Bueller… Bueller...
Coming of age in the 80s: My brother steals a Benz
First rough-sketch glimpse of my NaNoWriMo project. This is the story I just pounded out a 50,000+ word fiction challenge for. I’m still pounding away. The novels and novellas will eventually live in this Section. If you lived through ‘80s, man, how many easter egg hat-tips can you find? MUAhahahahaha!
THE WRECK ROOM
Part 1: CRY LITTLE SISTER
BUELLER… BUELLER…
I blame my brother for this. All of it. For this three-hour trip up north through the Bog of Eternal Stench with no AC. For this cracker-box apartment stuffed with spider plants in macrame hangers but no Nintendo, no roam-phone, no tape deck, no VCR, not even a TV, for God’s sake! Oh. And no AC. I blame him for the never-ending clatter of trains on tracks and the swarms of 888,000 mosquitoes carrying me full-body into the North Shore night.
Yes, indeedy, for all this and so much more, I blame Jesse Oberon Carns.
I suppose he couldn’t help himself. Just had to go and pull a Bueller. There’s a chance he might have squeaked clear with minimal damage, because he had it all planned out down to the millisecond. Unfortunately, in spite of his cocky attitude and crowd-winning charm behind a microphone, Jesse is way more of a Cameron than a Ferris Bueller.
At least it wasn’t a Ferrari that he poached.
It was only an ’82 Mercedes-Benz 300D Turbo Diesel, and yes, you heard that right. “Wasn’t.” As in past-tense. Because out on that dark stretch of I-64, way too early in the morning after way too long and rowdy of a night, Jess killed the car. But he didn’t accidentally boot it off a backyard cliff. He flipped it off the freeway with himself and his two wasted buddies inside it.
You know how these things go.
“IT ALL STARTED WHEN…”
When my brother heard that the Mötliest of them all were coming to the Cities.
Cities. As in Twin. For those of you who don’t speak Minnesotan, I’m saying that Mötley Crüe was playing Minneapolis (technically Bloomington) in July.
And ohhhh, did this information drive my big bro bonkers. In all my fourteen years, I had never seen him so hyper. You know that annoying little Looney Tunes yip-dog that relentlessly jumps circles around the big, grouchy bulldog? That was Jess for two weeks straight. “Hey, Dad! Can I go to that concert? Huh? Huh? Can I, Dad, huh? C’mon, Dad. You just gotta let me got to that concert! C’mon, be a sport-ole-pal, huh? Please, Dad? Please? Please? Please?”
I swear to God, if I heard, “But it’s the Crüe!” one more time…
Exactly. It was the Crüe.
“That is not music, and they are not a band,” Dad growled when he’d finally had enough. “Those delinquents are nothing but a pack of drunken, devil-worshipping psychopaths. I will not have my only son coming home with AIDS and tracks up his arms, trailing a string of illegitimate children for what he did in the puke-splattered parking lot of the Met.”
Yeah, that flew about as well as a lead shuttlecock.
Dad’s closing argument nixed the whole topic. “People have lost eyes and gone deaf, even died at those concerts!”
“What?” Jess squawked. “Aw, cripes. That stuff’s all urban legend.”
“In fact, it is not. Eleven people perished from a crowd-gone-wild at a Who concert and—“
“Come on, man! That was Who, not Crüe.”
“Not helping your case, son. That’s precisely my point. That was only The Who.”
“Fine. Okay, I’ll totally stay outta the pit. Yeah—no, yeah! I swear, I’ll sit up in the nose bleed section and I’ll wear earplugs and I won’t even—”
“No way, sir.”
“But Daddy—“
“N. O. And that is final.”
So hyper little-dog Jess hyded out into Stress-Jess, which meant hours locked in his room with the music cranked up to wall-shaking—both the music that came out of his stereo and his electric guitar because he swears he’s the next great rocker!
Devil horns. Simmons tongue.
My brother had his nose outta joint about that concert for months. “Dad, you don’t even understand! I already scored tickets and everything!”
“Well, son, I guess you’ve learned a valuable lesson, haven’t you? Don’t spend your hard-earned money before receiving permission.”
The closer the date came, the more Jesse started moping around. Eventually, he announced that he and the Band of Ever-Revolving Names—Jesse and Frankie and Benj, oh my!—had figured out how to lick their wounds. They planned to go camping over Crüe Week.
Uh-huh.
More like camping out in front of the Met Center in the hopes of scoring autographs, booze, and babes before heading in to ‘bang.
The first camping conversation went something like this:
Dad: “Oh. Really? Which dates? Ah, well…you’ll have to tell the guys, ‘Sorry, no can-do.’ I’ve got a summer excursion planned for us that weekend.” Wink and head-toss. “Just the fam.”
