A Punk Rock Party

an excerpt from PUNK MINNEAPOLIS

(This excerpt from my published novel is censored for the internet)

That night, at a keg-soaked basement party filled with a sundry of fresh and not so fresh mohawks, Becky sang a number with a new band called Empty. She screamed her own punk rock version of Bauhaus’ old song, “Bela Legosi’s Dead.”

“White on white, blonde satin sad eyes. Clothes on the rack. Marilyn Monroe is dead. Undead, undead, undead. The gin and pills are on the stand, the fans have all been led along long lines, to the white box. Marilyn Monroe is dead. Undead, undead, undead.”

While the guitars screeched psychedelically like aimless bats and dragons on bright springs, she stood at attention with only one thought going through her head, “I am so f###’n on the edge! I am so f###’n cool! I am a punk star! I’m going to be the Wendy O of the 90s. F###’n A!”

The small crowd, cramped into the tiny space, clapped. Becky broke into a geeky smile, corrected it to look haughty, and then squeezed off to the bathroom upstairs. “Ouch! Watch it. Don’t shove. F## you. Make way!” She checked her hair to make sure it was still all glued on. It was. She frowned. She was glad for her hair but she wished this was the Rooster Party and she was the star.

She went outside for some air and saw men peeing their beer out on one side of the house. She cheered them on for a minute, and then went to the other drier side of the house where there were some lawn chairs and droll conversation.

“Do you know what’s going on over there?” one girl asked another, thumbing to the wet side of the house.

“That’s all these f###ing parties are,” another girl said with a moan. “So damn f###ing boring, peeing f###ing beer until a skinhead shows up and then they all start fighting for no reason!”

Becky disagreed. “I like watching men pee beer. You give them one can and forget it, the lawn’s dead. It’s so punk! Did you hear me sing with the band? Wasn’t I a bad-a*s?”

“Nope. Missed it.”

The other girl said, “Anything a boy does is gross.”

Becky chuckled. “I like it when they’re so drunk they can hardly stand up.”

“You’re sick.”

“Am not! It’s PUNK!”

“Not so loud, the neighbors down the end of the street will hear you and call the cops.”

Becky asked, “That’s the closest neighbor you have?”

“It’s all closed down crack houses between here and there. And they’re going to tear them all down. As if doing crack makes a haunted house. I think that’s pretty funny. Just tear the whole f###ing neighborhood down. Then we can party with some peace from all the f###ing neighbors.”

“Yeah.” Becky nodded. “But tearing down crack houses is really prejudiced against the blacks. They never go after the cocaine in the suburbs. If they tore down all those houses that do cocaine, the suburbs would be farm fields again. Just a wasteland. Does anybody know where the Rooster Party is this year?”

“Nope.” The woman offered Becky a chair. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Becky frowned. “In that lawn chair? What a piece of sh##.” She didn’t want to admit she’d never be able to get back out of it again, not without help. It was just too low to the ground.

“Suit yourself. I wish we could someday have a girl-only punk party. Then I’d wake up without the side yard smelling like the pits.”

Becky patted a pit bull on the head. The dog was sniffing around looking for snacks. “We just stand quietly in line at the powder room like little angels.”

“F### that. But it’s just that d###s are inherently oppressive and the world will not be free until they have all been genetically bred away. Only a world of women will be a free world.”

Becky laughed, and thought about how much she liked Tope and wished he were here. She wondered where the cooler party was, since that’s where he would always be. “So? Don’t be so prejudiced about it. Men are fun to yell at. You have to have some men around for that. Does anybody remember when the Rooster party was called Café Flesh?”

“That would make you too old. Anybody still hanging around a punk party that’s that old would have to crawl away in shame.”

Becky smiled, feeling mightily proud for being young. “Oh man.”

“Becky!” Raven called out, coming from the house. “I gotta talk to you! Hey. You look really good.”

She tried not to smile too big. “You think I don’t look too crazy?”

“It’s a good look for you.” He waited for her to say how cool he looked. He’d put his foot through his frayed black jeans again, so now had the front of both legs in several rivulets of safety pins. He looked down at them, and also checked for the umpteenth time to make sure his fly was still buttoned shut.

“Did you hear me sing with the band? I was goddam bad-a*s! I did that Bauhaus song with cooler words than you’ve ever come up with. Huh!”

“I heard it through the floor. It was too crowded in the basement to go down.”

“What a pantywaist. I didn’t even know you were here. I didn’t know darksiders were allowed into punk parties.”

Raven shrugged. “Punk and dark music are the same branch of the same tree, just different twigs.”

“But a darksider tree is dead. With bats.”

Raven smiled. “And… beer is beer.”

Becky looked around. “You better be careful you don’t get your a*s kicked at one of these parties.”

“It’s just the skinheads and punkers that fight with each other for no reason. I’m cool with everybody. But say, I gotta ask you.”

“Did you hear about Brett?”

“Huh? What about him.”