The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk

 

by Ed Peaco

Published by The Writing Disorder 

Spring 2021

http://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction/

According to Amazon, the score of Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring cost $14.93 in paperback. This discovery delighted guitarist Franko Tucker, a self-branded prog-punk musician who was hipped to Stravinsky by Hermes Agee, a young Franko fan and fellow guitarist, though classically trained. From their friendship, they decided to make a punk version of The Rite of Spring for Franko’s band, Franko and the Futile. Franko had just turned 30 and wondering what he’d accomplished in life, and he realized he needed Hermy’s conservatory expertise to pull it off.

Franko, a tattooed stick figure of a man whose main nutrition came from bar food or what could be eaten quickly from a can, was squabbling with The Futile over whether to work up The Rite of Spring or play covers of songs people liked and knew. The Futile (prematurely balding drummer Merk Moskwa with his fedora, and Fletcher Harrington on bass with a heavy keychain slung over his hip) weren’t getting how cool The Rite of Spring could be. Franko settled the matter when Hermy, back from Berklee for the summer, insisted on Stravinsky and insisted to be there to avoid total collapse.

Hermy, currently wearing a man bun and a vintage sport jacket with elbow patches, had enlisted two players from his former high-school group, the Teen Strings, to make the effort sound more or less like Stravinsky. He demonstrated on his tablet with a music keyboard.

While Hermy was a necessity, Franko sometimes found him arrogant, an egghead type, irksome. However, he worked well with The Futile. They came around when Hermy told them their roles would be mostly the same — Fletch’s fuzz-bass throb, Merk’s double-bass kick-drum machine-gun approach. Better for The Futile, Hermy wrote a couple of raucous punk pieces for them — “Punk Prelude” and “Pots and Pans” — despite his mother’s preference that he stay on a strictly classical path.

Franko sported a colorful sleeve of tattoos on one arm, a scene of slithering creatures emerging from jungle greenery. He had a good fan base, at least in the sprawling city of Bristol Springs, Missouri. But some of his old friends from high school were the kind of folks he’d now normally avoid, as they were excelling in their careers and starting families.

He made an exception for Olivia Ellis, who he remembered from concert band.

One day, in Walmart, he was wearing his LeBron James number 23 jersey and shorts. He thought he spotted her in Produce, but he could have been wrong. He remembered Olivia as a gangly girl with long, shiny dark hair, strong minded, prickly, with few friends. He recalled she was married to a guy named Bob. But 12 years later, she looked filled-out, curvy. Her hair was short now, with a long shock that fell over her right eye. He had to say hello.

“Wow, you’ve put on a whole lot of ink since I saw you last — maybe since school?” she said.

“It’s on my fingering arm, to keep peoples’ eyes on me,” he said. “I’m making enough cash with my music these days: casinos, private parties, exhibition halls.” Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to talk about meeting quotas in call centers or busting down boxes at loading docks.

“Cool,” Olivia said. She talked about her work in real estate. “Did you know I’m working on a new development on the Central Square? Didn’t you say you lived there, on the west side of the square?”

“Yes, I heard something about that.” He had received numerous booklets and updates in the mail about the project, and consistently ignored them.

“The plans are for mixed use. You might end up where you are, but nicer — elevator, no more stairs.”

“How’s Bob?”

“Who, Shithead? His real name can’t be used,” she said with a clenched fist.

“I get the gist.”

“No, you don’t,” she said with piercing, dark eyes. “There’s more. I got a great attorney and the house.” Then Olivia launched into a story of being screwed at the real estate office where she worked. “I coddled a bunch of investors over a month or more,” she said. “I wiped their asses! Then the boss took me off the project. I don’t care anymore.”

They made plans for lunch after he returned from a two-week mini-tour of Russellville, St. Joseph, Ottumwa, Marshalltown, Kirksville and La Crosse.

MONDAY

After the overnight haul from La Crosse, the first thing Franko did was hit Aunt Millie’s for a pancake breakfast. Then he went to his fourth-floor walkup, but he found that fencing, blockades and huge wrecking machines were in place.

He bawled like a cow as he remembered he forgot about the demolition. He fell to his knees and bawled again, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the square. Franko had meant to look at the information before he left for the mini-tour, but as usual, he blew it off.

Now he was panicking, sweating in his armpits and crotch. He thought about Olivia Ellis. He couldn’t find her phone number at first, then he found it in his contacts.

Thankfully, she picked up. He tried to speak to her, but he was slobbering: “Help. I fucked up! Really fucked! Forgot. What to do, help me, help me. Help!”

“What’s going on?” she asked, trying to extract what Franko’s trouble was. He hadn’t removed his belongings from his studio apartment. “Stay where you are. I’ll meet you there. Franko, just breathe.”

When she arrived downtown, people were standing around, watching the setup for tear-down activities.

“All of this probably happened a day or two after the band headed out on the tour,” he said.

“Did you really leave all your shit in the building and go away for two weeks?”

“’Fraid so, but I did have some stuff with me.”

She swept into action, grabbed some city official in a suit, tie and orange plastic hard hat. He said they had a lost-and-found in the Public Works building, just a few blocks off the square. The plastic-hard-hat fellow told Franko to go there immediately.

“Could I take a quick look in my place before everything falls apart?” Franko asked.

The hard-hat’s reply: “No.”

At Public Works, Franko was grateful to find some of his belongings: boxed-up documents, a plastic tub including random things like dishes and a few books, a skateboard, spare guitar and keyboard, but not his laptop. He felt foolish but pleased to be with Olivia. He asked about his ancient MacBook laptop, but it was not among his effects.

Franko thanked the official and stood awkwardly, then skulked away. He returned to the square, where the crowd had expanded. Olivia drove home in her 370Z two-seater. She promised to return shortly with her spacious Chrysler 300 she kept for tooling around with clients. Well-to-do people in the crowd were cheering, and a few activists flew black flags indicating contempt over the destruction of longstanding structures.

Franko felt like flying a black flag, too, but he spent time avoiding people he recognized. After a time of sinking hope, Olivia returned. They filled the back seat and the trunk with Franko’s diminished chattel. He asked about the two upscale rides. “They’re used. You know, impression is everything in the real estate game,” she said.