Jess: “Oh. Well. Good thing we’re not leaving ’til Tuesday.” Tongue-click and wink. “Plenty of time to do both.”
Dad: “Oh. Didn’t I mention? I took a few extra days off.”
Jess: “No.” (You’re a lying, conniving asshole.) “You didn’t mention that.”
Dad: “Sorry, pal.” (Takes one to know one.) “Coulda sworn I told you. Well, now ya know. Gotta get in some quality time with my best boy and my best girl, right?”
Me with huge eyes and a tense smile, glancing back and forth between them: “Heh-heh-heh…yeah…right.” (Holy crap, you two. Don’t drag me into this!)
Jess: “Which dates exactly? Gotta tell my boys. Responsibility, you know. Courtesy. Accountability and all that.”
Dad: “Indeed, indeed. All admirable qualities in a young man. I wholeheartedly approve. But I’ll have to look at my calendar to say for sure.”
Jess, gesturing toward the ole man’s office with a gaze like a crossbow: “Lead the way.”
Dad: “My work calendar.” Baring his teeth in a grin like a barbed wire barricade. “I’ll get back to you.”
Jess: . . .
Dad: Slow, smug blink.
Jess: “Yeah, Dad. You do that.”
Dad: “Oh, I will, son. I’ll look up those dates first thing in the morning.”
Me: I’m sure you will. Especially that concert date.
Jess with a hateful, unblinking stare. “Rad.”
It was bad enough that Jesse’s enjoyment of Wisconsin Dells was ruined by knowing it was Crüe Dayz at home and he totally missed it. Frankie and Benji didn’t. They sold Jesse’s ticket to the rat-faced little freshman who swore he could shred Hot For Teacher. (He hadn’t exactly lied. I mean, he could play it. At quarter-speed.)
When we got back and all the Dingbats came over, their eyes were still alight with pyrotechnic wonder as they spewed out their glowing reviews. “And then his whole drum kit spun around inside that cage, man!”
“Dude! I couldn’t believe that shit!”
“Yeah, and he still kept whalin’! Didn’t miss a beat!”
“Upside down, man!”
“Still spinnin’ that drumstick and everything!”
“Dude.”
Jess: …
To put it lightly, my brother was royally hacked off.
But on top of that, to be plagued by the indignity of getting his clandestine butt so resoundingly spanked by a smug, red-haired pencil-pusher in gigantic wire-rim glasses?
I suppose I should ultimately blame Dad for all this, because if he thought my brother was going to take that defeat quietly in the chops, then the ole man had missed what his ex-wife had spawned sixteen years earlier. Jesse has way too much of our mother in him, and the dirty-blonde good looks are the least of it.
And isn’t that the point of this whole thing?
Because I’m the one that got dad’s flamer hair and his fire-engine cheeks, not Jess. I’m the one they named Phoenix, yet my brother is the hotheaded wild-child, constantly flying off the handle and burning bridges.
Another way he’s like her.
Or so I’ve heard. I have no memory of her.
So when Dad had to fly out for a conference in September the week my brother turned seventeen, it came as no surprise to me when Jesse started shoving snacks and pops into his backpack the second “Dick-Tator-Tots” climbed into his work-buddy’s car and they left for the airport.
Since my brother strolled into the kitchen wearing Those Stripy Leggings, I knew he wasn’t packing for a trip to the woods or even a simple overnighter with his burnout, vandalizer, petty-thieving bandmates.
See, those leggings used to be my leggings. Now they’re Jesse’s, because if you think for one second that I’m ever sausaging myself back into those pants just to marinate in my brother’s old ball-sweat?!
There is no ancient laundry secret of any persuasion, magnitude, or flavor that could ever convince me to do that.
So the purple-and-silver striped leggings I bought to wear under my slouchy purple-and-teal sweater or my flouncy charcoal-and-silver tulle-skirt became a staple of Jesse’s wardrobe. He calls them his Stryper Pants, because he’s just so cool—you have to flash the devil horns and the Simmons tongue whenever you say that, too—and he pairs them with too much leather, mesh, hairspray, and makeup.
My makeup.
Which became his makeup.
The night he came downstairs to pack snacks, he hadn’t yet painted on the full array. Only a little bit of eyeliner and some raspberry lip balm. He sauntered into the kitchen with his Walkman clipped to his hip like some big-hair, head-bopping gunslinger.
Instant delinquent alert: he carried his biggest backpack, in addition to the shoulder-slung, bedazzled bag I called his “purse.” (For which I got double-flipped off.) But that day, he only aimed dually-pistols at me with his tongue-click-and-wink before dive-bombing the fridge.
I said nothing, just eyed him suspiciously. My moody, growly brother was way too chipper for anybody’s good, even for the night of his birthday-eve with the Parental Unit out of state. Since his big day was a Wednesday this year, any major celebrating was supposed to be confined to the weekend, including our scheduled outing to Jesse’s favorite Chinese restaurant on Saturday. But B-Day Buttmuncher obviously had no intention of waiting.
