Karl Koweski
- Horseless Headsman-
We stood near the rear of the community centre, cornflower blue wristlets proudly displayed. There were four kegs sequestered behind a folding table. A harried, middle-aged woman worked the taps dispensing booze to those metal heads fortunate enough to have been born at least twenty one years ago. Beside the kegs sat an off-duty cop wearing his government issue monkey suit. When he wasn’t looking bored, he was giving us all the I-know-you’re-up-to-no-good stare down. On stage, a local band rushed through a mediocre cover of Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper”.
Women of all eye shadow and lip gloss colors surrounded us along with a bunch
of long haired guys, many of whom also wore eye shadow.Dragon said “if we don’t get laid here there’s something wrong with us.”
Since I represented the sole person Dragon knew in the entire hall, I felt obligated to answer. “I’ve heard that before.”
Dragon grimaced. “I guess you got a right to be negative. But look around. It’s like a Kelly Bundy look-alike convention. I ain’t seen this much high heels and high hair since... well, I ain’t ever seen this much.”
I had to agree. Every woman wore either black jeans or black mini-skirts. The tops were tight, the hair explosive and there wasn’t enough bat guano in all of Karlsbad Caverns to cover the make-up caked onto the faces of the young women conglomerated here tonight.
The men wore denim or leather. Their facial hair was constant and sinister as if they were all diabolical geniuses developing doomsday devices when they weren’t banging their heads or wearing Metallica T-shirts. The starving artist look prevailed with the occasional fat bastard thrown in for comic relief.
Though I ignored Dragon’s earlier warnings, I’d begun to agree this wasn’t the best place to wear my red Acapulco shirt with the yellow and lavender magnolia blossoms. Dragon claimed I looked like a fag Colombian drug dealer to which I wittily replied “no, I don’t”. There had to be a kernel of truth to his statement, otherwise, these malnourished head bangers wouldn’t have been casting so many challenging stares in my direction. My splash of color affronted their wild black abandon.
The band on stage, currently called Strangers in a Strange Land, segued into “Infinite Dreams”. Knowing in this new millennium, in this shitty southern suburb of Chicago, the spirit of the 80's greatest metal band continued to be anally raped by dudes who never met a power chord they couldn’t butcher or a high note they couldn’t choke, truly warmed the cockles of my heart. They had the hair right. And the bassist posed correctly, bottom of his bass pressed against his shoulder like a rifle as his fingers stumbled across the strings.
Dragon and I stood within scrambling distance of the beer supply. I wondered what the hell I was doing there. Dragon might have had a plan. It surely evaporated the moment we showed our ID at the door.
“Where do I know you from?”
I’d used the line a million times in the past to no avail. Strange to hear it rather than speak it.
The girl directing the question at me was beautiful, if only because she was speaking to me. She wore black denim. Yards and yards of black denim. Her hair curved around her apple face like a shawl, ending between her third and fourth chin.
I immediately shifted into third gear, known to every homely girl in GRC’s graduating class of 1992 as “super sonic sex drive”.
“I’m sure you’ve seen me around,” I purred.
“I thought you looked familiar. Even with that crazy ass shirt. I can’t remember the name of your band, though.”
Band? I’d never been affiliated with any band, gang, or, even, clique. My musical career ended at the age of thirteen following my second guitar lesson. Fifty bucks out the window and I still hadn’t mastered Stairway To Heaven.
However, she didn’t need to know this. If she wanted a man in a band, then, by God, I’d be that man. Unfortunately, my thought processes slowed by keg beer and desperation threatened to bog down before I could answer. Sensing this, Dragon elbowed his way into the conversation. “We’re from The Horseless Headsmen. Vic’s the guitarist. I’m the singer.”
Her eyes, wide as eggs normally, widened to the size of small cantaloupes.
“The Headless Horsemen, huh? Cool.”
“That’s Horseless Headsmen. Got it? The Headless Horsemen is a totally different act.”
“Oh. I see. Hey, you guys got the rest of your band here?”
My mouth hung open.
Dragon said, “nah, it’s just the two of us. Radonja’s teching for Red Baron and Tobias plays jazz drum at the Carmichael Saturday nights.”
