ornament boxes loaded up to her chin. I took half of them off her hands.
“Hi, Buddy,” she said, examining my eyes for signs of drug abuse. “How was work?”
“Slow. So how do you like the new tree?” “Well,” she said, kneeling to set down the boxes, “it sure is bigger than the old one.”
After supper I headed out to band practice, my regular destination on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I played lead guitar in a band called Rock-head. Music had filled the void in my life after I quit the football team at the beginning of my junior year. The band seemed to offer all the rewards of football—teamwork, dedication, the promise of glory—without any of the drawbacks, such as coaches, pain, and smelly uniforms.
Halfway down the block from Ed Kelso's house, I could already hear music blasting from the basement. I let myself in through the side door and headed downstairs, the wooden steps throbbing beneath my feet. Ed and Dirk nodded when they saw me, but kept on jamming. They sounded hot together, so hot I was grateful just to be present. They were real musicians, playing on a level I could only dream about. I knew a few fast licks, but I was just a beginner. I didn't even have my own amp.
My friend Ed was the brains behind the band. He was a great rhythm guitarist and the only singer around who could hit all the high notes in a Zeppelin song. He was also overweight and extremely shy, with a bad habit of falling desperately in lovewith girls he'd never met, and becoming furious when they acted like he didn't exist. To cheer himself up, he would get drunk and break some windows. It was an exhausting cycle.
Dirk was a wildman drummer, the only one of us who really looked like a rocker. He had stringy blond hair and a wardrobe of patched jeans and loud dashikis. He claimed to have been stoned since 1974, and although I'd only known him for a few months, I had no reason to doubt his word. He lived in Cranwood and knew Ed from the Minutemen Drum & Bugle Corps. I couldn't imagine Dirk in a lame outfit like that, with tri-corner hats and personalized windbreakers, but he assured me it was totally cool—the girls in the piccolo section really knew how to party.
We only knew eight songs, so practice didn't last very long. When it was over, we made our usual run to the ice cream store in Cranwood where Dirk's girlfriend worked. It was only eight-thirty when we arrived, but Sally flipped the sign on the front window from Open to Closed and locked the door behind us.
“Doesn't matter,” she said. “All they can do is fire me.”
We followed her into the back room. Even at work, Sally dressed in Deadhead clothes: tie-dyed sweatshirt, peasant skirt with long Johns underneath, work boots with orange laces. She had long straight hair and bluejay-feather earrings that dangledpast her shoulders. When she reached for the radio on top of the soft-serve machine, she stood on tiptoes with one leg curved behind her, like a ballerina.
Dirk rolled some joints on a stainless steel table cluttered with stacks of cups, cones, and cake boxes. While we smoked, I told them about my family's new Christmas tree. Dirk and Sally weren't familiar with Bill Floyd, so I had to explain that he worked with my father and was known around town as “Toupee Ray” because of his hairpiece.
“It looks like there's an animal on his head,” Ed said. “A squirrel parted on the side.”
Sally took a hit off the roach and spoke with her breath held in. “So why do you have his tree?”
“His mother died. He didn't want it anymore.”
Dirk scratched his head. He looked like he was taking a hard test. “So wait a minute. How old is this guy?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe like fifty.”
“This guy is fifty years old and living with his mother?”
Ed laughed. His eyes had narrowed to the size of dime slits. “His mother's dead, asshole.”
“But when she was alive he lived with her, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“So why'd he wear a
“Hi, Buddy,” she said, examining my eyes for signs of drug abuse. “How was work?”
“Slow. So how do you like the new tree?” “Well,” she said, kneeling to set down the boxes, “it sure is bigger than the old one.”
After supper I headed out to band practice, my regular destination on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I played lead guitar in a band called Rock-head. Music had filled the void in my life after I quit the football team at the beginning of my junior year. The band seemed to offer all the rewards of football—teamwork, dedication, the promise of glory—without any of the drawbacks, such as coaches, pain, and smelly uniforms.
Halfway down the block from Ed Kelso's house, I could already hear music blasting from the basement. I let myself in through the side door and headed downstairs, the wooden steps throbbing beneath my feet. Ed and Dirk nodded when they saw me, but kept on jamming. They sounded hot together, so hot I was grateful just to be present. They were real musicians, playing on a level I could only dream about. I knew a few fast licks, but I was just a beginner. I didn't even have my own amp.
My friend Ed was the brains behind the band. He was a great rhythm guitarist and the only singer around who could hit all the high notes in a Zeppelin song. He was also overweight and extremely shy, with a bad habit of falling desperately in lovewith girls he'd never met, and becoming furious when they acted like he didn't exist. To cheer himself up, he would get drunk and break some windows. It was an exhausting cycle.
Dirk was a wildman drummer, the only one of us who really looked like a rocker. He had stringy blond hair and a wardrobe of patched jeans and loud dashikis. He claimed to have been stoned since 1974, and although I'd only known him for a few months, I had no reason to doubt his word. He lived in Cranwood and knew Ed from the Minutemen Drum & Bugle Corps. I couldn't imagine Dirk in a lame outfit like that, with tri-corner hats and personalized windbreakers, but he assured me it was totally cool—the girls in the piccolo section really knew how to party.
We only knew eight songs, so practice didn't last very long. When it was over, we made our usual run to the ice cream store in Cranwood where Dirk's girlfriend worked. It was only eight-thirty when we arrived, but Sally flipped the sign on the front window from Open to Closed and locked the door behind us.
“Doesn't matter,” she said. “All they can do is fire me.”
We followed her into the back room. Even at work, Sally dressed in Deadhead clothes: tie-dyed sweatshirt, peasant skirt with long Johns underneath, work boots with orange laces. She had long straight hair and bluejay-feather earrings that dangledpast her shoulders. When she reached for the radio on top of the soft-serve machine, she stood on tiptoes with one leg curved behind her, like a ballerina.
Dirk rolled some joints on a stainless steel table cluttered with stacks of cups, cones, and cake boxes. While we smoked, I told them about my family's new Christmas tree. Dirk and Sally weren't familiar with Bill Floyd, so I had to explain that he worked with my father and was known around town as “Toupee Ray” because of his hairpiece.
“It looks like there's an animal on his head,” Ed said. “A squirrel parted on the side.”
Sally took a hit off the roach and spoke with her breath held in. “So why do you have his tree?”
“His mother died. He didn't want it anymore.”
Dirk scratched his head. He looked like he was taking a hard test. “So wait a minute. How old is this guy?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe like fifty.”
“This guy is fifty years old and living with his mother?”
Ed laughed. His eyes had narrowed to the size of dime slits. “His mother's dead, asshole.”
“But when she was alive he lived with her, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“So why'd he wear a
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