Tommy had a knack for making me forget why we were friends, and the day after my twenty-fifth birthday he was in rare form. “God dammit, Tommy, I said I didn’t want to be in a hardcore band. What the fuck happened to doom metal?” “I lied to get you down here, duh,” he said as he grinned his trademark shit-eating grin. “And so we could use your basement. That’s Miguel, by the way.” The muscly man sitting behind the janky drum kit raised a drumstick in greeting. “Sup.” “Sup.” I nodded at the staircase. “Get the fuck out.” “Miguel, stay.” Tommy turned to me and held up a stained Subway napkin covered in indecipherable scrawl. “What do you think of the name Chode Mustard?” “I think I’m about five seconds from dragging you up the stairs by your boxers.” “Pfff, like hell. You wanted in a band, you're in a band.” Tommy waved away the threat of expulsion by wedgie and pointed at my Marshall stack. “Now, get set up, my buzz is wearing off.” I vowed one day to grow a spine as I sighed and plugged in my bass. “Fuck off, Tommy.” “Fuck off, Jay. Now let’s rock the fuck out!” He turned to address an invisible crowd sitting within the drywall as he donned his shit-ass Gibson. “Good evening, all you lovely fucks! We are Chode Mustard! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” [hr] By the grace of the universe’s whimsy we had booked a show at the Valor, a run-down dinner theater that moonlighted as a concert venue when the state college was in session. We were opening for an indie punk band named Echo the Moon, who, by reputation, were almost as bad as us. So of course, while Miguel was doing his soundcheck, Tommy handed me a sheet of paper filled with seemingly random vulgar words. I looked up at him, confused. “The hell is this?” He stared back at me, pupils blown. “The set list.” I looked back at the list. “‘Parched Anus’?” He blinked. “Oh, right. That one was, uh, ‘On Death’s Wings’, and ‘Sheathed Katana’ got changed to ‘Uncircumcised Wang’.” He paused to run a finger under his nose. “‘Chode Mustard’ is still ‘Chode Mustard’, though.” I stared at him. “You’re shitting me.” “Sir, I shit thee not.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, ‘I Want to Taste Your Fluids’ is uh, whatever our fourth song was called.” Disgusted, I shrugged off his hand. “Fuck off, Tommy.” That fucking shit-eating grin appeared like clockwork. “Fuck off, Jay. Now get fucking pumped, we’re gonna blow these little shits out of the water!” [hr] Miguel and I stared at the thing in my driveway. He was failing to hold back a smile. I was, somehow, both horrified and not surprised. “Tommy, what in the ever-living fuck.” Tommy stood next to the thing, arms wide, grin set to maximum shit consumption. “What? Isn’t this the sweetest-ass ride you’ve ever seen?” My eyelids settled to half-mast. “It’s an El Camino.” “Fuck yeah, it’s an El Camino. What else was I gonna blow my share of the last gig on?” “Blow, which you’re obviously overdoing.” I gestured at the car. “Exhibit A.” There was an uncomfortable beat before he rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Jay, I don’t have a problem.” “Tommy, you have driven the mullet of cars into my driveway.” Tommy frowned at me as he folded his arms across his chest. “Christ, you’re a stick in the mud. What’s so bad about an El Camino?” “The fact that you paid money for it, for starters.” Miguel rounded the back of the un-car and froze. After a moment of silence, he started laughing so hard he folded himself in half. Tommy frowned at him. “What’s so funny?” “Jay,” Miguel gasped, “Jay, c’mere.” I moved next to him and followed his outstretched finger to the rear window. There, in large white chollo-gothic font, were the words, “Chode Mustard,” almost centered above a poorly-rendered skull and crossed roses. I could only facepalm. “Tommy, you got robbed, man.” Miguel fell over, tears running down his face as he howled. “Man, fuck both you guys.” Tommy patted the hood. “This car is the shit.” I kicked at the rust under the rear passenger wheel well, and a chunk the size of my hand clattered to the concrete. “I will agree that it is shit.” Fuming, Tommy stalked towards the front door. “Fuck off, Jay.” “Fuck off, Tommy,” I called after him with a smirk. I reached down and hauled Miguel, still laughing, back to his feet, and we followed Tommy inside. [hr] The afterparty for our big arena concert was a lively affair at a rented out dive bar on the outskirts of Phoenix. We were riding pretty high, despite the fact that Tommy had forgotten half the words to "Parched Anus" and had resorted to screaming nonsense into the mic. Nobody else seemed to notice or care, though, so whatever. The whole crowd had sung along to the chorus of "I Want to Taste Your Fluids", which had seen airtime on damn near every college radio station in the southwest by that point. It wasn’t everyday that you got to play second billing to the goddesses of hardcore punk, Fermented Flesh Flaps. After our third round of drinks, Tommy began drooling over their lead guitarist. “Think she’d let me fuck her?” Miguel and I both choked on our beers. I recovered first. “No. A thousand times no, Tommy, don’t even think about it.” Miguel cleared his throat, then said, “The way she was fingerblasting that killswitch, man, I don’t think she’s into dudes.” “What?” Tommy squawked. “What does that have to do with anything?” Before I could think better of it, I turned to Miguel and said through a sideways smile, “In fairness, she was doing all manner of filthy things to that guitar.” Tommy turned his own lecherous grin back over his shoulder. “She could do whatever she wanted with me.” I cursed at myself, then said, “Tommy, [i]no,[/i] I like being thought well of. They were talking about letting us go on tour with them, for Christ’s sake.” Tommy drained the last of his whiskey and stood. “O ye of little faith.” We watched him walk away, presumably to set all our hopes and dreams on fire. Miguel frowned into his beer. “We better finish these.” I sighed. “Yeah.” Moments later, Tommy returned, wearing what appeared to be half a frozen