Dragon’s propensity for shoot-from-the-hip lies had become legendary ever since he concocted his first imaginary girlfriend back in high school. Still, he amazed me with how easily the falsehoods flowed.
“Aww, that’s too bad. Wish I would have known. Well, guys, I have some more mingling to do. Thanks for coming. I’ll see you around.”
She continued her trek through the denim forest, mingling in the way a bowling bowl mingles with ten pins.
“Who the hell was that?” Dragon asked.
“Fuck if I know. This is your show. The Headless Horsemen was a nice touch, though.”
“Horseless Headsmen, dammit.”
“You say Horseless Headsmen? I saw you guys play the Holiday Inn. You guys rawked.”
There were two of them. Big hair. Six point eight pounds of silver, clacking jewellery between them. Shiny pieces of metal jutting out from all over their faces, semi precious stones bubbling up like cystic acne on their ears, nose, eyebrows.
“Thanks,” I said, basking in the attention. How great it is, playing guitar for a rock band.
“You think you guys can get me and Sylvia a beer? We forgot our ID and they won’t give us any without it.”
“Ain’t that how it goes,” Dragon said. “Wherever you wanna take a piss, the world puts a toilet.”
“That’s so true,” the girl who was not Sylvia said. “Now can you guys get us the beer?”
Having no problem with corrupting the innocent, Dragon and I rushed the keg stand and requested cups of watery Budweiser. No sooner had we presented the ladies with their frothy beverages, they were complimenting our musical prowess and demanding more beer.
“Damn, those girls can put it away,” Dragon whispered during our third trip to the kegs. “Maybe we can get them fucked up and take them home with us.”
“I don’t think they’re gonna get that fucked up,” I said.
“Now’s not the time for pessimism, Vic.”
“They’re passing the beers to their boyfriends.” I pointed out a long-haired kid, not even old enough to cultivate facial hair, creative or otherwise. A Megadeth patch stating “I Kill For Thrills” rode the back of his denim armor. He held a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. His beatific expression led me to believe he’d not often partaken of tobacco and alcohol simultaneously.
“I don’t think that kid’s ever killed for thrills or any other reason,” Dragon muttered.
Such egregious claims vexed Dragon who on many occasions hinted he’d been called upon to take lives back in the homeland.
“I don’t think he’s old enough for that beer. Or even that cigarette, now that I think about it.”
“I say we kick their asses and take their women.” For Dragon, violence was always the natural course of action. His eyes seemed to float in their sockets like spiders in a beer mug.
I glanced at the rent-a-cop. By the way he glared directly at me, I suspected he’d caught on to my beer for underage poon scheme. “Negatory. Johnny Law’s got his eye on us.”
“Then he’ll know they had it coming.”
The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. Dragon and I glanced around, confused. Though Strangers in a Strange Land had finally ended their set, I doubted their departure deserved such a reaction.
“That’s that fat chick,” Dragon said.
“Well, it is a fat chick,” I said.
Sure enough, the girl I had talked to ten minutes earlier mounted the stage the way a Great Dane mounts a Chihuahua. The applause intensified along with the wolf whistles and shouts of “happy birthday”. The haze I’ve come to associate with the present tense of my existence momentarily cleared and I understood.
“Hey, it must be her birthday.”
Once again, I’d masterfully stated the obvious.
“I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. You all have made this the best twenty-first birthday a girl could have.”
Dragon and I made beat-off gestures to the consternation of those around us.
“There’s plenty more beer for those of you who’ve reached the legal age like me.” She squealed like a stuck pig illiciting laughs from the audience, all of whom seemed sympathetic to her eating disorder. “Now before The Gruesomes begin their set, I have a special surprise for you all. We’ve got two members of the Headless Horsemen here tonight. Where are you boys? Come on up here.”
The horror of the situation seemed to dawn on me quicker than it did Dragon.
“We’re over here! Hey, over here!”
“Dragon...” I whispered, doing my best Han Solo impersonation. “I’ve got a bad
feeling about this.”“Relax, dude, we’ll go up there, wave to everyone and the chicks will be on us
before we’re even off the stage.”The black sea parted for us and I trudged behind Dragon who rushed the stage with gusto. I could hear people muttering, a chorus of “those guys rocked” mingled with “I heard those guys rock”.