—   —   —

Franko’s items actually amounted to a fairly substantial heap. They unloaded his crap into a spare room at the back part of her house, where Olivia made a place for Franko to work and sleep until he could find a place of his own.

“Have you checked with your insurance people?” Olivia asked.

“Who?” he asked, “No,” not wanting to admit he thought renter’s insurance was a big waste.

“You might get a check for some of your losses.”

Franko said, “My laptop is all I really want. It has all my music — all the tracks for The Rite of Spring. I had to break down and redo what Stravinsky did. I thought I was being brilliant by leaving the laptop behind so it wouldn’t be lost on the tour.”

“Have you heard of a memory stick, or even better: the Cloud?” He sat on an ottoman and hung his head between his knees. “I have a Mac. It’s got GarageBand. Use mine,” she said.

“Will I bother you staying here?”

“No, nice to have you here instead of Shithead.”

After dinner, Hermy came over to Olivia’s place to work on The Rite of Spring with Franko. Hermy plugged in and messed around with some intricate chord changes for a few minutes and immediately blew Franko’s mind.

“You have more talent in one broken fingernail than all the gray matter in my little tiny cranium,” Franko said.

“Have you actually looked at what Igor did?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m freaking out. I’m inputting chunks of The Rite of Spring in ways that will make sense for a six-piece. Franko and The Futile is just a simple garage band. What did I get myself into? Can we loop some of this?”

“No, folks will think it’s canned, and they’ll be right. We’ll just have to do the best we can.”

“One bar of 3/4, next one bar of 5/4, to a bar of 7/4, and, for a breather, three bars of 6/4, and back to 5/4. That’s why I’m getting ready for these screwy rhythms. And that’s why Merk and Fletch need something they can handle. Igor has made it really hard.”

Franko cued the second “episode” of The Rite of Spring on Spotify, then he gyrated and lurched from the abrupt directions of the piece. “We need a different title: The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk. Or both!”

By now it was midnight, and Olivia was sleeping. Franko and Hermy decided to take a walk around the block. It was a mild evening. Halfway around, Franko was bathed in a sweet scent of something. He advanced toward the scent; he didn’t really know where it came from — flowering shrubs? He stepped onto the springy grass, seeking a more intense aroma.

“Hey, you better stay off people’s lawns. They don’t like that,” Hermy said.

At that moment, Franko detonated a ringing alarm, along with several flashes from the front-door area. A clumsily moving figure dashed out with a huge flashlight. The alarm stopped. The scowling man’s unruly hair became gauzy in the back-lit spotlight.

Franko, remaining stone-cadaverous still, saw that the approaching figure was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. The garment slunk at an angle, with one side drooping. Then a big dog, growling and barking, appeared beside the man.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Pleetus Ambercrombie,” he said, glaring at Franko. “And who, the fuck, are you?”

Then another fellow emerged from a home across the street and moved toward the others.

Pleetus looked over at the emerging neighbor. “Take it easy, Gibby,” Pleetus said. “I got Adolf here. He’s got a good bark that makes folks take notice.”

“But you might want to straighten up your britches,” Gibby told Pleetus. “These guys don’t look like much of a threat to me.”

Franko attempted to engage Pleetus, but the scruffy homeowner put his hand up like a traffic cop giving the stop signal.

“No trespassing,” Pleetus said.

Franko noticed that Pleetus had a chin beard about eight inches long, decorated with short stacks of beads.

Glaring at Franko, Pleetus thrust his hand into the pocket in the drooping side of his pajama bottoms and said, “Don’t approach me.”

Franko backed up. “Sorry, I just wanted to smell the shrubs. We’re just out for a walk. I’m staying around the corner.”

Pleetus busted out in an eruption of chuckling. “You’re a shrub smeller, ay?”

The big dog closed in on Franko, who tried to move away. It was making a muttering sound and did a half-circle to get behind Franko. Adolf was busy: nuzzling, growling and nipping. Then Franko felt something. “Hey, that dog bit me! Call him off!”

Pleetus said, “Adolf won’t hurt you. Nothing to worry about.” Gibby looked on, eyes darting from Pleetus to the two interlopers. “Go back to your house, Gibby,” Pleetus said. Then he focused on Franko and patted the drooping pocket of his pajamas. Pleetus called the dog, and it reluctantly returned to his master.

Franko pulled out his phone shakily and made a call. Luckily, Olivia picked up.

“Who’s yer callin’?” Pleetus asked.

“Our friend Olivia. She lives around the block,” Franko said.

“Oh, L’il’ Olive Oyl,” Pleetus said. “Just keep in mind, I got access.”

“To what?” Franko asked.

“I got access to use a firearm. Don’t approach me. Just think about what ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ means to you in your situation.” Pleetus patted his bulky pajama pocket, causing the bottoms to droop to his knees before he could hoist them up.

Franko had a little nervous titter over that, and Hermy whispered to him to shut up.

A vehicle arrived and parked two houses down the street. Olivia emerged. “Hey, I’m looking at you. Yes, you, Pleetus, the Barney Fife bum-fuck of the block,” she said. “You know the police have blown you off.”

“No trespassing,” Pleetus said.

“You are a pathetic old man. Just go back to bed with your dog,” Olivia said, as Adolf resumed barking.

Olivia corralled Franko and Hermy and brought them away from the fray. As they packed themselves into the 370Z, she explained that people have door-bell cameras for security. “I wish I’d told you all of this before I fell asleep,” she said. “Pleetus’s system is on a really sensitive trigger, and the lens is really powerful. He’s known as a local nut job.”

TUESDAY

Franko stayed up that night, recreating the score on Olivia’s Mac. While taking a break, he found old-west memes on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and the neighborhood website, portraying Olivia, Hermy and Franko as bandits. He recognized the photos all doctored up. Damn, the geezer had pretty good social-media skills, Franko thought.

When he woke up, Olivia was out. He hoped she wouldn’t see the pictures yet. Each mugshot was cast as an old-time sepia frame. Wording at the top of the image was One Way or Another, probably because Pleetus had enough social-media savvy not to use Dead or Alive.

Later in the morning, the two other perpetrator/victims of Pleetus’s digital onslaught found out. Hermy phoned Franko to whine about his mother’s nagging him for staying out late.