As I lurked over my algebra homework at the kitchen table, I eyed my brother’s dual studded belts—one white, one red—layered at crossed angles around his skinny, Stryper-covered butt. He had on the white boots, not the black, as well as those ridiculous fringed chaps, so I knew this was a special occasion. The amount of leather, sequins, chains and studs strapped to his body confirmed it.
He’d hacked off the sleeves, neckline and bottom chunk of his Mötley Crüe t-shirt. The tilted angle of the cut showed off both his belly button and a peek of the tattoo that ran a raceway alongside his hip bone into places I did not want to think about. “Slippery When Wet,” it read, an ode to Bon Jovi’s latest and greatest, and a big ole “screw you” to Dick-Tator after the Foiled Concert Incident. Apparently the tat also had a big pair of juicy lips at the bottom—a sight I’d winced away from before it could be branded into my brain when he tried to show it to me.
“Get a load o’ this, man! It’s so fuckin’ awesome!”
Yeah, if Dad had been anywhere in sight, Jesse never would have worn that outfit, much less the makeup, and he certainly wouldn’t have shown off the ink until he was far, far away from the house.
(That little parlor adventure, by the way—that had cost him a month of solo dish-duty, the heinous job of cleaning out the gutters, and two weeks grounded with his stereo, Walkman and boombox impounded in Dad’s bedroom.)
But Daddy wasn’t due back for two nights.
The moment I caught Jesse’s eye again, I tossed my head at the kitchen island where he was lining up a wall of 7-Ups and Cokes alongside the stovetop. “Where are you off to?” I sniped.
He lifted up one of his headphones and pretended to look around. “Whoa…I coulda sworn I just heard somebody—” He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and then the painted cat-eyes narrowed on me. “Baby sis, did you let one? That was totally you with the one-cheek squeak, wasn’t it? Twerp. Or did ya open your hole to say somethin’?”
With a long sigh, I over-enunciated my words so he could stand a chance at comprehending me over whatever he had blasting into his ears. “I said, where are you prancing off to tonight, stud-spangled muffin?”
The headphone popped back down. “I do not prance. Pip-Squeaker McSqueeze-Cheeze. I strut.” Since even my jibe didn’t phase him, he was obviously super stoked about whatever stunt he was about to pull.
He turned his back on me to spoon heaps of powdered orange Gatorade into a Zippak. It disappeared into the backpack, along with the spoon, and then he disappeared under the island. There came the sound of rustling plastic before he emerged with, not just his gross Cheese Balls, but the Doritos, Fritos and Cheetos to divvy into lunch-sized crunchables. Enough of them for a significant excursion.
Since everything he hogged was part of my fast-fuel staples before volleyball, cheer, or dance practice, I whipped my pink eraser at him. “Back off, buttwad! Those are mine!”
“Mine now,” he said, dodging with an agility that had coaches, our dad, and my dance teachers moaning in woe that he didn’t put it to better use. He’d once played basketball and baseball, and had started out in ballet and tap with me—was good at it all—but everything had gone by the wayside when he decided he was gonna be a rockstar!
Everything, that is, except for jazz band and the dance moves.
He pulled off a perfect pirouette—for which I hated him—then went back to bopping. On his way to the pantry, he gave a few side-to-side flings of his dagger-edged, mile-high hair-pouf, then rummaged for the Twinkies and Skittles.
When his hips started to swivel and sway way too close to the door for a little sister’s comfort, he felt it necessary to sing along. He didn’t belt out any words. Tonight, he was all about grinding up his vocal chords on guitar lines that he knew as well as any lyrics.
That is, until he looked me straight in the eye, jabbed his devil horns into the air, and showed off that he could even screech in perfect pitch. “Dancin’!” He sent shockwaves up his whole body in time with, “D-D-D-D-D-D-Dancin’!”
I rolled my eyes and got up to retrieve my eraser before he stole that forever, too. As I passed him, I snatched the foam headphones off his ears.
“Hey!” he barked. “Skag.” As they clamped tight around the back of his neck, I sprang away, leaving him to wrangle them out of the teased, sprayed party he had going with his hair. Rüde-n-Crüed, he’d gone for the straight, slick Mick-cut but he was as blonde as Vince. A fitting fusion, I supposed, since the over-talented jerk could sing while playing guitar and bounding-spinning-grinding-jumping around a stage to make a spectacle of my—excuse me—Those Stryper Pants. Or his lace-up lycra with the cut-out sides. Or the chaps.
At least he hadn’t progressed to bare butt-cheeks.
Since he was less than twenty-four hours away from seventeen, I figured that was right around the corner.
