“She’s probably not even going to break the record,” Bob says.
“Whoa, that’s fucked,” the French singer says.
“That’s disgustingly fucked,” the drummer says.
“I gave up cussing,” says Ace, “but allow me to weigh in with Pig Latin: That’s uck-fayed.”
“It’s not uck-fayed,” Bob says.
“Dude, it’s totally uck-fayed,” the drummer says.
“I’m not being mean,” Coffen says. “I’m only saying she’s tried and failed at breaking this record four times already. We have to be realistic.”
“Dude, do you think she can break the record or not?” the drummer says.
“That’s not important,” Bob says.
“It’s pretty important,” says Ace. “Do you?”
“Of course I think she can break it.” The Scout’sHonor!® racing through Coffen’s bloodstream goes to work, its formula producing the promised results. Bob has lied. Now his nose starts bleeding.
“Did you do some blow or something?” Ace asks.
Coffen wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “No, it’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.” Ace asks the drummer to see if there are any leftover fast food napkins in the glove compartment. Luckily, there are. Bob holds a bundle up to his face.
“Am I a rock star, Chump Change?” says Ace.
“I don’t understand the question,” Coffen says.
“Am I a millionaire rock star playing concerts at sold-out arenas around the globe?”
“Is this the left I take?” the singer says.
“Yes,” Bob says.
“Then what after that?”
“Then your third right into my subdivision.”
“Got it.”
Coffen says to Ace, “You aren’t a rock star.”
“Exactly right I’m not a rock star. But I am one to Kathleen. She comes to every gig I play. She loves me. She cheers like crazy. She believes in me, no matter what. Do you believe in Jane like that?”
“Of course I … ” Bob trails off. He feels the faucet in his nose open up a bit more, the blood coming at a faster rate. Wow, had he not known this before? Was he aware of the fact he didn’t think Jane could break the record? It makes him feel like complete shit, this idea that he doubted her chances. Because Ace is right: He should be more like Kat; he should believe in Jane’s talent and skill and practiced abilities. He should believe that she can do anything she puts her mind to.
And it’s occurring to Bob that they’re also right about this evening’s itinerary. He is being uck-fayed. He is being selfish. He should not be asking Jane to go to Björn’s show. He should be encouraging her. He should be doing everything in his power to make sure she succeeds at everything that’s important to her.
“You guys are right,” Coffen says. “Let’s make a couple changes to what we’re going to do once we get to my house.” He turns the bib over, writes something else on the back of it, and fastens the sign around his neck.
Ace reads it and smiles.
Early evening, the sun creeps down the horizon. Coffen’s wife, two children, and Erma all stand on the front steps of the light gray house, summoned by Bob and his cohorts: the dulcet stylings of French Kiss, sans Javier Torres, of course, who’s moved onto greener pastures, ones where all passersby are no doubt awestruck by his sonic chops. The three remaining members — in full French Kiss makeup — serenade Coffen’s entire family.
Coffen had knocked on the front door once the band was all set up on the lawn. Margot opened the door and asked what was going on. Bob said, “Go get the whole family.” For once she did as she was told without making a big stink about not knowing why — or maybe she did know why and was rooting for Bob. Yes, he likes that idea quite a bit.
So:
See the whole Coffen clan congregated on the porch. Ace strums away on an acoustic guitar. The drummer keeps the beat on a snare drum that’s propped up on a stand in front of him. The French singer sings a yarn from the vault of the Kiss catalog, perhaps their most renowned ditty, “Rock and Roll All Nite.” They’ve done some progressive rearranging of the song’s components and currently, even though the rendition is only beginning, they are already playing the chorus, albeit a slower, jazzier, more romantic lilt than the original band ever intended.
Coffen wears his reconceived dental bib around his neck. On it is the following message: GOOD LUCK TOMORROW, JANE!
His family claps for French Kiss as the song ends.
Then Ace starts talking, “Thanks very much; you are too kind. Thank you. Wow. What a fantastic response. We’re really happy to be here playing the Coffen front lawn tonight.”
“Who are these guys?” Margot asks Coffen.
“My band.”
“Your band?” she says.
“Your band?” Jane says.
“Your band?” the band echoes.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Chump Change,” Ace says. “We’re not your band exactly.”
“I thought the gig went well,” Coffen says. “I want to learn bass and play with you guys. I’ll give my all and promise to practice night and day.”
“How about some beginner’s lessons and we’ll see how it goes?” Ace says. “We’ll start there.”
“So I’m in the band?” Coffen asks.
“No,” says Ace, “but you can consider yourself on a temporary French Kiss scholarship while we figure out the lineup situation. We won’t turn on your amp, but you’ll wear the signature look and work the signature moves. You’ll be our temp until we iron things out and who knows, if you prove to be a savant on your instrument, maybe you will find yourself a permanent addition to our lineup. That good enough for now?”
Bob nods, looks each member of the band in the eyes, and thanks them. He hadn’t expected to ask to be anything more than a onetime replacement, but it feels good to hear they’d consider him as a permanent member should he learn the bass inside and out. Now the onus is on Coffen. Do the work. Practice. And see what happens.
“I’m not totally sure what’s going on out here,” Jane says.
“Gotthorm wouldn’t like this,” Erma says.
“What’s going on,” Bob says, “is that I’m here to apologize to you, Jane. I’m here to say that I should never have suggested we go to Björn’s show tonight. I’m here because I love you and I love our children and I know you’re going to break the world record on this attempt.”
“You think I’m going to do it this time?” she asks.
“I really do. Get all the rest you need. Break that record. And we’ll talk after you’re the world champion.” Coffen grips the crumpled and bloodied napkins in his pocket, in case he needs to retrieve them to swipe at a bleeding nose, but not one drip falls from his nose. “Now can we get back to enjoying the music?” Bob asks.
Jane smiles, nods, stares at him.
“Yeah!” says Brent.
Even Margot, who’s got her iPad out to record all this, says, “Let’s hear another one.”
Ace laughs and says, “We love the enthusiasm we’re seeing from the crowd on the Coffen front lawn! Music is about the fans, and we love each and every one of you. You never know what to expect at a new venue, but the Coffen front lawn is winning a huge place in our hearts!”
The four Coffens all clap.
Erma stands with her hands on her hips.
Hopefully, no soulless spies from the HOA observe this unauthorized performance or they’ll no doubt pop off a belligerent email to Bob, a threat cluttered with propaganda and rhetorical questions—shouldn’t the music being broadcast within our subdivision’s collective earshot represent the tastes of all the residents rather than a mere few? Isn’t every one of our ears entitled to tones that tickle its tastes?