Olivia texted to Franko, “messed up last night. shudda stayed away”

Franko: “gonna blow over”

Olivia: “pleetus can be toxic”

Merk and Fletcher found out, too, and they thought the photos were fantastic. The only thing they didn’t like was that they weren’t included.

—   —   —

That evening at rehearsal, Hermy focused on the business of The Futile not being able to deal with five, seven, and such. “Not judging, just sayin’.”

Franko nodded toward The Futile and said, “Listen up.”

Hermy introduced Brianna and Bethany, twins from the Teen Strings, and handed out some sheets. “They’re known as The B’s.”

“Who’s who?” Merk asked.

“It’s easy to tell them apart,” Hermy said. “Bri plays the violin and has one side of her head shaved. Beth plays cello and has really long hair.” Then he launched into some notes. “The B’s will play the main dance melodies — ”

“ — if you can call them melodies with those brutal changing time signatures,” Bri said. “I had to add 13 new time sigs into my software. I haven’t feared time so dreadfully.”

“I wrote a short piece in four that will sound Rite of Spring-ish, or call it something else. It’s something you guys can riff on when we need it. Everything will be integrated,” Hermy said.

“Hold up,” Beth said. “This is the coolest — the really bitchin’est stuff — we’ll play until college. Hey, Bri, are you saying we should water down this stuff just for convenience?”

Bri swiveled toward her sister: “It’s a score for a ballet. How can dancers step to all this tangled rhythm? Some of that pounding at the end could just as well be in three or four.”

“Igor didn’t want to make it easy, but we can if we want to,” Hermy said. “Franko and The Futile will play over the B’s in 4/4 or just go orgasmic.”

“Or like a three-year-old?” Fletcher asked.

“Same for me?” Merk asked. “Noise ahoy! That’s ‘Pots and Pans,’ right?”

“Let’s carve out a chunk of the score so each player gets a solo. Do whatever we can,” Beth said. “There’s a lot of momentous shit for all of us.”

“I’ll point when we want explosives,” Hermy said. “Then I’ll give the throat-cut sign to back off. Don’t worry, Bri, the strings will be amped up just like everything else.”

“Hey, Hermy,” Beth said. “If it’s OK with you, let the B’s name thing go by the wayside? This will be our first professional gig.”

“So, how do you want to be called?” Hermy asked.

“By our names.”

FRIDAY: THE SHOW

Franko had two T-shirts for gigs, the prog choice, showing Frank Zappa’s album, “Hot Rats”; or the punk selection with a smiling skeleton holding a cocktail with “Holiday in Cambodia” by the Dead Kennedys. Zappa was the choice for his prog show of all prog shows.

The B’s showed up at the Error Code Bar, each wearing a Teen Strings hoodie.

Before set-up, Franko wanted to give a pep talk, but he couldn’t get anyone’s attention. Instead, he just chatted with Merk and Fletcher, while the B’s whispered between themselves about Hermy.

Merk interrupted the B’s, seeking another review of who’s who. Then Hermy went over some rough places and how he’ll cue them. The two string players tuned up, then they switched instruments and tuned again.

The B’s had a good laugh while others were confused, not getting the twins’ humor.

It was hit time, but few people were in the place yet. Two tables were occupied by girlfriends and the father of the B’s. Hoping to lure sidewalk traffic, Franko kept the front door open and continued to call for numerous unnecessary sound checks. After a while, the musicians got bored with the sound checks and dispersed.

Bri played magic tricks to pass the time. Beth fidgeted through all the sound checks and chewed gum to bother her sister. They decided to lose the hoodies; they’d be too hot on stage.

The open door brought in a few people. However, the tactic lured a police officer in as well. In a professional tone, the officer told Mike, the proprietor, that the loud music coming out of the open door was disturbing the patrons of the restaurant next door who were dining al fresco.

Mike told Franko, “Never prop the front door open ever again, and never do anything that would cause a cop to enter the building.”

Then eight young women barged in and told Franko, who was sitting on a bar stool, that they were on a bachelorette scavenger hunt. They assumed Franko was the owner. After a little banter with the women, he sent them to Mike. They had a large list, including something soft and something hard — “Could be from the same guy,” said the ring leader. After this quip, massive merriment burst out among the squad. Mike poured complimentary shots of cheap vodka all around and handed out beer coasters as business cards. Franko wished he were the owner and could have poured free shots for eight women.

The scavengers left after a disorderly chat with Mike, and in a short time, the room was beginning to fill up. The band assembled again. Olivia arrived and hopped onto the stage and collared Franko. “Hey, remember, if you make anything from your show, it goes to mortgage and food.”

Once Franko sent Olivia off the stage and the musicians assembled, they made a last and genuine sound check. He greeted the crowd, which was big for Franko and The Futile. They began to play The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk, with a two-part overture, “Pots and Pans” melting into the “Prelude to The Punk of Spring,” both by the trio of The Futile. Then the strings and Hermy executed some Stravinsky time fracturing.

Twenty minutes or so into the performance, in Episode Four, “Spring Rounds,” Franko thought he was seeing something around the front door. As people were moving toward the stage, he could make out an elderly bearded fellow wearing a black full-dress tailcoat tux and a stovetop hat. He was speaking into a bullhorn and scurrying table to table. During a quiet passage, the bullhorn overtook the music.

Franko thought it was some kind of fire alarm or tornado thing. He couldn’t hear the music. The bullhorn sounded like puking in his head. Then he could hear, and he heard words:

“Stop! You must stop!”

“You’re destroying America!”

“Degenerate music! Europe syrup!”

The crowd booed the intruder, but Franko still didn’t know what was up. He turned to the band and called for more “Pots and Pans.” Then he jumped off the stage, where he could more clearly hear the spew of the bullhorn.

“Degenerate intellectuals!”

“Horseface cosmopolitan!”

“A total botch-job sleaze!”

Franko realized that the asshole with the bullhorn was none other than Pleetus and his intricate chin beard. Adolph the dog was by his side.

Franko found a security guy. “Where were you?” Franko asked. “He needs to leave!”

“I thought it was part of the show. Sorry, boss.”

“The dog goes too,” Franko said.

“Dog? I thought it was one of them comfort critters. We’ll get it, chief.”

Bereft of his bullhorn, Pleetus could still bellow. On his trip toward the sidewalk, he had one more chant: “No trespassing!”

Franko hopped back on stage for the end of “Pots and Pans.” The crowd cheered.

