Chapter 5

A rumbling vehicle approached the house and stopped. A minute later Mindy came in alone.

I'm sure you're familiar with that misogynist bit about a paper bag: incredible body and ugly face. You'd fuck her if she wore one. Plentiful breasts hung firmly under a tight pale pink halter, nipples traced in the fabric revealing no support. Her perfect butt, meaty and not flabby like Randy had suggested on the phone, hid beneath tight gray sweat shorts. In front the line of her vagina whispered its presence. Obviously no panties. Emerging from the shorts, her thighs looked powerful and well toned.

From the thick neck to the large broad face, she had a masculine look: thick chin and flat cheeks. The nose looked crushed flat and the eyes seemed way too small for all the largeness surrounding them. Her tangle of short brown hair did little to temper the ugliness. Then she grinned widely and her small eyes sparkled and something endearing emerged.

"Hey," she said. "You're Joe Solomon."

I stood and shook her hand.

Randy shook his head. "Got it in one!"

"Where's Danielle?" Melinda kept the relief as quiet as possible, but we could hear it.

"Dropped her off. You pissed?"

"I don't know," said Melinda. They embraced and kissed. "I can smell her."

"Sorry."

"No," their embrace ended, "it's good."

"You know I don't love her like I love you. Not even close."

"I know."

"You're such a slut," said Randy.

"You'd be too if..." said Mindy.

"Probably," he said sadly.

"So ... Joe Solomon. The fantasy is real."

"I told you guys," said Melinda. "You just never believed me."

"I believed you Mel," said Mindy.

"Bullshit," said Randy.

"No, I did. Randy never did, but I could see in your eyes you told the truth. I love teasing you."

"You do, don't you?"

I leaned into Melinda and whispered, "Can I ask you something in private?"

"Sure."

We entered her bedroom. Small and cluttered and neat, the walls held posters of punk bands: Babes in Toyland; Hole; the Gits. The only male led bands were Fugazi and my band. One wall contained a collage of faces: musicians; actors; politicians; writers and etc. The tightly made queen size bed had a black comforter. The wood frame looked homemade and sturdy.

"How come you never showed them the suicide note?" I asked.

"Same reason I never wrote you, Joe. I hate being a bummer. What do you think of them?"

"I think your friends are cool."

"Thanks. I think you're cool."

"Thanks."

She took my hands and pulled down gently until my mouth leveled at hers. We kissed. Only lips met and we kept it short, but I felt a simmering excitement in my heart and loins. It felt like the beginning, the foothills of something big. Nothing about it distracted from the pleasure. It felt perfect. When it ended, she looked flushed. "You're not sleeping on the couch," she husked.

"Isn't there another bedroom?' I asked.

"You'll see. Come on." She kept a hand in mine as we reentered the living room. Her friends noticed and didn't look pleased.

She commanded her small band of friends. "Grab your bass, Min. Pour us some more wine, Randy. I'm going to show Joe the studio."

Opening a door across from hers in the narrow hallway, she pulled me into the other room. "Used to be my parent's room," she explained, releasing my hand and gesturing to a small metal chair. She opened her guitar case and brought out a beautiful Gibson Les Paul. "They had a bigger bed than mine, real ornate. I sold it for some pretty good money. As you can see, there's no room to sleep here."

I nodded. What with the drum set and the Casio keyboard and the amps and a pretty nice eight track and mic stands and a couple of bags full of chords and mics and guitar gizmos and three chairs of which one I sat on, the room used every inch of its small space.

She plugged in her amp and the chord from guitar to amp and tuned. Smiling at me, she asked if I knew how to use the 8 track. I nodded and kneeled in front of the paraphernalia bag she pointed at, extracting wires and a pair of professional headphones.

Randy and Mindy entered. Mindy carried a Rickenbacker bass. "Nice," I said to her.

"Mel bought it for me for my birthday," she smiled. "Buying friends, that's her motus operandi."

"Fuck you, bitch," smiled Melinda, swallowing half of the wine. I sipped from the glass Randy handed me, thanking him first. He crawled behind the drum set and sat on a stool. "Mic him would you Joe?" Melinda requested. I nodded.

With all the mics. Each of the band had a voice mic and the drums had two, and the three amps in close proximity, I predicted the loud squeal when the mics became activated. "Let me," said Mindy. A few painful seconds later, Mindy working with fast efficiency, the squeal ended.

"Brilliant," I said. She smiled. She may have been slapped hard by the ugly stick, but she had one of the most endearing smiles I ever saw.

"She is," said Melinda through her mic. "Brilliant I mean. Mechanically she can figure out anything."

"Her folks own the only garage in town except for that piece of shit garage at the Sunoco," Randy explained through his mic. "But they also fix electronics. Anything."

"Stop kissing my ass and play, assholes," Mindy smirked.

I fiddled with the recording device while Randy pounded out a start and stop rhythm which Mindy joined and then Melinda plucked and strummed her guitar. I stopped when Melinda sang.

With the precise clarity of Pat Benatar and the raw shout of Joan Jett and the soul of Etta James and even the charming timbre of 50s female rockabilly, she had it all: a rock and roll purity. Every word clearly enunciated while powerfully exhaled, I'd never heard better. Both Randy and Mindy smiled and nodded when they caught my stunned expression.

Unfortunately the songs stunted her brilliance. Cute and sarcastic and silly lyrics didn't hold attention. They didn't penetrate the head or puncture the heart or grab hold of the balls. And the music though well played in fast and slow moments typical of hardcore punk, lacked uniqueness. Nothing was special enough to fit her amazing voice.

It's not like I suffered though the set. I enjoyed the fun and of course the voice, but it frustrated me. It must have showed by the end.

"What's wrong with us, Joe?" Melinda looked defensive.

"We suck," said Randy with a smile, lightening things up.

"You don't suck," I said. "But..." I looked into Melinda's eyes. " ... do you want to hear?"

"Listen to the man," Mindy ordered her. "I know you hate criticism, but no one had an opinion worth hearing before now."

"Including us," added Randy.

"Yeah, fuck face. Including us. This is Joe Solomon, Mel. Your hero."

Melinda blushed. "Okay," she said timidly, a new and surprising and cute change of character.

"Do you want to do this now, or..."

"Oh shit, Joe," Melinda realized, "you must be exhausted!"

I smiled. I should have been, but her presence and her voice gave me a rush of adrenalin that sustained. "I'm fine."

"Let's chow down and come back," Mindy suggested. Everyone agreed.

Our late night snack consisted of breakfast, including corned beef hash left over from Leah's and eggs cooked by Melinda. Afterwards we reassembled in the studio.

I asked, "What's your favorite song of mine?"

"Cat-o-nine Cotillion," they all said. My most perverse song, and an album song only appreciated by those who purchased all Sin Drone albums since it hid on the b side of our least popular collection. It's my favorite too. I loved doing it in concert, getting a tiny taste of Alice Cooper theatrics. I laughed.

We played it. At the beginning they set a way too fast beat. "Wait!" I yelled into the microphone I shared with Melinda. They laughed.

"Just fucking with you, man," said Randy.

I set the pace on the Casio. I could have gotten my Gibson, but didn't feel like dragging it out of my Range Rover. We played it through amazingly well. Melinda took the lead vocals, which electrified me. I sang back up. Mindy wore headphones and showed her dexterity and multi-tasking abilities by adjusting the 8 track while keeping the tones going.

"What do you like about it?" I asked at the end.