head and blink a few times. “Must be the beer.”
Danielle looks at my full bottle of Budweiser and raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to come over to my apartment? Once I tuck in Jon Bon Jovi here, we can talk about Mr. Vernon if you want. That’s why you came, right? I didn’t bring it up before because”—she shields her mouth with her hand and whispers—“it’s not a story for kids . ”
I nod, and it occurs to me once again that Tommy is a strange little boy. I mean, he gets up in front of strangers and performs but then says nothing during dinner. Come to think of it, he didn’t even eat anything. He just colored in his blank notebook. “Sure,” I answer.
I’m tired and can see that Danielle and I have little in common, but I want to know what happened to Mr. Vernon.
I reach into my purse, which sits next to me on the booth, and finger the little Official Member of the Human Race card, digging the sharp corners into the soft flesh under my fingernail for as long as I can take the pain.
I try to pay, but Danielle explains it’s not necessary since Chuck works here. “One of the very few perks,” she explains. “We eat and drink for free at the Manor.”
Outside we cross the intersection diagonally, little Tommy holding his mother’s hand and yawning now, appearing absolutely exhausted before nine, which is strange for a Saturday night, I think, but then again, he’s a unique kid.
Their apartment is tiny.
A small TV is set up on what looks like a card table. I take in the dusty dorm-room-style metal frame futon, three wooden chairs that look like they are from three different 1950s-era dining room sets, probably all trash-picked, I think. Plastic crates of records—real old-school vinyl—are stacked next to an old record player with huge faux-wood box speakers that appear to predate the Jimmy Carter administration.
When she sees me looking at her collection, Danielle says, “Tommy gets one bedtime song. We rock out every Saturday night. What are you going to pick, Tommy?”
He doesn’t answer, but runs into another room and returns wearing a disturbing mask that looks like it was made from papier-mâché and then spray-painted silver. There are two rectangular eyeholes slanted downward, a ridge for the nose, dozens of holes the size of pinheads where the mouth should be and straps that run around the back of the head.
When Tommy pulls Quiet Riot’s Metal Health album from a crate, I realize that the mask is a damn good representation of the one on the cover we all loved in—was it fifth or sixth grade when that record came out?
Danielle helps him put the record on the turntable. “Do you still love Quiet Riot, Portia?”
“Hell yeah!” I say, forgetting that you aren’t supposed to curse in front of elementary-school kids. “And I bet I know what song you’re going to pick too!”
When I hear the snare and bass drum alternating, I know I’m right.
Tommy’s doing a new show now, with the mask on, which strikes me as more than a little icky—not just this kid’s need for attention, but the fact that he’s wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask and singing about getting wild, wild, wild.
“ Girls rock your boys ,” Danielle sings as she jumps around the room like we did when we were just a little older than Tommy, back when “Cum On Feel the Noize” was being blasted on MTV and every radio station in the country, back in hair metal’s commercial heyday.
And before I know it, I’m jumping around the room too, getting wild, wild, wild, because how can you not jump and sing along with “Cum On Feel the Noize”? That song is genius, a litmus test for your love of life. If you aren’t banging your head to the beat of that tune, you suck.
Suddenly we are all doing the guitar solo—Tommy on the futon,Danielle with one foot on a chair, me kneeling on the floor, because I rock hard—and I think about the pre-Ken poor-metalhead-from–South Jersey days, that hopeful young Portia
Danielle looks at my full bottle of Budweiser and raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to come over to my apartment? Once I tuck in Jon Bon Jovi here, we can talk about Mr. Vernon if you want. That’s why you came, right? I didn’t bring it up before because”—she shields her mouth with her hand and whispers—“it’s not a story for kids . ”
I nod, and it occurs to me once again that Tommy is a strange little boy. I mean, he gets up in front of strangers and performs but then says nothing during dinner. Come to think of it, he didn’t even eat anything. He just colored in his blank notebook. “Sure,” I answer.
I’m tired and can see that Danielle and I have little in common, but I want to know what happened to Mr. Vernon.
I reach into my purse, which sits next to me on the booth, and finger the little Official Member of the Human Race card, digging the sharp corners into the soft flesh under my fingernail for as long as I can take the pain.
I try to pay, but Danielle explains it’s not necessary since Chuck works here. “One of the very few perks,” she explains. “We eat and drink for free at the Manor.”
Outside we cross the intersection diagonally, little Tommy holding his mother’s hand and yawning now, appearing absolutely exhausted before nine, which is strange for a Saturday night, I think, but then again, he’s a unique kid.
Their apartment is tiny.
A small TV is set up on what looks like a card table. I take in the dusty dorm-room-style metal frame futon, three wooden chairs that look like they are from three different 1950s-era dining room sets, probably all trash-picked, I think. Plastic crates of records—real old-school vinyl—are stacked next to an old record player with huge faux-wood box speakers that appear to predate the Jimmy Carter administration.
When she sees me looking at her collection, Danielle says, “Tommy gets one bedtime song. We rock out every Saturday night. What are you going to pick, Tommy?”
He doesn’t answer, but runs into another room and returns wearing a disturbing mask that looks like it was made from papier-mâché and then spray-painted silver. There are two rectangular eyeholes slanted downward, a ridge for the nose, dozens of holes the size of pinheads where the mouth should be and straps that run around the back of the head.
When Tommy pulls Quiet Riot’s Metal Health album from a crate, I realize that the mask is a damn good representation of the one on the cover we all loved in—was it fifth or sixth grade when that record came out?
Danielle helps him put the record on the turntable. “Do you still love Quiet Riot, Portia?”
“Hell yeah!” I say, forgetting that you aren’t supposed to curse in front of elementary-school kids. “And I bet I know what song you’re going to pick too!”
When I hear the snare and bass drum alternating, I know I’m right.
Tommy’s doing a new show now, with the mask on, which strikes me as more than a little icky—not just this kid’s need for attention, but the fact that he’s wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask and singing about getting wild, wild, wild.
“ Girls rock your boys ,” Danielle sings as she jumps around the room like we did when we were just a little older than Tommy, back when “Cum On Feel the Noize” was being blasted on MTV and every radio station in the country, back in hair metal’s commercial heyday.
And before I know it, I’m jumping around the room too, getting wild, wild, wild, because how can you not jump and sing along with “Cum On Feel the Noize”? That song is genius, a litmus test for your love of life. If you aren’t banging your head to the beat of that tune, you suck.
Suddenly we are all doing the guitar solo—Tommy on the futon,Danielle with one foot on a chair, me kneeling on the floor, because I rock hard—and I think about the pre-Ken poor-metalhead-from–South Jersey days, that hopeful young Portia
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