The string players launched into the last episode of “Part 1, The Adoration of the Earth,” which sounded like a different kind of chaos. A ferocious, extended roar came from the audience. The plan was to have an intermission, but they played through instead.

After the show, Franko said, “It seemed to go really well until Pleetus got in the way. Even when he pulled out the bullhorn, it was OK. Did you see him getting the boot?”

“We couldn’t see it,” Hermy said. “I think the audience thought he was part of the show!”

Olivia came up to compliment the band. Franko said he couldn’t find her until he came down to deal with the mess that Pleetus was making.

“I was sitting with the B’s father, and we were comforting Adolf. He was whimpering under the table because the music was so loud, poor thing,” Olivia said.

“Anyway, ‘Pots and Pans’ was fun, the ‘Prelude’ sounded like a real tune, I mean something better than the stuff I write. And the actual Igor parts blew my mind,” Franko said.

“For me, the douche with the bullhorn was the height of my evening,” Merk said.

“Hell no!” Hermy said. “The B’s were killin’ it.”

“Joke!” Merk said. “You B’s were great!”

Beth was about to say something, but Bri hushed her sister. “Don’t get worked up about people calling us B’s. Come on, just be cool. We got our names in the flier.” Bri approached Hermy, cuffed him on the upper arm and congratulated him on his solo: “The shit!”

Beth did a curtsy before Fletcher and said, “The first distorted electric-bass solo on a piece by Igor Stravinsky. Well done!”

“It wasn’t distorted, it was fuzzed. I like the ZVex fuzz pedal,” Fletcher said. 

“Well, oh, anyway, Igor should be here.”

Merk caught Fletcher and asked him, “Hey, about what Franko calls us, ‘The Futile.’ We aren’t futile anymore. How about ‘Franko and the Funktones’?”

“No, we must own our futility!” Fletcher shouted.

“Well, I’m not going on tour being called futile,” Merk said.

NEXT MONDAY

Franko never read the paper except when somebody tells him he’s in it. This time, Merk was the one to tell him. The fussy performing arts freelancer really slammed The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk. They got a good laugh.

Desecration of a hallowed imperative of the canon, not to be smeared with excrement by barbarians. “Pots and Pans”? Disgusting!

Hermy wrote in a text: “kinda like Pleetus, different POV”

Fletch weighed in: “excrement, cool!”

Normally, Franko ignored phone calls from people he didn’t know. A few minutes later, he listened to the voicemail. It was Jane Zhah, the music director of the Bristol Springs Symphony. He thought, another nasty review? I’m up for it! Franko immediately called back.

Zhah said she was in the Error Code Bar for The Punk of Spring or the Rite of Punk. After Franko’s sputtering, Zhah told Franko the symphony is always looking for innovative music from local and regional composers whose work could be arranged for the whole orchestra.

“We have a ‘Best of Bristol Springs’ evening every season. This process would require a great deal of work for you and your ensemble, me, and our concertmaster. I hadn’t made up my mind about next season,” she said, “but after last Friday night, I’m all in for The Punk of Spring or the Rite of Punk. How about you?”

—   —   —

Olivia, at her cubical, called Franko, still energized by his conversation with Jane Zhah. Olivia asked him to come downtown for lunch. “Pleetus is parked next to the office. He has a huge banner on the side of his pickup with our faces like those Instagrams. Everybody in the office can see it.” She sounded a little jittery.

When Franko showed up at the restaurant, he found her, elbows on the table, head in her hands. “Everybody in the office was looking out the big windows, snickering, shooting weird glances at me. I just want to unload a lot of crap from certain people making my life miserable.”

After a few minutes, she stood up and led the way out, emphasizing her need for a drink. “What’s this, a liquid lunch?” Franko asked. When they sat down at a nearby bar, Franko saw that Olivia was trying not to cry, and he decided not to hug her or touch her hand.

They cozied into a booth, and she ordered a double of Maker’s Mark. She was furious, tearing up a cocktail napkin into little balls.

“My boss fired me with a text. It said he couldn’t have bad publicity, ‘people like you here.’ Can you believe it?”

“You’ll be OK. You always wanted to be your own boss.” Franko was doing his level best not to look happy or say anything about the symphony thing.

“I would have laughed except for the humiliation, but instead I almost lost it,” she said.

He asked for a club soda with lime, and the server asked Olivia if she wanted another. Franko was surprised that she was already ready for another.

“One thing, maybe a strange thing to say: Wish my picture on the banner wasn’t so bad,” she said.

“It’s OK.”

“No, it really sucks!” She laughed.

After a third and a fourth and maybe more, Franko suggested they leave. He was concerned about what she might do next.

She said, “Well, what the fuck, screw them all!”

Later, back at the house, she calmed down. He insisted that she drink some water and eat something. Her mood soured even more.

“Mr. Franko Tucker, what did you do this fine day?” she said with a sneer.

“I ran into some friction with The Futile. They were disappointed that they didn’t get their pictures up on the banner. But I like mine.”

“You like it, do ya? I’m the only one who’s getting crapped on for this. All because of you!”

“How’s that?”

“Think about it,” she said, throwing Franko’s favorite coffee mug across the room, making a gash in the wall and scattering pieces on the floor. “I got fired, terminated, dumped — do you understand any one of those?”

“OK, OK, OK. My bad.” He moved toward her in hopes that he could prevent her from destroying something else.

Sitting on the carpet, she pulled her knees up to her chin. She said, “One good thing: You’ve been in the house for a whole week and you haven’t screamed and threatened me yet. That’s 1,000 percent better than Shithead.”

“I know it was all my fault. What can I do for you?”

“When I get some clients, you can clean homes before I put them on the market,” she said. “And sorry I smashed that mug. Oh, and Public Works found your laptop.”

SIX WEEKS LATER

Franko got busy that Thursday morning when he heard Olivia pounding stakes for a real-estate sign: Open House: Sunday 2-4. He started in the master bathroom where he expected the worst scum. It was his first cleaning job. The tub looked OK, basic white, but with every squirt of chlorine-based cleaner and each swipe of the non-abrasive scour pad, the tub got more gleaming than before. One problem about this project was that the vicious fumes irritated his eyes and throat. It wasn’t all that bad, but his fingers, palms and wrists were on fire. He wondered how his new side job would affect his guitar work.

