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a small Peavey amp and a microphone that was held together with duct tape. It was on the mic-stand I helped Don steal from the music room at school.

  Michael was sitting on the couch with a Korean girl named Alice and her friend who was smoking a menthol cigarette with exaggerated pleasure. Alice was Kid Karl’s girlfriend, I didn’t catch the other girl’s name. Next to Michael, a kid with short blonde hair sat on his skateboard. He was wearing a Sideout T-shirt and had his pants folded tight around his ankles. He said his name was Brian.

  “What about Who Robbed The Bake Sale? That would go good after Abortions.” Kid Karl suggested.

  “Yeah, but I was thinking You Forgot to Feed Me, that way it’s not a total speed-fest, ya’ know? I think sometimes you gotta break that stuff up or people get used to it.” Scott said. The other two nodded in agreement. I sat down on my skate next to the nameless girl and lit a cigarette of my own. I’d walked down in the middle of one of their songs and I think the interruption had irritated Scott. He was very serious about Eat Feet. “Let’s do Box Lunch At The Y and call it a day.” He said.

  They sounded like the Dead Kennedys, only the guitar wasn’t as good and you couldn’t understand what Scott was screaming. He tended to separate all the syllables in every word, creating percussive yelps, and then he’d suddenly squeeze three sentences into one bar of music and draw out the last word into a comic warble. He was good, but the real star of the band was Kid Karl. He could play so hard and fast that if he wasn’t sitting in front of you, grinding his teeth and wailing away, you’d swear it was a machine. Don looked like he might be playing for the school marching band. He would stand there looking down at his bass and nonchalantly let his fingers pluck the four fat strings in rhythm.

  When the song was over Scott turned to Don. “That transition to the bridge is sounding tighter. We’ve got the party on Friday so we’ll have another chance to practice it before the gig on Saturday. I’m not worried though, I think it’s ready.”

  “Yeah it’s ready man, don’t sweat it.” Don said. “Why d’you always get so nervous before a club gig? If we play it like a party, it’ll go good. When we start stressin’ the little details the songs come out all stiff and shit. You worry too much.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, “you’re right. I just don’t want to sound sloppy.”

  “You obviously never heard The Misfits live album.” Don said.

  Kid Karl stood up. “Good practice,” he said to Scott and Don. He asked Alice if she was ready to go and she said yes, and she and her friend gathered their bags and headed toward the stairs with Karl close behind. “We’re going over to the Bumblebee.” Kid Karl said. “It’s open mic tonight and Alice is going to read some of her poetry, if you guys want to come.”

  “Nah,” Don said, “we’ve got an appointment with a fatty.”

  “Don’t you have enough brain damage as it is?”

  “NO!” Don yelled. Kid Karl and the two girls went up the stairs and Don came over and sat on the couch. He removed an extraordinarily fat joint from his cigarette pack and held it up. “This,” he said, “was rolled especially for you. It’s been a fuck-of-a long time since we’ve sparked one together.”

  “Would you just light the fucking spliff?” Michael said.

  “No.” Don said. “Nick should light it.”

  He handed it to me and I thanked him and lit the thing. I took a couple of puffs and passed to Don on my left. Scott pulled a chair over and sat near Brian. The joint went around four times before it was out. The whole basement was filled with smoke.

  “Hey Don,” Brian said, “can’t your mom smell that?”

  “She don’t care.” Scott said. “She’ll come down here and ask for a hit. I’ve gotten high with Mrs. Parker before.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Don said. “You never got high with my mom.”

  “What about that time she took us to the movies?” Scott asked.

  “We were high and she was high, that’s not the same thing as getting high together.” Don said.

  “If you say so man.” Scott leaned back in the chair. “Hey, are we gonna skate or sit around discussing your mom’s drug habits?”

  “Brian here says he knows a rich kid up on Mendocino that’s got a half pipe.” Michael said. “We should knock on his door and see if he’s cool.”

  “Is it vert?” Scott asked.

  “No,” Brian said, “I mean yes, it’s vert, but no we shouldn’t just show up at the guy’s house… I only met him a couple of times. His mom makes everyone who skates there sign a waiver, so they’re not exactly, you know, drop-in-any-old-time people.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’re not home.” Michael said. “Call the guy and see. It couldn’t hurt to call.”

