Bone hit his oney and shoved his key in the back door of the Brannon Theater.
He swore one day he wouldn’t do this, but today was not that day.
He stopped in the musty hallway and said, softly but audibly: “I can’t believe I have a key to this fucking place.”
His first show as a fan he got a bloody, probably broken nose from the boot of a stagediver and it felt like a merit badge for an angry little punk kid. He grew up in all ages concerts here. Met all his favorite bands, drank with ‘em, skated with ‘em.
Some west coast developer named Ptermian swooped in and bought the place, tried to turn it into a swanky piano bar, but the neighborhood hadn’t come back that hard, the place was too cavernous, and the guy snorted cocaine like at any minute Michelle Pfeiffer was gonna walk down the stairs and sit on his lap.
Bone was barbacking at the piano bar when Ptermian bottomed.
He remembered the guys coming through the back door.
Fuck, Bone thought, I remember it better than I remember my grandma’s funeral.
Bone walked into the office, Dwayne was proofing a poster for an upcoming show on his two huge monitors.
Bone threw his coat on a chair and Dwayne looked up.
“Put it back on. Ya gotta change the marquee.”
Bone looked at his coat, looked back at Dwayne, who was technically his boss but his best friend.
“Who canceled?”
“No one canceled. Ptermian’s in town.”
“Want me to put Ptermian’s in Town on the marquee?”
Dwayne put on his serious face.
Bone hated Dwayne’s serious face.
Dwayne had only developed the serious face after he took over the theater from Ptermian.
“No, you have to alter a band name. According to Ptermian, it falls under our business conduct clause.”
Bone stared at his friend.
Dwayne hated Bone’s defiant stare, at least when it was directed at him, which wasn’t often.
Dwayne twisted the little silver dog tag around his neck.
He always did it when he was agitated.
Bone put his boots against one of the work desks in the office and closed his eyes.
“So tonight we have Genital Mutilation and The Creamy Milkshakes headlining, direct support is Timmy’s Organism, and opening the night is Busby Death Chair.
No Twatwaffles, No Sugarfucks, No Shitgooses. I don’t think we have to alter anything, not that I would alter any of those because Ptermian is in town.”
Dwayne stood, twisting the dog tag.
The names on the dog tag belonged to his parents, killed in a motorcycle accident.
“Ptermian said he got a letter from a city councilman, who promised to run our filth out of Westbury. Wants Ptermian to open the piano bar again.”
Bone opened his eyes and laughed.
“Fuck that guy.”
Dwayne shook his head, rolled his eyes.“I made the mistake of saying that to Ptermian.”
“Mistake?” Bone asked.
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