At least he could listen to The Rite of Spring on Spotify blaring from his phone.

Franko was still working on the tub as his stomach suggested lunchtime. Thankfully, Olivia arrived just then with sandwiches. His hands had turned a rosy brilliancy.

“No gloves, no knee pads, no safety glasses?” she said. “I told you to go to Harbor Freight and get some gear. I even gave you cash to do that!”

“I didn’t think I needed gear, but I guess so.”

“Yeah, your hands are melting!”

“Not really.”

She scrounged through her bag. “Here, it’s shea butter. Spread some on and work it in.”

“Nice,” he said, but he didn’t like the smell of women’s stuff on him.

They went to the store and Olivia outfitted Franko with a pair of PVC-coated rubber gloves and construction-grade knee pads with foam padding.

“You’re treating me like a kid,” he said.

“No, I’m treating you like an adult, which you do not do for yourself,” she said. “Do you still have those five twenties?” Olivia selected the gear and placed it on the checkout counter, and Franko delivered the cash.

Back at the house, she gave Franko a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew for the afternoon. Hermy dropped in to see the place and to see what Franko was doing. Olivia gave Hermy a tour that wrapped up in the master bathroom.

“Franko’s working hard, and so am I,” she said. “I got my LLC from the state and the crap from the IRS. I sold the 370Z. Boo-hoo! But I needed quick cash.”

Hermy announced to Olivia that they were doing The Punk of Spring project again in the fall and next year with the symphony.

“Yeah, that’s all I hear from Franko,” she said.

Franko had little to say. For the first time, he had a chance to simply enjoy her presence. Her shampoo or cologne reminded him of the scent of the shrubs on Pleetus’s lawn. The association made him feel good and bad at the same time. He understood this mess had been the best thing that ever happened and the worst, tied up in a series of unlikely events.

She said she’d be visiting a few people who might want to list their homes with her. She told Franko his job was to finish cleaning the house by the end of the next afternoon, in time for the open house.

After Olivia left, Hermy sat down. They jawed about music and women, and Hermy complained about his mom.

“True, but you’re suffering from whiny-baby syndrome,” Franko said. “And you’ll be going back to school soon.”

“And isn’t it bliss without any crap from Pleetus since the show — nothing!” Hermy said.

While Franko finished the bathroom, Hermy remarked on Olivia’s beauty and her excellent lawn signs that made her look even better. “She looks like Kylie Jenner.”

“Really?” Franko said: “No, she’s older and she’s an actual person.” Then he wandered into daydreaming. He took pride in not doing something stupid, such as making a move on her. He felt like he was somehow being a grown-up, and it felt weird.

When Olivia returned, she was at first annoyed to see Hermy still there, but she eased up when she saw that Franko had made progress. “So, you really do have some useful skills — beyond the guitar,” she said.

“That wasn’t very nice, but I can live with that,” Franko said. “What about Hermy: Shouldn’t he be held accountable, too? He was there at the beginning of the whole Pleetus episode.”

“You, Hermy: You’re just an accessory,” she said. Then she turned her attention back to Franko with a guarded frown. “You’re the guy doing community service.”

Additional Guests

 

by Ed Peaco

Published by The MacGuffin 

Vol. 37, No. 1, Winter 2021

https://home.schoolcraft.edu/macguffin/the-macguffin

This is a short story about a Christmas gathering of an extended family and additional guests. Things happen that are odd, secretive, angry, absent-minded and yes, reasonable. See what happens in the end.

Here we were, Doralisa and me, making the four-hour drive to Mom’s house for Christmas Eve, and I was trying to think of all the things that could happen and how I would handle each one. Doralisa hadn’t met my family yet; we’d only been seeing each other a few months, and I hadn’t shared a lot of my past with her yet. It was in the early stages for us, and I know I’m not the best communicator. We had only a few miles to go. So I looked over at Doralisa, whose unruly hair stuck out of her tight-fitting knit hat that concealed much of her face. “Would you like to take off your hat?” I asked her. “I could turn up the heat.” I wasn’t wearing a hat because I didn’t want my hair to get plastered down. 

“No, I like it a little chilly,” she said. Normally she talked more. Her job of finding places for homeless people to live made her think out loud for long stretches. Now she was probably nervous about meeting my mom and brother and his family, though probably not as nervous as she should have been.

“One thing I’d like to do this year—I want to be the one to buy the tree,” I said.

“Bit late for a tree, don’t you think?” 

“No, it’s tradition. We put up a tree for Mom on Christmas Eve, with everyone all around. My brother Bobby always goes out and buys it, as if it’s his deal. But I thought I’d show some initiative this year, show up early, go for the tree before they arrive.”  

“The choice of tree can be an intensely personal thing,” she said.

I said, “You know, I’ve always wished my family could enjoy some quiet time once the tree is up. Spike some eggnog, put on some Nat King Cole or Johnny Mathis, and just chat. But the place is always so crazy with my brother’s kids.”

She turned in her seat and showed me her stern face. “You’re lucky. You don’t know what it’s like having to pass a little one back and forth at the holidays. Christmas can be mighty cold when it’s your ex’s turn to hold the hot potato.”

I choked on the thought of Doralisa’s reckless, delinquent son, and once again I felt lucky that my marriage went up in flames a long time ago, without kids. “You’ll really like Mom,” I said, “but she doesn’t have much of a filter when she talks.” Worry was starting to creep up on me. I hadn’t gotten around to telling Mom I was bringing Doralisa, or even that she was a factor in my life. I was feeling the gravity more than I expected.

When we arrived, a car I didn’t recognize was in the drive, so I parked on the street. One of my nephews greeted us, which I didn’t expect at all. He wore a Kansas City Chiefs cap, blazing red, his face buried in the bells and whistles of a hand-held electronic game. 

I couldn’t tell if he was Toby or Greg or Matt, because each time I see them, the younger ones seem to have moved into slots vacated by the older ones, and the oldest looks like a stranger.

“You’re Toby, right?” I asked. 

