers though I booked some minors.”
She laughs. “Nobody should be that good at that young of an age. Do they have a CD?”
“Nah. We put out their debut album on the cassette label I’m helping run though.”
“What the fuck are you kids doing making cassettes again?”
“Cause they’re fuckin’ sick! You wanna hear this fuzz on something just as fuzzy. We don’t wanna clean this noise up!”
Walk back to center stage. Jake is in the corner with Evan. Owen layin’ on the floor in front of the couch. Crossed the border for this night. On the couch next to Rae is Joey Molloy goin’ hard to Sugar Tradition’s set. Gotta love Joey. Nobody goes as hard at a show as good ol’ Joey Molloy. Bleached tufts of hair whippin’ through the air the same way their brain whips back and forth in the skull. Everyone takes the Polish, purple nectar. Jeżynówka. A Hamtramck staple. A little piece of home all the way out here.
Joey walks in, still in his suit, and helps Drew wheel three cabs into the crammed lounge as I meet Antonio at the merch table. They spent over a mill on this remodel. And the Hand is about to shatter all the windows here when they hit their first note. This will be the first and last time they let a stoner metal band in here. TJ stoned as fuck on the floor testin’ out the Juno. Sean, equally as baked, clicks open the briefcase synth he made.
“Yoo Antonio. Whenever you guys are ready I’ll take you to the office so the manager can cut you a check. You just gotta fill out some tax forms.”
“Shit… This is like a legit gig then?”
We weave through the overfilled lounge. Drunks and stoners attempt to file towards the stage. BO and fuzz forcin’ the yuppies to wait for their lanes elsewhere. Tonight, this bitch is ours.
Paperclips and loose change vibrate their way off the desk in the office as the Hand strikes their first drone. “Wait… Kev,” Antonio spins in the desk chair. “What’s my social security number?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“You guys don’t know your social security numbers? How?”
“Dude. We’re in high school. We’ve never had to use ‘em before.”
“Honestly,” my coworker cuts in. “We don’t really need the W-9. If you take it with you and bring it back in a couple days it’s probably fine. But I really don’t give a shit if you do.”
Head back to the bar. All the freaks headbang in unison to Joey’s screams before Drew rips into a solo. Greg hands over two shots before I even flag him down. “I knew Drew was gonna shred because he never talks about his band. The quiet ones always shred. Good job putting this together Mike. Not a huge drinking crowd. But I’ll take a chill night. Gettin’ stoned to some chuggin’ bands whenever it comes.”
Or at least I think that’s what he said. I can’t hear over the riff. Hail the fuckin’ riff! Wrappin’ it just before midnight. Nobody says goodbye to each other before we all dip. It’s every man for himself. Drag racin’ down I-75 to get to OLL. Somewhere in the night Caveman Woodman is yellin’ about the Stools tellin’ folks to fuck off if they think rock n’ roll is dead.
Walk into Outer Limits greeted by the familiar unbearable humidity of a crowd of familiar faces. Not a single face you don’t recognize. Greeted with a free Stroh’s and shot of Hornito’s courtesy of Johnny. Kid Infinity on the stoop of the stage. Documenting the entire night on camera. 208. The Long Stairs. The rest of the Waterheads. Everyone from the Bowlero show there too. Sweat gluing bodies together as flesh meets flesh. “This one’s about a spooky dream Will had!” KQ shouts into the mic as Chuck uses his already soaked shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. As Will’s screeching guitar bends, cuing “Black Fly Stew.” Two step tune off their latest seven inch from Third Man Records. Jack White may be a prick. But he sure puts out some good ass music.
This time I’m not gonna concuss myself on Joey Molloy’s eye socket. They speed and slop their way through their discography. Dig into some tracks Will claims are older than some of us. Kirk recording every second through the soundboard to be put out on Chuck’s cassette label Painter’s Tapes. “How does two more sound?” KQ asks after finishing up a version of “Q-Nails” that’s half the length of the studio version. But still has all the original notes. Bodies make their way off the concrete ground to their feet. Stomachs cramp from downin’ Stroh’s. Lungs attempt to catch their breath. Jake yells back to ‘em “Eat shit Mike Duggan!” We don’t need no curfew. Unplug us and we’ll scream louder.
Mikey of the Waterheads discusses Sigmund Freud on the patio while we all pass joints to each other. Never give those lungs a break. Kyle of 208 passes out Remove Records t-shirts. Tells us none of us need to pay for ‘em. But we all force money into his hands. “This is what the scene is about man.” My words come out half coherent.
“Exactly! That’s why I’m so glad me and Shelby came here from Florida. This is what music should be about! Community. Doing it for each other. Fuckin’ being there! Cause without each other, none of what’s goin’ on is possible. We’re like one big, happy, chaotic family!”
Jake punches my shoulder at the bar. Radiating the energy of the Bananas in Pajamas. A loose and excitable toddler ready to play. We each get a shot of jezy. “You here anything yet about HMF Nips?”
“Nah. I saw they ‘leaked’ some of the lineup. But it was all like Hala. Legume. Who Boy. The indie bands ya know.”
“See. And that’s what’s fucked man! They don’t fuckin’ get it like we do. We’re out here every fuckin’ night playin’ these joints. We’re all at every show for each other. They make one appearance a month. Half the time not even in Hamtramck. They don’t support each other. They’re in it for the clout! And fuckin’ Who Boy gets picked before any of us?! That’s fucked up man.”
“It is dude. But don’t worry so much about it. I’m sure it’ll all pan out for us. Cause we get it. And they don’t. You wanna come over to my place after? Make some pancakes or some shit?”
“Oh heeeellll yeah! Pancakes at Belmont. I’ll rally the troops. We gettin’ trashed tonight!”
As if we aren’t already. Rip through a fifty pack of whip-its in twenty minutes. Sittin’ around eatin’ pancakes at three in the morning. Listenin’ to the 13th Floor Elevators as Joey tries persuadin’ everyone into watchin’ Pirates of the Caribbean. “Dead Man’s Aaaaasssss…” his whipped voice whispers to every single one of us individually.
Jake does his first popper as if he’s ever huffed it before. Panicking in the barstool in my living room. “I’m sweaty. My head hurts. And my face is hot, man. My face is hot!” Before locking himself in the bathroom with a sealed fifth of tequila. We continue to chainsmoke in the house I rent. No mention of not smokin’ in my lease. Dunkin’ chocolate chip pancakes in a bowl of syrup. He re-emerges from the bathroom. Quarter of the bottle now inside him. Or possibly in my toilet. “Rae. You gotta finish this. I can’t do it.”
Owen spits up on Giovanna while tryin’ to rush to the bathroom. Attempts to wipe the bile off her knee before returning to the cool tile for around the toilet to sleep for the night. Jake arguing with me and Rae about ordering him an Uber home. “You’d fuckin’ love it if I crashed on your futon Nips. You’d fuckin’ love ordering me an Uber home wouldn’t Rae?”
“Jake dude. I don’t know what you want from me man. Your car is at Evan’s anyways.”
“I just wanna shit on my toilet!”
So eventually he consents. Tells Rae he’ll Venmo me the ten bucks she spent on him cause he’s “Venmoed Michael Nipples before.” Even though I’ve never had one. Yells back to us with the passenger door open “what’s its name?” As he struggles to crawl into the whip.
And as Rae and I go to sleep. My phone buzzes with three texts from the drunk Toehead. “Oh ho…”
“Help…”
“We listenin’ to Dough Boyz!”
Fuckin’ idiot. That’s what we all are though. Or at least what we pretend to be.