ZODIAC 13
A gray Chevy pulled into the parking lot across from The Oven and parked. Crammed inside were six punks.
"This fucking shit is gonna rock!" Rusty said, posing hard.
"Totally, dude. Gacey fucking rules!" Skin replied. He was busy chopping up cocaine on a small mirror that he'd pulled out of the dashboard in front of Rusty.
"Man, hurry up," Rusty insisted.
"Fuck off, mother fucker. I'll be done when I'm done. Here," Skin handed the tray to Rusty. On it there were six small, one-inch lines waiting to be inhaled. Rusty took the rolled up dollar bill and snorted one. Then he licked his finger and pressed it on the spot where the worm had lay. "Good shit, mother fucker." The mirror disappeared into the backseat among the punks.
"Where you guys from, again?" Rusty looked forward out of the car as he spoke, his hands fumbling beneath him for another beer.
"Pittsburgh," a voice said.
"And why are you in Detroit?" Skin asked.
"Why the fuck not?" another voice said.
"Why not?" the other said back.
"Jesus Christ!" another voice interjected. "Man, fucking there's coke everywhere! Jesus Fucking Christ! I don't fucking believe this!"
Somebody was pushing on Rusty's backseat, "Let me out!" It was the girl's voice. Rusty rolled his eyes. "Let me out!" she screamed again, "I wanna get out of this car."
Rusty opened his door and stood up. His neck slowly straightened, and his Mohawk, still upright, made him look about seven feet tall. From the back seat came a very short, very young girl. She had a white silhouette face with heavy black eyes. Her roots showed in her starched, severe part.
"I'm going inside," she said, and stormed off into The Oven.
"What a bitch!" Jackson said as he emerged from the back seat. He was the last to have gotten a sniff of the cocaine, and the powder was all over his nostril. He laughed loudly and slapped Rusty on the back. Rusty smiled and took a swig of his beer.
"What was her name?" Rusty asked.
"I don't know. But I'm Jackson," he said to Rusty, and held out his hand. Rusty smiled and nodded, beer bottle still to his lips. It was a pose, but it looked cool.
"Cool," Jackson said, and took his hand back. "So this is The Oven? We hear a lot about this in Pittsburgh. I mean, you read a lot about your guys' scene in Maximum Rock n' Roll, you know?"
"I don't know why," Skin said, as he emerged from the driver's seat. "There's nothing in Detroit except decay."
"Fuck yeah," Rusty said, as he sucked down more beer. "Not a goddamned thing here."
"Well, I'm here," Jackson said, as he grabbed a beer from the passenger side of the car.
"Hey! That's mine!" Rusty said.
"It's cool, dude. It's cool," Jackson crooned as he popped the cap of the bottle and started guzzling.
"Where did you find these fucks?" Rusty asked Skin quietly.
"You know, they just said they wanted to go to the gig, so I said sure. They gave me gas money," Skin produced a five-dollar bill from his front pocket and smiled brightly.
"Who's the other one?" Skin said loudly to Jackson.
"That's Laney," Jackson threw the empty beer bottle on the ground in front of himself and watched it shatter.
"Watch it, asshole!" Skin said, as he wiped the spray from the bottle off of his bondage pants.
"Sorry," Jackson said absently as he turned to the car again. "Hey Laney—let's go! Zodiac 13!"
The girl peeled herself from the car and presented herself to the group of boys. Rusty and Skin looked at the ground. Jackson took Laney's arm and turned to the two.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I present to you, Laney." Laney smiled and bowed slightly to Skin and Rusty.
Another boy stood behind the Chevy. His jet-black, Robert Smith hair flew away from his face in every direction. His eyes were lined with deep black and his lips were christened with smeared red. His clothing was singed on him with a match. He turned to Rusty and Skin, "Rude ass mother fuckers!"
Laney smiled. The guy with the Robert Smith hair approached her.
"My name is Six," he said and took Laney's hand, bent over, and kissed the knuckles. Laney laughed.
"Pleased to meet you," she said.
"Did she fucking drop the tray of coke?" Skin demanded.
"She didn't drop the coke. That fucking bitch who ran off dropped the coke. Why do you think she was in such a rush to get away?" Jackson beamed at Skin, almost threatening violence.
"I'm gonna find that bitch and kill her!" Skin screamed, and broke out of the group and ran toward The Oven.
Inside, the crowd was pulsating to the beat of some dance remix. It was a silly song, but the crowd was thick and dark and magical. It was a good night to be out on the scene, and Rusty and Skin and Jackson and Laney and Six were lost in the moment of becoming one with their own kind. It was a gathering of misfits, a mash of rebellion—be it against moms and dads, teachers and cops, or governments and armies. The crowd swelled with the black leather stench of nothing better to do.
