Lukey Kid

A week after recording “Melody,” we were holding band practice at Brendan’s house. Nothing really big; Soria was having a writer’s block so we didn’t have anything new to practice other than the songs we already had.

Ren was the last to show up. We were pretty well into it when his mom pulled up at the curb, and he popped out and grabbed his guitar, speedwalking up the driveway to meet us in the garage.

His face was red, his overall body language saying, “Bad news.”

“Bad news, guys,” he panted.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He paused and itched the back of his head. “I was…I was in my dad’s studio this morning, eating breakfast -”

“Why were you eating breakfast in the studio?” Brendan interrupted.

“My mom was cleaning the kitchen,” he explained, “so I couldn’t eat there. Anyways, I was drinking some orange juice, but my dad walked in on me and so I kinda got scared and knocked it over. And now the mixing board’s all screwed up and I’m banished from his room and have to clean it up with him.”

He almost looked like he was gonna cry.

“So…we can’t record there anymore?” Soria said.

Ren shook his head. “Not as long as it’s all messed up.”

Brendan growled. “Great. Now what? We finally got a free studio, and now you broke it. Good job!”

Ren looked hurt. “It was an accident,” he whimpered.

“Sorry,” Brendan added, “just, I do not wanna have to go to college.”

Soria spoke up. “There’s gotta be some kind of studio in this freakin’ town. Why don’t we just get some money and look around?”

All of a sudden the door that led out here to the garage slammed shut. Joey stood at the doorway, folding his arms. “We only got so much money from shirts. How much would studio time cost?”

All of us shrugged, clueless.

“We shouldn’t be spendin’ our money to record. That’s the reason we got the money – we play kickass live shows,” Brendan boasted.

“But what do we do to get more money?” I asked.

Silence.

- - -

Downtown, there’s this big plethora of shops and restaurants. It’s down the road from the naval base. Amidst the plazas and strip malls, there’s a car wash that school clubs mostly flock – one week, it’s a cheerleading squad; the next week, it’s a football team.

Given the situation we were in, we really could’ve used some money to rent some studio time at one Ren’s mom recommended.

And given the circumstances – none of us could get a job – we were desperate.

I think you know where this is going.

A Saturday later, the five of us (plus Soria’s dad) took a ride down to the Easy Peasy Car Wash Station to raise some money for our poor butts. Soria’s dad (We called him Mr. Zach because he told us not to call him Mr. Atkinson) was with us since none of us had any real experience washing a car. Plus, an adult authority figure made us look good. And out of all of our parents, he grew to be the least intimidating. At least, I don’t think he hated us.

We got there at around nine in the morning, attempting to catch the early rush for people going grocery shopping. At the curb, Joey held up a big poster board sign he made the night before up high so everybody could see it:

PLASTER CASTER NEEDS MONEY
IF YOU CARE, YOU’LL LET US WASH YOUR CAR
FIVE BUCKS PER CAR

Straightforward and simple. Though it was doubted that old ladies would let a bunch of punks wash their minivans, surprisingly, quite a few came up to us and gave us money to wash their cars.
Then, at around eleven o’ clock, the flow stopped.

It would be an hour between customers. We got really bored of waiting for anybody to take notice of our humble cause, simply aching for some action.

“Where the hell is everyone?!” Brendan shouted.

Soria’s dad shot him a death glare.

“Uh…heck,” I whispered, in an attempt to cover for him.

Joey stood still at the curb of the car wash driveway, holding up the sign despite the lack of customers. Finally, shaking his head, he turned around and shoved the sign into my hands. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his car keys and left us with, “I got an idea.”

Then he drove off.

Twenty minutes later, he came back in a banana suit.

…I didn’t wanna know.

He stepped out of his old van, a mass of yellow foam folding in to form to his positions. And all I could see of Joey was his head – messy straightened dark hair that stuck out in all directions, freckles he shared with his little brother, and aviator sunglasses.

I shuddered. Last March I had to wear a suit like that at a Pi Day parade we played at. I ended up breaking my amp because of it. Not a great gig.

“Ya like?” Joey smirked as he walked over to us. “I figure we can attract attention this way.”

Soria gave him a thumbs-up. “Good thinkin’.”