“So, super-strutter?” I skirted back around the island, out of his reach. “Where?”
He finally got the headphones free and thumbed his music off. Carefully winding the cord around the headset, he wrapped his precious Walkman in a hand towel before stowing it in his backpack, then pulled out the ratty notebook he carried everywhere. It was stuffed with lyrics, melodies, riffs, and doodles. Potential band names and logos. Crappy cartoons and the better versions Frankie made from Jesse’s ideas. Napkins full of the same had been slotted between pages, but tonight, my brother opened up that notebook and pulled out two items he held up like treasure from the Temple of Doom.
When I edged in for a closer look, my eyebrows lifted. One ticket sported a fire-blonde girl flashing her butt-cheeks at me. “World Tour 87-88” it read. The other ticket informed me which band he was going to see tomorrow night. Big surprise there.
“Know who’s opening?” he sneered.
“Your mouth with the broken zipper?”
“Hey, isn’t that what I hear about you from all the graffiti in the boy’s bathroom?”
“Only because they mistook me for you, muffin. So who’s opening?”
“‘Snakes.”
“What? Are you kidding!”
“Nope.” Knowing how much more I like Whitesnake than his darling Crüe, he winked and purred, “Jealous?”
“Shut up.” My eyes hurled ice picks at him, both for my big green monster as well as the audacious notion that Whitesnake would deign to open for Mötley Crüe.
But then visions of scalper-plums danced through my head as I pictured Jesse’s cherry-red ’68 Skylark and its nice long bench in the back. Plenty of room for three pimple-faced jack-offs, all their munchies, their big hair, their big shoulder pads, and one little sister who now needed bribing to keep her big trapper-keeper shut. That bench could also fit a little sister’s best friend, because this was gonna be a mega-bribe. “So? Where’s Roberts Stadium?”
“Evansville.”
I rolled my eyes. “And where’s that, dill-hole?”
“Indiana.”
“Indiana!” My scalper dreams crumbled into smithereens before my very eyes. “Just how many brain circuits did you blow when you stuck your finger into that outlet to get your hair so high?”
He let his mouth go slack as he snorted. “Hardee-har. And how many screws did you knock loose when you ran into the door frame to get your face to look like that? Defective reject.”
Since Dad wasn’t around, I flipped him both birds. “You really think you’re going to Indiana tonight? On a school night? Loser supremo.”
He crossed his eyes and mush-mouthed even harder in a high-pitched voice, “Duh-huh-muh-muh-muh ‘school night?’” The doofus mask dropped. In its place, my brother’s eyes glinted daggers at me. “I know I’m goin’ to Indiana tonight.” Both concert loot and notebook disappeared into the safety of the pack before he zipped it closed. “And don’t go gettin’ any ideas. ‘Cause you ain’t.”
“No. I most certainly am not.” Not with the fallout that would rain down on my head after Dad went Chernobyl. No way I was weathering that, not even for Whitesnake. I had too much I wanted to do with my first year of high school, and being grounded for the fall season wasn’t part of it.
I snuffled off my disgust and sauntered back to my homework. “Don’t think for a second I’m gonna accept the charges when you and the Dingbats have to call me collect after Cherry shoots craps and strands you in the middle of BFE Wisconsin.”
“Never happen. Trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Likewise.” The super-strutter grabbed his black leather jacket off the back of his chair and slung it on. The backpack hit his left shoulder, then his boots hit the floor.
So did my jaw when I saw which key he pulled off the rack.
Before he could get the knob fully twisted on the door to the garage, I was out of my seat and across that kitchen, grabbing his bag to pull him back. “Jesse Ferris Carns, you stop right there!”
He flashed a smirk at me over his shoulder, then shrugged. “What?” He said it so innocently, but time had taught me well. When my brother put on those pants, and especially when he put on that face with his big, batting, blue eyes, we were all about to be in for a world of hurt.
Because even though he might have more Cameron in him, it’s Ferris who always wins the battle for the driver’s seat in Jesse’s head. Unfortunately, Ferris is the one who always squeaks off scot-free with zero damage.
And my brother is no Bueller.
Thank you, Mr. Extremedinos100 for this little Bueller gem!
© 1990 Hartebeast
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The Perfect Angsty Storm
Some nerding out from the era:
The song Jess was screeching in perfect pitch: Dancing On Glass by Mötley Crüe 👇
The mixtape of this novel’s inspiration tunes on Spotify, and the songs from which many of the chapters take their names:
You hooked me straight away. A younger version of me, certainly related to the brothers defiance — ahh to sneak out to concerts.
Great writing, Alexx, very engaging.
I really liked this bit:
“But on top of that, to be plagued by the indignity of getting his clandestine butt so resoundingly spanked by a smug, red-haired pencil-pusher in gigantic wire-rim glasses?” — that was fantastic.