Doralisa turned to me and said, “He reminds me of my Cliff at that age.” She took off her hat and shook out her hair into exactly the same semi-kempt mop it always was. I took her hat and coat and opened the closet. My little wisp of a mother was chatting in the kitchen with a younger woman whose face I couldn’t see. Mom was wearing her mall-walking shoes, green sweatpants, and a red sweatshirt. Doralisa and I took two strides into the living room. Mom was fussing over the other woman, whispering in her ear. The unknown person kissed Mom on the cheek and said some urgent thing in her ear. 

Then the other woman turned around. I flinched at the sight of my horrible ex-wife, Carly, and by that kiss and those whispers. I quickly turned my back to Carly and, sadly, I bumped into Mom’s curio cabinet filled with glass and delicate porcelain figurines. A few of them shuddered and fell over.  

Doralisa steadied me with a hand on my back. “Stay focused,” she said.

I told her who Carly was and why I recoiled when I did: “She’s someone to avoid.”

“Is there a secret exit nearby?” Doralisa said, smiling.

I hoped Mom or Carly didn’t notice any harm in the curio cabinet. And I hoped that maybe Mom would get rid of Carly, and nothing would happen.  

Doralisa offered to perform a damage check of the delicate pieces. She nodded, summoning me for a quick peek. She found a broken pelican, and several items had fallen over but luckily were still intact. 

Mom hurried to greet us. “Marvin!” she shouted. I rushed to Mom, and Doralisa came along in a minute. 

“Why is Carly here?” I asked Mom.

“You were early,” Mom said. “Carly likes to see what Bobby’s kids are doing.”

“Well, we’re here,” I said.

“We?” Mom asked. I hugged her, and I got a whiff of her old lady’s perfume, like an overripe peach. She pressed her forehead against my chest, then pushed off. 

“I want you to meet someone,” I said.

“Oh really?” Mom asked. “Who?”

“I forgot to tell you about my additional guest.” Mom forced a smile. I introduced Harriet, my mother, to Doralisa.

“You didn’t mention a lady friend,” Mom said.

“I was thinking it could be a surprise,” I said. 

“And it’s a surprise for me, too, in a sense,” Doralisa said. She formed a circle with her mouth but didn’t say anything more. 

“We met a few months ago,” I said.

Mom gave Doralisa a once-over and glanced nervously around the living room. “You’re older than Marvin,” she said.

“No, she’s not,” I told Mom. “I thought we’d just say hello before we went out and got the tree.” I switched to the tree as a way of getting out of the house to avoid any possible run-in with Carly.

“The tree? That’s Bobby’s job,” Mom said. Then she turned to Doralisa and asked, “How old are you?”

“I’m forty-six,” Doralisa said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Really? I’m only forty-two,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Surprise,” Doralisa said. 

“Welcome to our family,” Mom said. She cupped Doralisa’s face with her hands.

“Have we interrupted anything?” I asked, peering beyond her to the kitchen.  

“No, no,” Mom said, stroking her chin. She turned to Doralisa and said, “I was just thinking—can you bake?” Doralisa shrugged. “I mean now,” Mom said. 

“Maybe we could both bake,” I said. 

Before anything could be decided about the baking request, Bobby barged in and seemed to say something, then he caught a glimpse of Doralisa. “Whoa, who are you?” he asked. 

“I’m with Marvin,” she said.

“Oh, great. Somebody has to be with Marvin!” Bobby said.

“I am here upon my own volition,” Doralisa said with a smirk.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked Bobby.

 “Well, anyway, Marv, help me unpack,” Bobby said, finishing his tumbler of whiskey.

After I told Doralisa I’d be just a few minutes, I wondered what Bobby would have to say as we went out to his hulking SUV. Stepping into the cold, I expected Bobby to start projecting his jerk personality in full force, with manic leer and annoying toe-tapping. I asked, “What bags do you want? My fingers are freezing already.”

He had grown a little balder since the last time I saw him, last spring. He gouged my shoulder with his thumb and said, “Carly is looking good, don’t you agree?”

“You prick. Why haven’t you ever told me about the deal with her and Mom?”

“Sorry, top secret,” Bobby said. “If I had blabbed, you would’ve gone postal.” He erupted in hooting and maniacal whinnying, the maddening sounds I’ve endured all my life.

“Your vehicle looks like a hearse for two,” I said, feeling good for a moment. 

“So how did you find your new angel?” Bobby asked. “What did you do, call an escort service?” He winked, nodded.

“Fuck you,” I said. 

“I would,” he said, “but I fear you might like it.”  

Once they finished toting the massive bags, Marvin joined Doralisa and Mom in the front hall. With the front door wide open, Mom was shivering. She seemed to be giving Doralisa instructions of some sort, who then turned and murmured to me that Mom didn’t mind that she hadn’t done any baking this year or last.

“Anyway, let me put you two to work,” Mom said, tapping my shoulder and ushering us down the hall to the kitchen. She pointed to the cupboard. “See for yourself what you can find. I’ve got sugar, flour, eggs, butter—I hope.”

“I see,” Doralisa said. There was an edge to her voice. “What should I bake? What is it you need me to bake?”

“Oh, most anything. Something yummy for the young bunch. Just clean up the mess,” Mom said. “I have to check on some things, or we might have problems.” She left the kitchen.

“Problems?” Doralisa asked. “We might have problems?” She grabbed her wrist and massaged it like she had carpal tunnel. Then she did the other wrist as she turned to me. “I tried to tell you the holidays are not an easy time for me. So why are you doing this to me?”

I had no good answer to that. Instead, I listened for the sound of the front door closing. I wondered where Carly was. Doralisa curled her fingers into fists, then relaxed. She fidgeted with the toaster, microwave, and cookie jar. She opened the bread box, pulled out a bunch of black bananas, and fondled them. “Banana bread,” she said. 

Walking while staring into his device, Toby collided with Doralisa, who lost some of the flour that she was measuring as it fell to the floor. I swept up the mess. The boy seemed to be angry with his game and with something else. He stomped a foot, then he asked Doralisa to open his bag of M&Ms.

Doralisa asked, “Did your mother say yes?”

“No.”

“Sorry, guy.”

“Oh, crap,” Toby said.

“Like my Cliff at an earlier age, so absorbed, or distracted,” she said. “Me and my ex got him a video game for Christmas long, long ago. He was playing with that when Wendell and I fought our final battle.”

“Must have been terrible,” I said.

“It was just one of those things. I screamed, he screamed, and you know how people with nothing to do for the holidays end up volunteering at a shelter? Well, that was me,” Doralisa said. “Don’t worry, I won’t freak.”