Her dad, however, rolled his eyes. “Do I even want to know why you have that thing?”

Joey laughed a little. “No, you do not.”

“So what’re you gonna do?” I questioned. “Just stand there and act like a banana?”

“I guess,” he shrugged. “What else is there to do?”

“Dance,” Ren suggested.

Joey’s face broke into a big evil smirk. “Huh…”

Thirty seconds later, the older Veins brother was bustin’ out the Running Man down the sidewalk, just in time for a traffic jam caused by the morning rush. He’d bounce around right next to the cars, making the people inside either laugh or want to call the cops.

He even tried skanking down the curb, something that not even I – a self-confessed skanker – would have the courage to do. It turned a lot of heads, though, and once the jam cleared up, we said hello to five or six new customers.

Each one of them were in their twenties.

And they were all dudes.

“Oh my God, you’re a queer magnet,” Brendan gasped to Joey like he just figured out a huge secret kept from him all his life.

BAM.

Black eye.

“Screw off, man,” Joey growled, blushing.

The line of cars was brought to a standing point in the parking lot, and each customer rolled down their windows.

And half of them shouted either, “Get crackin’ on the fuckin’ demo!” or, “I want a topless car wash!”

Aside from the weird looks Zach gave everyone who said the latter, it could’ve been worse.

We washed those suckers in twenty minutes, but it wasn’t the end. A steady trickle of dudes in young adulthood rolled in, some over a decade older than us, but they all had something in common: they loved Plaster Caster and recognized our pathetic attempt at getting some cash.

At around two in the afternoon, the flow slowed down enough for there to be some down time.

“This sucks,” Joey grumbled, “there’re no girls.”

“You’re just mad ‘cause guys think you’re hot,” Brendan smirked.

“We need something to attract chicks,” he continued, ignoring the gibes coming from his brother.

Silence.

“Maybe one of us should go shirtless,” Ren suggested. He got a lot of funny looks.

“Well, yeah, but who? If Soria did, well…first of all, her dad’s here and he wouldn’t like that…” Joey said.

“Damn straight,” Mr. Zach added.

“But who else is decent-looking enough?”

More silence.

Thinking?

“I vote Luke takes off his shirt,” Joey finally suggested.

My heart took a leap. “Why me?!”

“Yeah, why him?” Soria’s dad intervened.

“You like boys,” Brendan smiled.

Another death-ray glare. “Out of all of us guys, Luke’s in the best shape.”

I blushed. “Maybe you are gay.”

“No! I mean, you’re old, sir, no offense,” he said, pointing to Mr. Zach, “Ren’s skinny as hell, Brendan’s got nothin’ going on, I’m pale as ghost shit. Luke has muscles.”

“Oh my God, you are gay,” Soria gasped.

“Shut up! I know everyone else is thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’!”

“I’m not,” Soria’s dad said flatly.

Brendan made a muscle-man pose. “I dunno, I think I’m pretty sexy.”

All of us shook our heads.

“You wish,” Joey said under his breath, turning to face me with sad puppy eyes. “Please, Luke?” he begged, pouting.

“You’re gay,” Mr. Zach confirmed.

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Fine.”

I never asked to stand half-naked and wet at the side of the road for my band. But heck, whatever will be, will be. I mean hey, we might actually have made some money.

At that point in my life, Plaster Caster was the most important thing to me. It didn’t matter if my house would burn down again or if they told me I was gonna die in fifteen minutes or the world exploded. I was happy. I was glad I was in the company of my friends. It was all that mattered.

Even if it was so hot out that the water from washing cars evaporated within half an hour off my body, I still felt pretty cool. It beat window washing or ditch digging.

“Lookin’ good,” Brendan cooed jokingly, making a hand motion nearing my backside.

“You touch my butt and I kill you,” I growled.

“I wasn’t gonna touch your ass,” he chuckled. “Joey wants to, though. And probably half the people driving by.”

“Good for business,” I coughed, a little creeped out.

Brendan yawned. “Man, this is boring as hell.”

“Mmhmm. Try being me.”

“No thank you,” he snickered, “I got hair twice as thick as yours. Ain’t nobody gonna wanna see me shirtless.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He looked down the road for a second, eyes glazed over. Then he turned back to me and smirked like he was about to say something completely out of nowhere, a quirk of his that was more common than I’d like to admit. “I remember back in seventh grade a bunch’a girls hated me ‘cause I was your best friend.”

