Memories of minutes-old Marlboro smoke fill the kid’s new-old sedan. His passenger tells him that he’s trying to cut back. After all, it killed Eddie Money, he says. The man digs through his leather jacket and pulls out a small black rectangle and tells him to play it. The kid doesn’t understand. An unlit cigarette bounces on the man’s lip as he explains that it goes into a tape player. The kid doesn’t have one of those.
“Your generation is so lame.”
“Can’t be more lame than you,” the kid replies.
Ignoring him, Leather Jacket Man rummages through his pockets and pulls out another rectangle. This one is much thicker and has a row of buttons on one side of it.
“Lucky for us I have a spare,” the man smirks, “now hand me the AUX.”
The man slides the tape into the portable player. A loud mixture of rock, punk, jazz and blues booms from the car’s two speakers.
“These are the guys we’re seeing tonight. They only release on cassette and vinyl. Very badass. This is the cutting edge of the genre right here,” the man says, drumming on the dashboard. “So cutting edge they use ancient tech?” asks the kid.
Leather Jacket Man scoffs and says, “Music streaming fidelity is trash. Might as well stick your head in a fridge and listen to an album that way.”
Before the man can fully explain the virtues of analog sound, the neon sign of Backwash Liquors grabs his attention.
“Go here.”
They park and the kid repeats his order. Leather Jacket Man waves him off, reassuring him that he’s not an idiot. He gets out of the car, straightens himself up and, with a small sway, walks into the store.
A brown bottle returns cradled in one arm along with a twelve pack of something. Neither is what the kid wanted. Leather Jacket Man ignores him, telling him to get moving. A woman in a polo shirt runs towards them. The kid hears something about stolen booze, so he puts the car in gear instead of waiting for more details. Front-wheel drive fishtails them out of the parking lot onto the county road. The kid reminds Leather Jacket Man that the deal was for him to buy something, not steal it.
“Jack White hasn’t bought anything in years,” he replies.
“He’s rich, famous, and successful. You are none of those.”
Red and blue lights flash in the rearview mirror.
“You fuckin’ idiot, we are so cooked,” says the kid.
With quiet hands, he steers the car to the side of the road. Both listen as the siren’s shout grows closer and closer. Leather Jacket Man lights the burner dangling from his mouth.
“Bro, I just got that smell out of the car. Put that out.”
“Be chill for once.”
“We’re about to get arrested!”
The sheriff roars past them responding to another act of gun violence.
“See? All good,” the man says, pinching out the red ember.
====
As they approach the concert venue, Leather Jacket Man points to a place to park a few blocks away. The kid obliges and gets out to vent his legs. The man follows and asks if he’s coming with.
“Of course not.”
“That’s too bad, you’re a real rocker. Maybe the last one.”
All the rockers Leather Jacket Man knew are lawyers or accountants now. They might as well be dead according to him. The kid admits he’s studying to become a lawyer too.
“We’re all dying then,” the man smiles, “not me though.”
He unscrews the top of the whiskey bottle and takes a pull before offering it over.
“I’ll tell mom you say hi,” the law student says, wincing from the liquor.
The man gives a coy chuckle and says, “nah, don’t do that.”
“Why? You’re the only thing she talks about.”
“I guess I’m a rock star after all.”
“Don’t be an ass, just call her.”
“An Amy Lee album is more joyful than she is.”
“And how about me? Am I depressing to be around too?”
“I’m trying to hang now, but you just needed me to buy beer.”
“Which you didn’t even do.”
The man laughed, “You’re reminding me of dad.”
“I was about to say the same about you.”
Leather Jacket Man’s look darkens.
“That wannabe Springsteen?! A poser and loser. A one-hit wonder. Not me, I’m the real fucking deal.”
“Just as delusional and just as drunk.”
Leather Jacket Man lunges forward, pushing the law student against the sedan. The impact knocks the bottle loose onto the pavement. Wet glass and sharp alcohol cover the ground. A diffusion of asphalt, rain, and 80 proof hickory radiates from the broken glass. The kid readies himself and shoves the man off. He stumbles over himself before raising both hands in surrender.
“Sorry, sorry. Major party foul,” the man says.
“I’m going,” the kid says, turning his back to him.
“Wait…”
He stops and faces the man once again. Under a buzzing streetlight, thin rain taps on the worn leather jacket. Puddles soak the bottom of tattered jeans. Dark, matted hair lays unwound on heavy shoulders. Tired, sunken eyes long for something. He could not remember the last time they were together.
“Keep the beer. My friends won’t drink that shit,” the kid answers the question on his brother’s face.
Leather Jacket Man’s worry turns to relief.
The kid walks around the car and drops himself into the driver’s seat. Rain starts arranging itself on the windshield in greater and greater frequency. Some droplets fuse with others on their way down the glass; others remain still and alone. Worn asphalt sprays out from underneath his tires as he accelerates away. In the rearview mirror, the night swallows his brother.
====
Friends in baggy pants greet the kid back at the pizza joint. They wonder where the beer is. He breaks their hearts.