“Sorry. I know this day has been pretty weird so far. But, believe me, you’re in good hands.” I got a little smile out of her with that. It was quite an accomplishment considering I was still listening for the sound of Carly’s exit. I had no idea if she was still in the house. 

“By the way, about the curio cabinet,” Doralisa said. “I think the best way to go is to leave it in a little bit of disarray instead of fussing around trying to put everything back in place. That might cause more commotion. We can tell your mother about it later.”

Most of the folks were migrating toward the living room. Doralisa said she’d be there as soon as the bread was in the oven. I made my way down the hall, and I heard whispering at the front of the house, which set me off. Carly! What a black mark she was, spinning out of the ten-year blind spot in my mind’s eye. I bolted toward the living room, wondering, with what was left of my senses, whether it might be a better idea to tiptoe and spy. But no. I pressed firmly ahead, toward my mother and my ex-wife. 

“Carly,” I said. “Why are you here?” She had what I’d call a weird haircut, with her neck shaved halfway up the back of her head, so what hair she had shot out over her forehead and made her look even more self-important than I remembered. 

Carly glared at me like I was really dangerous. Then she asked Mom, “Is he supposed to be here this early?” 

That kind of little jab made me start to stew, just like I did when I was married to Carly.

When Doralisa appeared, Mom made introductions. “Carly and Marvin were married once. But everything is fine now. It really is, honey.” She tapped Doralisa’s shoulder, and Doralisa cringed at the touch of my mother’s bony little fingers.

The familiarity between Mom and Carly just hacked me off. As I was trying to simmer down, I turned to my mother. “You had a chance to ask her to leave, so why didn’t you?”

“Carly is my guest,” Mom said. “Carly has always been part of the family, whether you knew it or not. Maybe it’s for the best that your paths are crossing just at the holidays.” 

I was thinking never, but I was trying to not say anything.

“Why don’t we all sit down and have a nice glass of plum wine?” Mom said.

“I’d like that,” Doralisa said.

“I had no idea Carly would be here,” I said through clenched jaws. I said that mainly for the benefit of Doralisa, but she didn’t like my little outburst. 

“What was that for?” she told me. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

“Marvin is all about ruining things, such as a pleasant Christmastime afternoon,” Carly said, pointing at the curio cabinet. “Or a nice display of relics and novelties: I saw what you did earlier. Was it on purpose?”

“Of course not. It was just a little mishap,” Doralisa said. “A surprise interruption, that’s all.”

Carly slit her eyes at me. “Marvin has a way of tripping you up from time to time,” she said. At this point, she was addressing the committee of the whole. “He can be a menace, you know. Have you ever made him mad?” she asked Doralisa, who arched an eyebrow in reply. “The slightest thing can set him off.”

“Hey, there’s no reason for such talk now,” Doralisa said. 

“Oh, then when?” Carly said, glowering.

“It’s Christmastime,” I said. 

Carly was still eying Doralisa. “But have you ever crossed him? Have you ever tried anything so much as having a life of your own? Then, one year, accidentally or otherwise, your house is set on fire for some reason.”

“Hey, none of that,” I said, feeling a salty-sour taste in the back of my throat. “For one thing, I didn’t burn down the house, and I’m certainly not a menace.”

“Why, Carly, I’m surprised at you,” Mom said. 

“Me, too. I’ve had just about enough,” Doralisa said.

“I don’t blame you,” Carly said.

“Hey there little missy, get a grip,” Doralisa said with a blazing glare.

Mom wrung her hands. “Perhaps a glass of plum wine some other time,” she said.

I decided to pretend nothing had happened beyond running into my horrible ex-wife. Maybe Doralisa would think Carly’s remarks were just a load of shit. 

Doralisa pushed me toward the kitchen. “It’s the only area of neutrality,” she said, peeking in at her banana bread. I went back to make sure Mom was really saying good-bye to Carly.

We sent Carly out into the cold, and Bobby, with three fingers of whiskey, also went outside. He spoke to her, and she said something back, shaking her head. Bobby’s wife, Bridget, came out with a throw blanket around her. She said something that got a laugh. They looked toward the front door. I couldn’t tell if they were looking at me, specifically, or just at the door and I happened to be there. It pissed me off that they might be messing with me. When your brother is a total asshole, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do about it. Carly proceeded to her car and headed down the street. After she was out of sight, and Bridget went into the house, Bobby asked me to stay outside for a minute. Once more, he gouged me in the shoulder with his thumb. 

“Hey, Marv, wait. I gotta say something.”

“You always have something to say, so this time, just cram it up your ass.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Not taking the bait this time,” I said. “I don’t ruin things. I am not a menace. I don’t make people mad. But I’m steamed now.” When I said I was mad, I got madder. A part of the walk down to the street was icy. I really didn’t try to shove Bobby on the ice, but down he went. Then he tried to push me, but luckily I remained vertical. 

“Why did you shove me on the ice?” he asked. “What’d I do?”

“You’re the only person here worth body-slamming to the ice. Carly wasn’t here anymore.”

“Oh, it hurts. My ass! Don’t tell Bridget. She’ll be pissed. I always mess around with the kids, and I end up going to urgent care. Don’t say it’s horse play. Just say it’s an accident.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Hey, I wanted to say something, before you shoved me on the ice. Your girlfriend, you know, she’s cool.”

“I know.”

“I mean she’s really great. Don’t let her get away. Don’t fuck it up!”

Bobby and I slogged our way back into the warmth. Doralisa grasped my arm and muttered in my ear. “Wow, I’m really glad that Carly left.” I refused to say anything. She nodded firmly. “That’s it, chin up. Go with the flow. You’ll be glad you did.” At a moment when I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d decided to leave, she patted me on the back like I was some kind of old pal.

Mom clutched Doralisa’s arm. “How are you progressing in the kitchen, my dear?”

“Good news,” Doralisa said. “I am pleased to announce that my good friend Toby has donated a substantial quantity of his private M&Ms stock to underwrite a highly experimental and yummy form of banana bread.”

Mom looked pleased at the smell of banana bread, and she told everyone in the kitchen that Bridget would be working on supper. “Now, Marvin, you be nice. Carly is good to me,” Mom said. I felt her cold, bony grip tightening. “She comes in and helps with the little things you and your brother can’t do because of the distance.”