margarita on his face. “As it turns out, she’s bi.” “[i]Was[/i] bi, no doubt,” I said, oscillating between schadenfreude and nihilism. The bouncer, a seven foot behemoth whom everyone affectionately called “Squatch”, appeared at our table and turned to Tommy. “Sir, you’re gonna have to come with me.” “What? I didn’t do anything!” “A lot of witnesses disagree.” “Man, fuck you, I’m not going anywh-ugh!” A fist the size of my head slammed into Tommy’s solar plexus, quelling further argument. “May [i]we[/i] stay?” I asked. Squatch hoisted Tommy over his shoulder with frightening ease. “So long as you keep drinking and don’t give me a reason to come back over here, I don’t give a fuck.” He turned to go, momentarily bringing Tommy and I face to face. “Fuck you, Jay,” he groaned. “Fuck you, Tommy,” I replied as he was hauled away. Miguel smirked as he stood to order us another round. “Is that how that usually goes?” I fidgeted with my empty glass. “Name one thing that’s gone the way it’s supposed to when Tommy’s around.” [hr] As it turned out, we hit the end of the line two years to the day after Tommy burned our bridge to fame and fortune. There were maybe thirty people at the Valor that night, which passed for a decent crowd by that point. Judging from the number of top hats I saw, most of them were there for the headliners, a half dozen college kids in full steampunk regalia called Hydrogen Is Flammable. Par for the course, really; it’s hard to keep a fan base when they can tell you’re just going through the motions. As Miguel did our sound check for us I went to go find Tommy. As usual, I found him sprawled face-down on the gigantic leather couch backstage. I dropped my heel into his tailbone, which was usually enough to rouse him. “Alright, Chungus, we’re up in five.” Tommy remained motionless. I planted my foot on his hip and rolled him onto his side. “C’mon, dude, we–” A trickle of blood linked Tommy’s nose to the small mound of coke it had been buried within. A small syringe rolled out of his hand and fell to the floor. I froze. “Oh, fuck [i]me.[/i]” [hr] The funeral was a modest affair. It said a lot that those who showed up didn’t seem terribly surprised by the whole thing. I don’t think I saw anyone actually shed a tear. I know I didn’t. The oppressive dry heat of the Arizona summer sun hustled most of the bereaved away once the casket had been buried. Soon enough it was just Miguel and me standing at the foot of the grave, smoking the last of his cigarettes. “Those pregnant chicks were pretty cute,” Miguel said as he ashed into the fresh gravedirt. I made a noncommittal noise of agreement as I did the same. Miguel grinned. “What d’you wanna bet both those kids were his?” I snorted. “The blonde chick was his sister.” “Mm.” Miguel took another drag, then widened his grin. “So, what do you want to bet that both–” “That’s not fucking funny, man.” A chuckle, more ashes, a moment of silence. A hot, dry breeze washed over us, sapping precious moisture from everything it touched. Almost under his breath, Miguel said, “He woulda thought so.” I stared at my shoes. “Yeah.” Miguel’s cigarette flared down to the filter. He exhaled a final cloud and said, “But he’s dead now, so, fuck ‘im.” He flicked the butt at the grave, where it landed in a withering bouquet of lilies. The breeze picked up again, and a dried, crusty petal caught fire, then another. Soon, half the bouquet was a smoldering ruin. Miguel shook his head. “If that ain’t the most appropriate thing I’ve seen all day.” He crumpled his empty cigarette pack and tossed it at the blackened flowers. It missed, rolling to a stop against the plaque. I dropped the remains of my cig to the dirt and stomped it out. As we moseyed back towards the parking lot, I said, “I’m quitting the band, by the way.” Miguel let loose a harsh bark of laughter. “See, that’s what I always hated about you, man. You’re so fucking full of shit, you don’t even realize there’s no band for you to quit anymore.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “It died with that fuckhead in the ground back there.” That rocked me back on my heels a bit. I hadn’t realized Tommy wasn’t the only one pissing people off. Miguel had a point, though; Tommy was, if nothing else, the heart and soul of the band. Had been, I corrected myself. After a dozen silent steps, I changed the subject. “So what’ll you do now?” Miguel shrugged. “Production, probably. There’s always money in making talentless fucks sound good, and I’ve already got plenty of practice at it.” “Hey, we weren’t that bad.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “Jay, Chungus McDirtnap was gagging on his mic half the time, an’ we coulda gone to the high school an’ found a better bassist than you.” That really set me on my back foot, and we reached our cars before I finally thought of a response. “If we sucked so bad, why did you stick around?” He unlocked his car, then paused, staring at the asphalt. At length, he said, “It was fun.” With that, he climbed into his driver’s seat and shut the door. I thought that would be the end of it, but he surprised me when he reached over to roll down his window. Without really looking at me, he said, “Welp. Fuck off, Jay.” Despite everything, I smiled a bit. “Fuck off, Miguel.” He started his car. “Good luck with life an’ shit.” I nodded. “You too.” He nodded back, then drove off, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my car, and the distant susurrus of highway traffic. I opened the doors to let some of the heat out, then looked over the graveyard. It sure as hell felt like an ending. Honestly, I was almost grateful for it. It wasn’t like I’d had as much fun as Miguel apparently had. Twenty-nine was as good an age as any to start over. At the very least, I was done burning years of my life for someone else’s dream. At length, I sighed and said, “Fuck it.” I closed everything up, then peeled the vinyl Chode Mustard bumper sticker off my trunk. When I got back behind the wheel, I wadded it into a ball and tossed it into the shin-deep layer of trash in my back seat.