Dean had been on fire, growling his way through a blues number and then effortlessly shifting to a pretty falsetto for a love ballad. The hungered, awestruck expressions on the faces of Melody, Charity, and every other girl in the crowd were all the proof needed to say that Dean’s artistic bad boy shtick worked.
Brad knew that Melody would jump in the sack with Dean if doing so meant she had to voluntarily film the act and then show the videotape to her grandmother, but he didn’t mind much. One of the best parts of following the Shamans on tour was the crazed sexual appetite that the shows worked up in Melody, the nights of animal passion he could look forward to in cheap motel rooms or on somebody’s friend’s brother’s spare couch. And if Melody closed her eyes and pretended that Brad was Dean, it certainly didn’t diminish his enjoyment of the experience.
And now Dean Morrow was sitting in the cell next to him, mere feet away. He could hear his sharp, heavy breaths that carried the weight of the evening’s wine, women, song and police brutality. Despite his fears of being the only other anger outlet if the cops got pissed off about noise, Brad could not resist the urge to communicate one-on-one with the man whose song lyrics and proudly antisocial attitude had guided his life since ninth grade. He rapped on the wall separating his and Dean’s cells. “Are you, OK, dude?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Did those cops hurt you?”
“Nah, man,” responded Dean. “Pigs are never as tough as they think they are. It took six of the bastards to bring me down. And stop whispering, nobody is listening.” Dean’s regular speaking voice sounded gruff and frayed, betraying years of heavy drinking and smoking, though Brad guessed he was only 28 or 29.
“Sorry about that,” said Brad.
“Don’t apologize,” commanded Dean. “I haven’t apologized for one damned thing since I was 16 and I’ve done more to be sorry for than you. How old are you, kid?”
“Twenty,” said Brad, “in about a month.”
“Cool,” said Dean. “What are you doing with your life?”
Brad paused to consider the question. His father had asked variations of it many times, though usually he turned it into an insult rather than what sounded here like an attempt at friendly conversation. He had tried and failed community college, followed by a half-hearted attempt to join the Peace Corps that was summarily rejected. Ever since, he had held a string of low-wage retail and menial labor jobs supplemented by a small-time pot dealing enterprise. But he decided to give Dean an answer that he would more likely appreciate.
“Since three weeks ago, I’ve been following the Poorboy Shamans,” he proudly announced. “We’re doing the whole fall tour.”
This provoked a deep, raspy fit of laughter. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you’re a Shamanite,” Dean said. “Is my face on every one of your tee shirts?”
The response shocked Brad. He had expected something along the lines of, “Right on, dude,” or, “Way to screw the establishment,” or even an invitation to join the road crew. Outright mockery was a surprising turn.
“No,” Brad stammered. “Well, I do have the shirt with your picture from the ‘Universal Spirit’ tour two years ago. I caught you guys in Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Akron that summer. You totally rocked.”
“You’re an Ohio boy,” said Dean. “That explains a lot. And yeah, we did rock that summer. Especially after the shows. I’ve never seen more pussy in my life. I recall a few choice samples from Ohio, if my impaired memory serves me right.”
“The chicks love you in Ohio,” Brad said, desperately searching for a way to appear cool in Dean’s hazy view again. “Christ, my girlfriend and her sister would dig a tunnel through the floor of this place if they knew you were locked up all alone in that cell.”
“Really?” Dean perked up. “You’re traveling around with a pair of sisters? Are they hot?”
“Hell yeah,” said Brad, letting out a low whistle for emphasis. He hated to brag about his hot girlfriend to a guy who had forgotten the names of more beautiful women than he would ever meet, but Brad had to admit that Melody was a fine little piece of ass and her sister was possibly even finer. “Both have long blonde hair, plump melons, and tight little asses. Melody, my girlfriend, is 19 and her sister Charity is 18.”
“Sounds pretty good.” Dean seemed mildly impressed. “Do they double up on you?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Brad, who had entertained that particular fantasy on numerous occasions. “Charity has this dweeb boyfriend named Skyler. He looks just like his name, with a pencil neck and thick glasses and everything. He’s also along for the ride.”
“If he’s such a tool how did he land a fine little biscuit?” inquired Dean.
“That’s a good question,” admitted Brad. “He’s a poet. The kid got into Ohio State on some kind of writing scholarship but he’s taking a year off to find himself. Somehow Charity fell for his sensitive artist bullshit. She works with her sister at the mall doing electrolysis and she shacks up with a guy who reads Shakespeare for fun.”
“Poetry is a pretty solid hook,” mused Dean. “Chicks love artistic dudes. If a guy isn’t a jock, and it sounds like your boy Skyler sure isn’t, being some kind of poet or painter or songwriter is probably the best way to go. It sure worked for me.”
“I guess so,” Brad hesitantly agreed. He had met Melody two years earlier at a party during their senior year of high school. Brad spent the night getting Melody and her friends high with a bag of pot he had originally planned to sell, and he had been dating her ever since. But he certainly wasn’t much of an athlete and definitely did not create anything artistic. Besides getting high and rocking out to the Shamans, Brad wasn’t entirely sure what he and Melody shared in common. A small, tight knot began forming in the pit of his stomach.
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