The Oven was an old theater on the west side of downtown that had, like so many other buildings in the city, fallen into disrepair. Rumor had it that it was the very theater where Diana Ross and the Supremes used to perform, but that kind of fame was nothing, really. Nobody cared about Motown music anymore. That's why, when a group of punks found the place and decided to rent it out every weekend and have bands play, the rent was so cheap. It was usually local bands that played The Oven, but the people who owned the place were getting good at bringing in bands from other cities. In fact, just that past weekend, five bands out of the hardcore scene in DC had played. Those kinds of shows always brought out the youngest of the scene and were always over before about nine, but they were always a good time. Skin's favorite music was DC hardcore, and it killed him when their icon, Minor Threat, broke up. Rusty didn't much care for the hardcore scene, but followed it with Skin.
Rusty watched Six walk over to some guy. They talked about for a minute, and the guy pointed over at Laney and Jackson, who'd found their way to the front of the stage. Six walked over to him. "You wanna get high?" Six asked.
"Sure," Rusty answered. He followed Six and the other guy back outside.
The October night was perfect. Six loved fall. It was his favorite time of the year. It was cool enough outside to wear your leather jacket, drink your beer without it getting hot quickly, and it got dark early.
"Here, have some of this," the guy Six had been talking to handed Rusty a joint. He took a hit and noticed that it didn't taste like pot; it had more of a chemical taste to it.
"What is this?" Rusty asked, blowing out a large puff of bluish smoke.
"It's PCP," the guy answered, "You like it?"
"I dunno," Rusty said, "I've never tried it before."
"Well you have now," Six said, as he inhaled from the joint, "You have mother fucking now," and he held in the smoke and then exhaled.
Rusty hit the joint again. This time he kept the smoke in longer. He felt his lungs expand to contain the chemical. As he exhaled, he felt himself relax. The world loosened up.
"People say it gives you a false sense of happiness," The guy talking to Six said, "I say there's nothing false about sense, even if it is chemical sense."
Six hit the joint, "I like chemical sense," he said, holding in a large hit of the drug. "It makes me feel good." He let out a large bellow of smoke and passed the joint back to Rusty for one final hit.
"I'm good," Rusty said.
"You don't want anymore?" the guy talking to Six asked.
"No. I'm good." Rusty said. Six looked at him.
"What you doing, Rusty?" Six asked. The guy talking to Six burst out laughing. Six took one more hit from the joint and killed it. "All gone," Six said, "Just like me." Rusty looked over at him. Six was making some kind of face.
"Let's go back inside before Zodiac comes on. How long have we been out here, anyway?"
"I dunno," Six said, "Long enough to get fucked the fuck up!" and he burst out laughing. Rusty smiled with him, but didn't know why. "Let's go," Six said.
Walking back across the parking lot towards The Oven, Rusty felt like he was walking on marshmallows. The walk took what seemed like forever. Halfway, Rusty forgot where they were going. Luckily, Six knew.
Back inside the guy Six had been talking to was gone and Skin was nowhere to be found. Rusty took a spot against the wall where he felt safe. Six was off in the crowd hanging somewhere. Rusty wasn't posing anymore. He stood very still. He hated being alone at a club. No one noticed him, yet he always felt like the center of attention. How he stood, where his arms lay, what he wore—it all became so wrong. His hair was suddenly gross. He'd spent a good forty-five minutes getting his Mohawk to stand up stiffly, and now he was certain that it had been a waste of time. Everyone was ghost-like, and their eyes were black with the knowledge of all the things they knew that Rusty didn't, and he was afraid, stoned, and alone.
"I have a mission: my goal is to complete it. I need people to do it. That's how I do it," Skin said to Rusty. "I just take care of myself, I dunno. Why?"
"I was just wondering," Rusty replied. "I mean, I just wondered. That's all."
"You're such a fucking nerd. Let me shave your head," Skin said.
"Sure," Rusty replied. He set his beer down and followed Skin into his parents'
basement. Skin's dad was a barber before he went to work at the tank plant. His dad had all these barber tools in the basement. There was even a barber's chair. Rusty took a seat.
"This won't hurt a bit," Skin said, as he wrapped a cloth around Rusty's neck.
Skin had never cut anyone's hair before, but it didn't seem to be too difficult. He grabbed hold of a pair of clippers, plugged them in, and turned them on. Their buzzing bounced off the concrete walls. "Here we go," he said with total confidence. The clippers dug into the side of Rusty's head. Rusty watched his long hair fall onto the floor.
"Dood, this is gonna rock!" Skin said, "I'm gonna give you a Mohawk."
"Sure," Rusty said with some certainty. He wondered what his parent's would think.
Skin clipped away at Rusty's hair for the next five minutes. When he was finished, he stepped back and turned off the clippers. "There. Now it's official." He took the cloak of Rusty and shook off some loose hairs. "You're a punk now, dood," Skin said, "Now you're one of us."
The crowd grew more and more impatient with the opening bands. There was a loud crash of glass next to the stage. Someone had thrown a beer bottle at the bass player and missed, hitting the speaker instead. The band got angry and started cursing at the crowd. Everyone in the gig began to boo and curse back. Another beer bottle hurled onstage and the band was suddenly finished with their set. Rusty decided to go back out to the car and drink another beer. The guy that Six had been talking to followed him.
