Friendly Fire

Friendly Fire

Horizon Records

My friend Janine and I sit at the most secluded booth at the Arlington Diner. We have just left The Pipeline and are in desperate need of nourishment to replenish the energy we have depleted while dancing.

A young waiter has just taken our order. As he turns to leave, he looks back at us and smiles. Janine and I both notice that he has a mouth full of metal. Braces, I assume. I smile back politely, and as soon as he turns his back once more, I burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing about?” Janine asks.

“Did you see his teeth?” I snicker.

“Oh, what? You’re laughing at his braces? What are you? Twelve years old? That’s messed up. I had braces. There’s nothing funny about that.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m not making fun of the braces themselves. It’s just that a waiter with braces strikes me as funny. I don’t know why.”

The motor mouth waiter returns with our cokes and places both of them in front of me. He then reaches over, grabs our ketchup bottle and goes away with it. Janine stares at his back indignantly.

“Buzzsaw Breath,” she mutters and we both laugh. I love hanging out with Janine. I mean, she is great friend. She is beautiful, witty, eloquent, classy and, unfortunately, quite taken.

I pass her the corresponding Coke and say: “You’re great.”

“Thanks,” she says and takes a long sip. I watch her lips pucker around the straw as she looks at me with her Cerulean Blue eyes. I never quite understood how a person with such light eyes could have natural Raven-Black hair. I am once again struck by how much she looks like a prettier version of Demi Moore.

“So,” she drags me back from the fantasy world in which I am a straw. “I read your column the other day. The one about the crutches and how ‘they bring out the mothering instincts in some girls.’ You chauvinistic bastard!”

“Aw, C’mon! I didn’t mean you. I was only joking. Besides, you are devoid of any mothering instincts,” I take a sip.

“Yeah? Well, you just go ahead and break your leg again and see if I open any more doors for you,” She sips.

“Well, my crutches did get you to go out on a date with me.”

“Yeah, and you took me to McDonald’s in your dad’s station wagon! How romantical.”

“Who are you kidding? You loved it,” I take another long sip, as she smiles back at me. “You’ve never been to a fast food restaurant in your life! How could I just let that go? All your other suitors took you out to fancy restaurants and plays. I wanted you to see how the common people live, Princess.”

“It actually was fun,” she laughs and runs her hand through that dark, and presumably soft, mane. “I especially liked the little boxed meal with the toy. That was neat.”

Before I can tease her for using the word ‘neat’ in a non-ironic sense, the waiter comes over again with our burgers. This time he is not smiling. Actually, his face is a bit puffed up as if he had been crying. He slams the burgers down and walks away, sniffling.

“Think he heard us?” Janine asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Oh, well. Fuck him if he can’t take a joke. He needs to get a thick skin if he is going to be taking care of the 3 am post-Pipeline crowd. I’m doing the little shit a favor.”

Janine laughs. There is a moment of silence as we both contemplate the giant burgers that stare up at us from our plates. I was once a vegetarian for several months until my car accident and subsequent surgery left me in desperate need for an increase of protein in my diet. I was too lazy to search out alternatives to meat from where to obtain the protein and fell right back into the read meat trap. Still, I eat it with equal portions of unease and guilt.

Janine takes a huge bite. “What are you going to write about this week,” she asks in between mouthfuls.

“Funny you should ask. I am reviewing a hardcore band named Friendly Fire. I don’t know much about hardcore, but it’s pretty good.”

“Independent label?” she asks.

“Yeah. Actually, the lead singer goes to Kean. You’ve probably seen him. His name is Jay Fisher. He’s one of the people who got me into slam dancing. He tok me to my first punk show in Philly. We saw The Dead Milkmen and Electric Love Muffin.”

Janine look at me blankly and says: “Oh.”

“Ever since I was a DJ at that dump WKNJ, he had promised to give me a demo tape of his band. Well, now, years later, he gave me a colored vinyl 45 EP with four songs on it.”

Janine takes another bite, chews on it for over two minutes, wipes her pretty mouth with a napkin and asks: “How are the songs? Any good?”

“They’re alright. They are Numbers (Parts I and II), Weight, and Division. Jay can sing surprisingly well, although it’s a bit hard to understand his lyrics most of the time. The music is good. There are great chord progressions in Weight. And Division is surprisingly funky for that style of music. As I said, I am not the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to hardcore, but I found myself into it. I wish I was still at the radio station, because I would love to play it and take calls to see what the listeners think about it.”

“Why don’t you go back?” she asks, finishing her burger and signaling for the check.

“Screw that. The radio station has changed. There are some really cool people there, but I couldn’t deal with the hidden politics of it. Not worth the drama, seriously.”

We sit in silence for a second, digesting our burgers as we look around at all the other gathered freaks that have invaded the diner. There is nothing like the Saturday late night crowd at The Arlington Diner to truly enjoy a good session of people watching.

As much as I try to resist, I can feel my stare traveling back from the freaks to Janine’s beautiful eyes. She catches me staring at her, and instead of making fun of me, she just sits there and stares back with an amused smile.

“You always look at me with Hungry Eyes,” She finally says. “Even though you just ate that big fat greasy burger, you still have that Ethiopian look.”

I nearly spill the last bit of soda I was trying to suck down, as I laugh at her wholly inappropriate joke. She laughs too and says: “Oh, my God. I can’t believe I said that! That’s fucked up!”

“I must be a bad influence on you,” I say as my laughter fades, “Because you are definitely a bad influence on me.”

“So, that’s it. That’s your big review of the week? You’re friend’s punk band? Mr. Industrial is now Mr. Punk Rock?”

“First of all, it’s hard core, not punk. Secondly, yeah. If I write about Friendly Fire would you read it?”

“I’ll think about it,” she says coyly as the looks around again for the waiter.

“What if I totally incorporate this entire meal into the review? And I make it seem like we are two total badasses making fun of our weird waiter? Would you read it then?”

Before she could answer, the waiter comes back with our check. He tosses it at us and says through his clenched, mechanical teeth: “Don’t forget to leave a tip.”

So, of course, we left without paying, laughing our way into the night.