THE RAT JACKET ATTRACTION
LITSKY ASSUMED HIS usual spot – one leg folded, his ass jammed against the top-loader’s rusty hatch – and called the meeting to order. Well, more like a hang-out, he guessed, but somebody had to get these dorks in line or they’d spray the evening down the toilet. He broke out four cans of Schlitz. The old man wouldn’t miss them; he drank beer by the yard and most evenings sent his mom out for more, anyhow.
‘Down the hatch, boys.’
He didn’t know where that came from, and would be surprised his mother’s desperate love for Masterpiece Theater influenced anything at all. Cotton drank then let out a belch so loud it rattled the garage door. For a runty Filipino, he packed a punch. In junior high the teacher had made him explain his surname – Algodón – then say “a little about himself,” the gigantic prick. He’d been Cotton ever since.
On the LawnBoy, Boone took measured sips. Nothing ruffled this kid, except his name, maybe. Everyone knew Pat Boone blew (Boone himself listened to nothing but punk) so Pat it was, now and forever. Sean sat beside him, beer unopened. He’d no idea why he hadn’t been given have a nickname, but the Connery continued to be a bummer.
Litsky spied the unpopped can, pegged a chunk of dowelling at his head.
‘I glimpshed yer mothersh pantiesh!’ he cackled.
‘Funny.’
Now, it seemed, they could get down to business. Litsky opened Spotify.
‘Man,’ said Cotton. ‘‘Orgasm Addict,’ again?’
‘Sorry – no sweaty time with the lady who puts the little plastic bobbins on the Christmas cakes, today.’
Snatches of guitar, hard drums fell away like shattered glass, then a faux-raspy voice and washes of strings dribbled forth.
‘Aw, not Zac – !’
Litsky held up an admonitory finger.
‘Not so fast, friend of Judy. It’s 2018. Some dipshit Brits re-did Showman for maximum cheese.’
Cotton lifted an eyebrow. Pat shrugged, but Sean’s face crumpled.
‘My mom’s got it. Plays it every day on the way to school. Jaymie sings along.’
Litsky shushed him, and they cringed as ‘Rewrite the Stars’ vomited from the speaker. On the last, quavering note Sean got up and glaring at Litsky, liberated four more cans.
‘Better be a good reason, man,’ he said, darkly. Outside, a van pulled away, engine noise dwindling. Litsky switched legs, took a pull on his Schlitz.
‘We agree that is some righteous barf, right there?’
‘Never off the damn radio.’
‘Like being trapped in the mall, man.’
Sean scratched his head like Stan Laurel.
‘Why? Don’t I already got enough?’
‘Well, I thought it was time we did something about it.’
Litsky flicked onwards. Immediately a fusillade of drumming roared into their ears. Deep bass, weaving between canon-shots and crashing axe-blows of guitar. The noise swelled, and a reedy voice beginning to wail strange things about men and the sea. Cotton nodded; Sean’s foot tapped on the LawnBoy’s skirt. Only Pat remained calm, a smile hovering round his lips. Three minutes later it was done.
‘Fuck me!’ said Cotton. ‘What was that?’
Litsky smiled.
‘Primus, John the Fisherman,’ said Pat, chiming his can against Litsky’s. Litsky glanced around. Only Pat was still sipping; the others looked as though they’d been lamped in the face with a shovel. He milked it a second more, then resumed.
‘Now, imagine the barf redone like that, but retitled ‘Rewrite My Arse’, in honour of Pat’s limey friends.’
‘But it’s – ’
‘How we gonna – ’
‘Pat?’
‘OK. What we gonna call ourselves?’
Litsky smiled again, lobbed his empty beer into an overflowing trashcan.
‘Luckily, I have also given that some thought.’
The van outside came back and the boys looked away, but soon returned to the washer-top, as though a prophet was to deliver the news from on high.
‘Yeah?’ Pat said.
‘Yeah,’ said Litsky. ‘Those punk bands you like?’
‘Yeah?’
‘ … “Whingeing for England”.’
‘Hmm.’ Pat stroked his chin. ‘Hmm; hmmm. Boys?’
Sean waggled his thumb and finger; Cotton said nothing, eyes on the burst mouth of the beer-case. ‘What else?’
‘OK, blending sickly and hard, right? How’s about “FuqueStichs”. French/German, you know. Classy.’
Cotton eyeballed him. ‘That’s how you say it?’
‘Yeah. Spelling’s just for the posters.’
‘No way, man! My ma’ll kill me. She’s at mass, like, five times a week.’ He pantomimed slashing his throat and the others laughed, even Litsky on his rusty throne.
‘Ah, boys. You’re putting me in a difficult position.’
He hopped down and walked around theatrically, dodging oil-cans and brown seedling trays stacked up like slices of overdone toast. ‘There is one other option … ’
‘Come on, you drama queen,’ said Sean. He knew it was all bullshit; his home life in chaos, Litsky left nothing to chance. Sean’s mom saw him often in the laundrette, cleaning his stuff before school.
‘Alright. My brother, God rest his soul – ’
‘He’s in the army, not the boneyard.’
‘My brother read this article about rats, how these science dudes tested what they liked. Lady rats, you know, all that. They did experiments, and get this – they liked naked lady rats just fine. But these weirdos kept on experimenting to see what really got their motors running, and made little vests for their front legs. Jackets, really.’
‘So?’ said Pat. He looked bored. Where was the punk?
‘So, they released ’em in separate cages, some with butt-nekked lady rats, some in jackets, and those boys went crazy for the jacket ladies every single time!’
‘No way!’
The garage exploded with laughter. Cotton whacked the wall. Sean banged his empty against the concrete floor. ‘Every time?’
‘Every single one. So I was thinking – what about ‘The Rat Jacket Attraction?’
Silence. Litsky looked around, fingernails squeaking down tin. Then his friends jumped up and slapped him on the back, slamming their cans together and whooping like monkeys stomping the hood of a safari-park minivan. He felt high – almost serene, better than since the last time his mom sat crying in front of Theater in the dark.
‘OK, dorks, OK. Simmer down. So: ‘Rewrite My Arse’, Primus and lady rats in little jackets, right?’ He paused, looking at the sorry, depleted case of Schlitz. ‘Now, any of you douchebags know how to play an instrument?’
First published in To Say Nothing of the Dog: Flash Fiction (Cyberwit, 2023)
Next: Trapper