  “Well, see, I don’t know his number for one thing, and anyway it’s kinda late.” Brian said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to skate his ramp tonight guys, I mean, even if it’s just him at the house, he’s kinda weird about who he lets skate there, you know?”

  “He sounds like a dick.” Michael said.

  “I guess he is…” Brian said. “His dad killed himself, so that probably fucked him up. He has flashbacks of finding the body.”

  “Whoa,” Scott said, “that’s fucked up. He found the body?”

  “My friend David knew him back then, he told me all about it. The dad figured the maid would find him, but Morris decided to cut school that day so he found him instead. He hung himself in the basement with a note pinned to his shirt.” Brian said.

  Don squinted, trying to imagine the scene. “I wonder what it said.”

  “Actually I know what it said. It’s kinda weird. All it said was I’m Cold.” Brian shrugged. “Not much of a note.”

  “Fuck… No I’m sorry, or it’s not your fault or anything?” Don asked.

  “No, just I’m Cold.” Brian said.

  “That would be a great song. Wouldn’t it?” Scott looked at Don for approval. “I mean I could write two songs worth of lyrics offa that. Fuck, I hope I don’t forget that. I always have the best ideas for songs when I’m high and then I forget what they were. Don, you have to remember that okay? You’ll remember right Don?”

  “Uh, yeah sure. I’m Cold. A suicide song.”

  “Yeah it’ll be from the perspective of a selfish asshole who doesn’t care about his family or his life anymore. He fuckin’ hates what he’s become, like he used to have warm feelings for life but somewhere along the way he went cold. So he ties up a noose and heads to the basement.” Scott said.

  Brian looked nervous. “Um… I don’t think Morris would appreciate you writing a song about his father, I mean, you’re gonna use the suicide note in the song? If he ever hears it he’ll probably freak out or something. He’s been seeing a therapist about it… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “It’s two words.” Scott said, his voice going higher. “I’m Cold. He doesn’t own them. You can’t take those words out of the English language to make Morris feel better. Besides I didn’t know the guy, so it’s not like it’s going to be about him. I’ll change some things. I’ll take, you know, what’s that called?”

  “Artistic License.” I said.

  “Yeah, Artistic License. I’ll make the guy shoot himself instead of hang himself.” He said.

  “Don’t look so worried Brian, no one can understand what this motherfucker’s saying anyway.” Michael added.

  “This shit’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.” Don said. “let’s get out of here.”

  We spilled into Don’s kitchen and out the back door. It was a warm clear night, and I was so high I thought I was skating good.

  Of course we wound up at the grotto. No half pipe that night. Scott was a good skater but Michael was better. Michael could ollie incredibly high and even though he often stumbled or fell, it was always in an attempt to do something outrageous or unheard of. Brian seemed pretty good too -at least better than me.

  Monday morning I woke up around ten.
I looked at the notebook paper that Michael had given me. It read: 1984 Chevy Cavalier Hatchback, excellent cond. AM/FM cassette and air. 50 K miles. $2,000 OBO. I decided it could go into the paper as it was, with my phone number which I had to look up. I got a newspaper out of Kate’s recycling bin and found the classified section. There was a number to call to place ads and I dialed it nervously. I thought somehow whoever answered would be able to tell I was running a scam.

  The lady told me it cost six dollars for up to twelve words and a dollar a word after that. She said I could pay by credit card or have the bill added to my account at the end of the month if I was a subscriber. I placed the ad and had it billed to my mother’s account, which I knew I’d have to explain somehow. I was in for seven dollars now, so if we didn’t sell the car I’d lose money on the deal. As I hung up I knew that I was fully committed to this dodgy scheme. My number would appear in the Los Angeles Times tomorrow morning, to be read by thousands upon thousands of people.

  I smoked a thin joint, rolled with the last of the dime bag from Maurice, and had a brilliant jerk-off in the shower. I lounged around the house the rest of the day and did a couple of bad drawings in my notebook. Around five I decided to leave before Kate got home, so I took my skate and headed up the hill. I went to Michael’s house and knocked on his front door. The scrunched face of Michael’s grandmother appeared in the window again. “Who’s there?” She asked.

  “It’s Nick,”