who hadn’t yet been touched and tarnished by a misogynistic porn king. I existed free and clean of Ken Humes before, back when hair metal ruled, and so maybe I can again.
They call this nostalgia, Portia , I tell myself, banging my head to the beat, and it feels great. Like being a kid again.
Tommy probably gets his ass kicked every day at school for liking this old music, instead of Flo Rida or Ke$ha or Justin Bieber or whoever, but I see why Danielle shares it with him.
She gets her ass kicked every day at the diner too, no doubt—just because she’s a woman and poor.
My tongue is out as I switch from air guitar to air drums, which is perfectly acceptable when you are rocking out with friends and their children to metal.
I think about Gloria Steinem and how metal objectifies women constantly as we all chant, “Girls rock your boys!”
But I also catch my reflection in the mirror—me in the old white jean jacket with my mane of hair rising and falling to my head banging, nose scrunched, eyes squinted in some sort of “cool face”—and I tell myself just to rock.
Even though he is wearing a mask, I can tell Tommy is smiling, and Danielle is too as she sings into her invisible microphone.
This is what these people have.
All they have.
And right now, it’s what I have too.
The song ends, and we give ourselves a round of applause.
“Did you feel it?” Tommy says to me as he pulls off his Quiet Riot mask. “The noize ? ”
I nod and even tousle the kid’s hair.
What the hell was that? I’m never affectionate with children.
“Time for bed. You can show Ms. Kane your bedroom, and then it’s lights out, mister!”
“Uncle Chuck made this when he was little.” Tommy hands me the mask.
I look at the inside and read these words:
C h uck Bass
Quiet Riot Rocks!
1983
“I turned twelve in 1983,” I say absentmindedly.
“So did I, remember?” Danielle answers.
“The mask keeps the bad dreams away.” Tommy snatches it out of my hands. “Uncle Chuck promised. And it’s true!”
Danielle smiles at me, and we follow Tommy into his bedroom. He jumps up on his bed and hangs the mask on a nail over the headboard, just like in the old music video where the kid wakes up, his room is shaking, and the band finally breaks through the walls.
I think about Chuck being a boy himself, watching that video on MTV just like Danielle and I did, back in the day.
“Uncle Chuck made the mask. He sleeps over there.” Tommy points to the single bed on the other side of the room. Over the headboard hangs a collection of everyday objects painted in bright colors on little four-by-four-inch canvases: a cell phone, a TV remote, a coffee filter. Weird.
“This is actually Chuck’s place,” Danielle says. “We’re temporary guests.”
“I like living with Uncle Chuck!” Tommy says as he slides into his bed.
“You better scrub those pearly whites!” Danielle says and begins to tickle Tommy. “I don’t kiss boys with rotten teeth!”
When Tommy runs into the bathroom, I return to the futon and wait for Danielle.
I wonder why Tommy sleeps in Chuck’s room and not Danielle’s.
A few minutes later Tommy comes out in PJs to give me a kiss on the cheek, says, “Keep rocking, Ms. Kane,” gives me the devil horns, which I return twofold, and runs back into his bedroom. I hear Danielle reading a book to him—something about a shark who wants to be a librarian and makes books out of shells and seaweed so that she can teach fish to read, because literate fish “taste better,” which seems like a very creepy children’s book. Danielle seems to be rushing the story a little, like she’d rather be out here with me.
As I wait, I start to think about Mr. Vernon again, and I wonder if he’s dead. Could the news be that dramatic? I mean, it’s been more than twenty years.
Danielle returns. “Jack on the rocks?”
“Hell, yes.” I join her in the kitchen, which is just the
They call this nostalgia, Portia , I tell myself, banging my head to the beat, and it feels great. Like being a kid again.
Tommy probably gets his ass kicked every day at school for liking this old music, instead of Flo Rida or Ke$ha or Justin Bieber or whoever, but I see why Danielle shares it with him.
She gets her ass kicked every day at the diner too, no doubt—just because she’s a woman and poor.
My tongue is out as I switch from air guitar to air drums, which is perfectly acceptable when you are rocking out with friends and their children to metal.
I think about Gloria Steinem and how metal objectifies women constantly as we all chant, “Girls rock your boys!”
But I also catch my reflection in the mirror—me in the old white jean jacket with my mane of hair rising and falling to my head banging, nose scrunched, eyes squinted in some sort of “cool face”—and I tell myself just to rock.
Even though he is wearing a mask, I can tell Tommy is smiling, and Danielle is too as she sings into her invisible microphone.
This is what these people have.
All they have.
And right now, it’s what I have too.
The song ends, and we give ourselves a round of applause.
“Did you feel it?” Tommy says to me as he pulls off his Quiet Riot mask. “The noize ? ”
I nod and even tousle the kid’s hair.
What the hell was that? I’m never affectionate with children.
“Time for bed. You can show Ms. Kane your bedroom, and then it’s lights out, mister!”
“Uncle Chuck made this when he was little.” Tommy hands me the mask.
I look at the inside and read these words:
C h uck Bass
Quiet Riot Rocks!
1983
“I turned twelve in 1983,” I say absentmindedly.
“So did I, remember?” Danielle answers.
“The mask keeps the bad dreams away.” Tommy snatches it out of my hands. “Uncle Chuck promised. And it’s true!”
Danielle smiles at me, and we follow Tommy into his bedroom. He jumps up on his bed and hangs the mask on a nail over the headboard, just like in the old music video where the kid wakes up, his room is shaking, and the band finally breaks through the walls.
I think about Chuck being a boy himself, watching that video on MTV just like Danielle and I did, back in the day.
“Uncle Chuck made the mask. He sleeps over there.” Tommy points to the single bed on the other side of the room. Over the headboard hangs a collection of everyday objects painted in bright colors on little four-by-four-inch canvases: a cell phone, a TV remote, a coffee filter. Weird.
“This is actually Chuck’s place,” Danielle says. “We’re temporary guests.”
“I like living with Uncle Chuck!” Tommy says as he slides into his bed.
“You better scrub those pearly whites!” Danielle says and begins to tickle Tommy. “I don’t kiss boys with rotten teeth!”
When Tommy runs into the bathroom, I return to the futon and wait for Danielle.
I wonder why Tommy sleeps in Chuck’s room and not Danielle’s.
A few minutes later Tommy comes out in PJs to give me a kiss on the cheek, says, “Keep rocking, Ms. Kane,” gives me the devil horns, which I return twofold, and runs back into his bedroom. I hear Danielle reading a book to him—something about a shark who wants to be a librarian and makes books out of shells and seaweed so that she can teach fish to read, because literate fish “taste better,” which seems like a very creepy children’s book. Danielle seems to be rushing the story a little, like she’d rather be out here with me.
As I wait, I start to think about Mr. Vernon again, and I wonder if he’s dead. Could the news be that dramatic? I mean, it’s been more than twenty years.
Danielle returns. “Jack on the rocks?”
“Hell, yes.” I join her in the kitchen, which is just the
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