I cocked my brow. “What? Why? And…where the heck did that come from?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. They knew I knew you since we were seven so they thought I was more important to you.”

“They thought we were lovers?” I said flatly.

“Fuck, I don’t know. Probably.”

I stepped a foot away from him.

“What’s up with you? It’s not like I’m gonna come onto you now!”

I smiled a little. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“What the heck? You know I’m not like that!” he growled, turning a bright shade of red.

“Still!” I countered, sticking my tongue out. “I don’t wanna risk anything.’”

He paused. “…Loser.”

“Sure.”

We went quiet, still standing at the curb – me half naked, Brendan soaking wet.

“Hey Luke,” he said.

“Huh.”

“…D’you think we’ll ever hit it big?”

I thought for a minute. In an easy breath I told him, “I guess it depends on what you call ‘big.’”

“Like, I don’t know, Hannah Louisiana big.”

I snorted a laugh. “We never pole-danced on TV. We’re not gonna be that huge.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, just, d’you think we’ll ever be on the radio?”

I shrugged. “Well, let’s see. Our lyricist is in the band – she’s a girl, too – none of us do drugs…right?” I trailed off, looking at him expectantly. He nodded with a big stupid grin. “We don’t cuss to fill in syllables, and we don’t use over-edit our stuff. I don’t think we’d fit in.”

“We could be a one-hit wonder.”

“Sh’yeah, like we want that title.”

“Your favorite band was a one-hit wonder. The Bostons, right?”

“Mighty Mighty Bosstones,” I corrected, “and they had two hits, thank you.”

“Touchy.”

“Don’t mock my Bosstones.”

He laughed a little, changing the subject. “I gotta wonder what we’re gonna be like in ten years. Like, if we change. Not saying we will, but…”

“Sometimes ya gotta change,” I added. “When we’re 25, we’re not gonna be playing about crushes and hating people who are older than us and stuff like that. I mean, first of all, Soria and Ren’ll probably be married by then, and we gotta grow up sometime.”

“But not now,” Brendan grinned.

“Yeah.”

He sighed. “I hope we don’t be a Kings of Leon.”

“Oh God. They are so overplayed,” I gasped.

“Well, yeah. And the second they made an album with a new sound, a bunch of their old fans turned against ‘em.” He laughed a little, licking his lips. “Even me. Man, their old shit was awesome.”

I shrugged. “I hate that. I’m just praying that if we ever decide to grow up, that doesn’t happen.”

“You never know. People’re weird.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, scratching my head. “But if we ever change our sound, it’s gonna be years from now.”

Brendan yawned and stretched, dropping the subject again. “I’m so freakin’ tired. Never knew washin’ a few cars could be so much work.”

“That’s why they call it work,” I smiled.

“That’s why I call you lucky,” he grunted. “All you gotta do is stand.”

“No, it’s very hard work. Sometimes I get leg cramps.”

He punched my shoulder. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up.”

He shoved me. “I gotta go back. There’s a dirty car screamin’ my name.”

“Have fun, dude,” I called out.

It was four o’ clock, and we made enough for about a week of studio time.

- - -

The next day was a Sunday. After I was done with church, I called the Veins brothers and told them to pick me up – ‘cause it was time to record.

Joey’s old-as-poop van was perfect for hauling all our amps and instruments and getting it there in one piece, even if the van itself could fall apart at any given second. The back double doors were completely littered with band stickers like Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Who, .38 Special, Clutch, Rolling Stones…a lot of bands, mostly classic rock since that’s how Joey rolled. Though the inside of it reeked of old carpeting and his old days of smoking pot, he glued a bunch of air fresheners to the walls. That kind of hurt more than it helped, and it was obvious that he wasn’t completely sober from that stuff.

We closed the doors once everyone and their instrument was in, buckling up and taking off downtown to go to Noyz Studios, dragging Ren’s dad along with us to oversee the process and make sure we were doing something right.

From 12 PM to 3 PM, that sucker was ours.

And the rest of that week from 2 PM to 5 PM, we ruled it again and again.