On stage, Dragon threw up twin devil horns, shouting such heavy metal bon mots as “rock n’fuckin roll” and “happy fuckin birthday”. The crowd cheered. I tried to remain as inconspicuous as a man possibly can when he’s standing in front of two hundred people.
“It’s nice to have you guys back in town,” the birthday girl said.
“Thanks... it’s great to be back. And, happy birthday...” His inability to use her name seemed blatantly obvious to everyone on stage.
The people who comprised “everyone on stage” included Dragon and myself, the mystery birthday girl, and a couple scruffy looking musicians, one who held a guitar in each hand. I knew right away he didn’t intend to play both axes.
As soon as I caught his eye, he offered the guitar. I looked at him as though he were handing me an aborted foetus wearing a top hat.
“Go on, dude. Take it. We always wanted to jam with you.”
I turned toward Dragon. One of the rockers had placed a microphone in his hand. He glanced at me for a bare second before he turned to the crowd. In that moment, I was able to read so much in his face. A grim enthusiasm, maybe. Horrified elation. During the confusion, the joker to my right managed to sling the guitar strap around my head. The back of the Fender rested against my balls like a rigor mortis stiffened collie. Here we go, I thought.
The crowd and some of the musicians clapped congenially. A skinny bastard with dark stringy hair and a cod piece sat behind the drums. He twirled the drum sticks as though twirling drum sticks were a major accomplishment. The guitar felt like a dead dog in my hands, too. I tried to remember a chord from the two thirty minute lessons over a decade ago. The only thing that came to mind was a hot Lita Ford spread in a long ago issue of Guitar Player.
I could feel the electricity thrumming, a dull hum inside my skull, my groin, up and down my spine. Standing before the undulating crowd, one hand gripping the fret board, other hand hovering above the strings, I felt...
... I felt ready to rock.
Regardless of ability.
Dragon was feeling it, too. He grabbed the microphone and with a bit of a Jim Morrison swagger (as well as a short-haired Serbian can ape the lizard king) he stared us all down before turning toward the crowd and introducing us as “the amalgamated Horseless Headsmen” whatever the fuck that is.
“All right,” he whispered, turning back toward us, seeming to forget at least half of us weren’t musicians, “let’s start em off with a little old school Sabbath. Iron Man.”
“Dragon, I can’t...”
Arguably the easiest song ever written. It might as well have been Dream Theater. I knew the song. I knew I needed a slow tempo. The noises which erupted from the guitar did not resemble Iron Man. It did not resemble the song’s tempo. In my utter fear, I attacked the strings with a frantic gusto. The results called to mind fornicating alley cats and yodelling midgets on fire.
And through it all, Dragon recited the words, eyes closed, gripping the microphone, rocking on his heels, unaware that the bassist’s insane, drugged laughter prevented him from laying down an adequate bass line.
Immediate cries for our execution ensued. Laughter. Perhaps mercifully, hysterical blindness dimmed my eyesight so that I couldn’t see where the pelting cups of beer originated. I continued to strum the strings. I knew silence would only provoke these fuckers worse.
The fat, ugly birthday girl proved to be my angel of mercy. She grabbed the guitar away from me before I knew what was happening, almost choking me out with the strap.
“If you guys didn’t want to play, you should have said so.” She groused.
In a moment of enlightenment I held out my right arm. “Carpal Tunnel,” I
mumbled.“What’s your excuse?” She stared little chrome heavy metal daggers at Dragon.
“Uhmm... laryngitis?”
“Well you can laryngitis your asses out the back door.”
We didn’t argue. We made it to the car and out of the parking lot before some of the braver, less scrawny metal heads caught us.
“I don’t think we did that bad,” Dragon said. “Not compared to some of the other music they played.”
I didn’t say anything for a long time.
* * *
Karl Koweski is a 29 year old displaced Chicagoan now living on top of a mountain in northern Alabama for reasons that involve a woman. Being partial to cement and culture, the move has not been ideal. His chapbook of stories, Playthings, is available through www.futuretensebooks.com and a chapbook of his poems, Internet Killed the Mimeo Star, is available at www.hemisphericalpress.com.
Karl also has a monthly column, "Phantom of the Okra", over at www.antimuse.org. As if that's not all, he co-edits and writes a column for the mighty www.zygoteinmycoffee.com