I knew this was as much explanation as I would get. Basking in the burned-off fog of Carly’s departure, I was willing to think about forgiving Mom. I was lost in these thoughts when Bobby approached. 

“By the way, Marvin wants to get the tree this year,” Mom said. I had almost decided I didn’t care about the tree anymore. Then I decided I really did care.

Bobby stepped back theatrically. “Really,” he said, frowning with mock sternness. “Don’t get sentimental like Charlie Brown and choose a pathetic tree.” 

“You should think more about the true meaning of Christmas,” I said.

“All right,” he said, “I pass along the mantle. Find a tree for us. Go in good health.” 

After Doralisa pulled the banana bread out of the oven, she came up and locked arms with me. “We’re off,” she said and escorted me to the front door. We threw ourselves into our coats and went out into the refreshing cold.

I didn’t talk to her as I drove, and didn’t mind the awkward silence. But she started talking. “You know, your mother had plenty of time, once she stuck us in the kitchen, to get rid of Carly.”

“Mom was probably trying not to be impolite to her.”

“Politeness seems to come and go in your family,” she said. 

My temples pulsed. No pain yet, just throb. I listened to my head until we were standing in the middle of the Christmas tree lot, where sale tags showed the market was in a Christmas Eve free fall. 

“At these prices, we can get a redwood,” I said. We walked along one of several rows of trees resting against sagging temporary fences.

She found a scrawny Scotch pine, grasped it near its top, and held it upright. She studied it and finally said, “Who cares? My cheeks are brittle right now.”

“We need a really impressive tree,” I said.

She seized a pine branch and shook it in my direction. Brown needles sprinkled the asphalt. “You know, there is one good thing about not holding the hot potato on Christmas: freedom from trees.” She flung the tree against the fence. The warm, fuzzy effect of baking seemed to be wearing off. “I’m not saying it’s all that much of a crime to kill a tree for Christmas. That’s why they’re grown. But it sure is easier to leave all the memories packed away in a box in the attic.”

I was listening, kind of, while browsing, trying to find the biggest tree that would fit through the front door. “I wish I could do that,” I said. 

She hurried down the row of trees, slapping branches as she went. When I caught up, she raised herself on her toes, took my face in her hands, and gave me a great big kiss. Then she asked me a question. “That pyro stuff Carly hinted about. True?”

Ever since I’d met her, I’d been anticipating this moment. “I resolved long ago that if I ever met another woman I liked, I’d share the story. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“This is what happens when you procrastinate,” she said. 

“You know, year after year, you take the Christmas tree for granted. Then, one year, you accidentally set it on fire.”

She moved toward the Douglas firs. They looked like good, healthy trees—green, not brown. I tagged along. “It’s all right. You can keep talking,” she said. I think she was trying to outmaneuver the guy selling trees, who was now bearing down on us. I waved him off. She pointed to me with her full hand, as if she were giving me the floor. “And?”

I decided to press firmly ahead. “I hated Carly’s friends. They were making money, and I wasn’t, which didn’t have to matter, except they made it matter. She invited dozens of them for one of those holiday open houses. I’d have to face them for a whole afternoon. So that day, just after lunch, I started a fire in the fireplace and I went into the kitchen for a moment or two. Carly had gone out for some extra wine. The tree was too close to the fireplace. There was one of those big pops that I did not tend to. A wayward spark was all it took, and it landed on the tree. You’d be surprised how fast one of those things goes up. It ruined the open house, it ruined Christmas, the house and my marriage. But it was an accident!”

She spotted a really nice fir tree. She looked at it, not at me. “My God, I’m surprised you wanted to pick out the tree given what happened.”

She set down the tree and twisted the sleeve of my coat. “I always tell myself, when I see I’m making a mistake with a man: Don’t worry. Nothing’s happened yet. We aren’t married. We don’t have kids. We haven’t even had sex yet.” Even as she said this, she pulled me closer, which I wasn’t expecting. We spent a few moments like that. Then she said, “So you want to get a tree to atone, symbolically, for the one that was incinerated. Is that it?”

“She made it sound like I set the tree on fire on purpose,” I said. “My family sided with Carly after she told them about my carelessness. But she didn’t tell them, or at least I doubt she’s told them, that she kind of blackmailed me.”

Doralisa raised one eyebrow. “What now?”

“Yes, it’s bizarre,” I said. “She told me, while we huddled under Red Cross blankets, later that fateful afternoon, that she would claim I did it on purpose, unless I divorced her and gave her a hefty settlement. Our marriage was over anyway. All things considered, it was a pretty good deal for me.”

“That’s just screwy.” Doralisa closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know whether I should say this, but I kind of like you. Just make sure you stay away from fire.”  

“At least I’m telling the truth about what happened,” I said.

She covered her mouth, then she took her hand away. “All right, Marvin, here’s the deal. You’ve been over to my place quite a bit, and it’s still standing. But listen up: You owe me, big time. And I’m a blackmailer of sorts, too. It’s going to cost you more than what Carly sucked out of you. If you don’t pay up, that’s it.” She smiled a small smile of encouragement. 

“What do I owe?” 

“You think about it,” she said. “Come up with a payment. If it’s not beautiful enough and truthful enough, the deal is off.” I looked at the tree she had picked out. 

“This tree is perfect. It will impress everyone when we bring it home.”

“Keep in mind, your brother is going to eat you alive, no matter how beautiful the tree is.”

“But maybe not,” I said. “Let’s just see what happens.”

 “So what? This is the tree. Come on.” I was glad she was caught up in the Christmas spirit, or whatever kind of spirit you want to call it, even against what seemed to me her better judgment. 

“So, I need to make a big downpayment on generosity and honesty in just a few hours,” I said. We hoisted the tree, me by the base, she close to the tip where the star would go, ready to carry it off while a million little needle pricks demanded immediate action. But we weren’t going anywhere. She looked back at me because I had stopped, lost in thought. I was going to say something. I was trying to formulate words, something about how I felt abnormally blessed and glad she was with me. 

She cut me off. “Shut up. Buy it. Throw it in the trunk. Let’s go.”

“I hope there’s some banana bread left,” I said. 

As for Doralisa, she said, “And lots of plum wine.”