The Dominant Hand Read online

  “Man, fuck you guys,” JD growled.

  Tiny Tim sat back down and rubbed tears out of his eyes with his meaty fingers.

  “So, what the hell was the dog doing?” Tiny Tim asked.

  “Well,” JD said, chuckling as his face turned a purplish red. “He was just watching us, kind of with that cocked look dogs have when they’re confused.”

  “Did she ever say anything to the dog?” Austin asked.

  JD looked down at the guitar and a smile forced its way to the surface.

  “Holy shit, man!” Austin said. “What did she say?”

  JD shook his head and began laughing. He sat down the guitar and hid his face with his hand.

  “She said,” JD struggled, his voice muffled by his hands. “Momma’s gettin’ pollinated!”

  The three erupted.

  “She actually, she actually fed him one of those jerky snacks while I was screwing her from behind.”

  “That is sick, son!” Tiny Tim gagged.

  They continued to laugh as JD took his guitar to the back of the room and stood it up behind the sound board.

  “Let’s just keep that between us, okay?” JD said, holding his stomach, which he’d strained laughing. “Does anyone want a beer?”

  “That’s okay, I don’t want to put anything near my mouth that your hands touched; no offense.”

  “None taken,” JD said, walking back toward the front entrance. He opened a tall cooler filled with beer, water and soda. He took out a beer and marked on a notebook beside the fridge. He glanced at the clock.

  “Can you guys help me get the sound going?” JD called. “The guy coming tonight said he wants to get started right on time.”

  “Who is it?” Tiny Tim called, as he plucked on a mandolin.

  “Jerry Sanders, he toured with The Sadies a while back.”

  JD walked back to the sound board.

  “Hey, are you doing that Jim Jacobs festival again this year?” Austin asked, as he hopped up on the stage. Austin pulled out a microphone stand as Tiny Tim sat aside the mandolin and grabbed some more cords from under the sound board.

  “I doubt it,” JD replied. “I got a call from that crazy group that hangs out in the woods. They said they were putting something together in a few days and asked if I’d help out.”

  “Are they gonna pay ya?” Austin asked.

  JD nodded and smiled.

  “If they’re payin’, you’re playin’,” Tiny Tim said. “Still, I liked what you had set up here; it was more intimate. Better musicians, not just a bunch of whacked-out junkies. I’m not sure if I’d want to go to a concert with those guys. Better get your money up front.”

  “They’re some damn freaks,” Austin grunted. Austin hopped off the stage and plucked his Fender from its case. He grabbed one of the fold-up chairs in front and sat it on stage.

  “Well, this town owes that kid a lot,” JD said, turning up the volume for the mic. “He opened up a lot of doors for local musicians. He brought a lot of people together; now, everyone just wants to pretend like he didn’t exist.”

  Austin’s guitar pinged over the speakers as Tiny Tim adjusted the sound level.

  “Those monsters Jim talked about,” JD continued, “they were just for attention. He didn’t believe in them either. I’ll tell you one thing, this scene isn’t as good as it was when he was here.”

  “That’s true,” Austin said. “I bet you didn’t even have to fuck dogs back then, huh?”

  “You can just go straight to hell, ya dirty greaser.”

  Sean

  Sean watched the tall, chunky-faced bully yell a string of obscenities amidst small goblets of spit. The fat kid’s arrogant smile infuriated Sean. The boy’s name was Jason, and he was Sean’s friend when he wasn’t Sean’s bully. Today, he was a bully because he wanted to embarrass Sean.

  Seven years old was too young to be notorious. It didn’t help that Sean was short for his age and kids were starting to notice the significance of his caramel-colored skin. There was one difference that trumped all others, though, and Jason was reveling in it.

  Kids had asked Sean about his father before. “Was he famous?” “Where was he?” Jason was the first one to put all the pieces together, or maybe his parents helped him along the way.

  Sean glanced around at the circle of children that was closing in around them in eager anticipation. The teachers were talking on the other side of the playground and they couldn’t see the mob.

  “… and your daddy’s a freak …” Jason sneered.

  Sean didn’t know why his father was called a freak. He’d heard adults say it before when they thought he wasn’t listening, but never a kid. He didn’t even know what they meant by it. His father was a musician, that’s all Sean really knew about him. Sean did know one other thing, though. Sean knew Judo.

  Sean snatched Jason’s hand, twisted it and jerked the kid down to the ground. Despite two years and fifty pounds separating the boys, Sean had Jason on his round belly. Sean unleashed a series of forearm blows down onto the back of the fat kid’s head.

  Sean liked fighting, even when he lost. He was filled with gallons of confusion, and this was the only way he knew to empty his head.

  ******

  Sean’s tears seeped out bitterly through his eyelids. He cried because he had hurt Jason. He cried because his mind was still glowing with adrenaline and he cried because he was in trouble again.

  He sat on the puffy, plastic chairs in the principal’s office. He watched the clock, thinking about missing class and wishing he could just go home and disappear. He secretly wished his father would burst through the door, grab him up from the chair and they’d race away in an expensive sports car like all rock stars drove. It was a nice thought, though Sean knew that’s all it would ever be.

  He caught a glimpse of his mother’s car driving by the front entrance of the school. She’d be inside soon; she’d stick up for him.

  Sean overheard the principal and one of the other women who worked in the office talking about his mother. They’d said she was too young to deal with Sean, which Sean didn’t understand because she didn’t look too much younger than other moms. He also knew other kids who only had one parent, but other kids didn’t have a dad who everyone in the world knew. Or if they did, Sean guessed they could be proud of their dads.

  As his mother jogged to the front door, he examined her, determining if she looked younger than other mothers. She wore her hair long and straight with a flip at the end; her cheeks were sharp and a soft brown. She was pretty, but Sean didn’t think she looked young. He would find out in high school that his mother had him when she was in high school, that being pregnant ruined her chance to be a model. Before he learned that, he would discover that just having a black mother and a white father made people look at you differently, like an oddity at a zoo.

  Sooner than all that, Sean would find out that his father wasn’t just a musician that people had heard of, but an icon. In just a few days, he would meet people who worshipped his father, and thought that Sean was the second coming of his father. From that moment on, his life would be an endless succession of difficult questions and prejudices that had nothing to do with who he was, but where he came from.

  But for now, Sean just wanted out of that principal’s office and he was glad his mom was there to save him.

  “Hey baby, what happened?” Sean’s mother asked, rushing to him and kneeling beside his chair.

  Sean began crying and melted into her arms. All the anxiety and nervous energy lingering from the fight seeped out of him. He wanted to crawl into her arms and bury his head. She kissed him on the cheek and let him cling to her.

  “Mrs. Jacobs,” the principal called.

  “Where were you people when my son was getting picked on?” Sean’s mother shot back.

  Her voice was angry and strong; it took the principal by surprise. Sean felt safe again.

  2

  The yelling was over, the frustrated sighs, t
he disappointment, it was all over. Now his mother sat across from him at their ridiculously long dinner table as they ate quietly. Sean hated the table because it was big enough to fit a basketball team, but only his mom and he ever sat there. At times like this, it made him feel even more isolated.

  She’d torn into him when they got home, and he’d realize later in life that when she yelled at him, she was really yelling at his father. That was okay, though, because Sean knew his mother loved him and that once the shouting was over, the subject was dropped.

  His mother felt distant, more so than other times after she’d yelled at him. Sean felt okay about that, he wanted to forget about the fight. He wanted to just finish his food and go out to play until dinner.

  The phone rang and his mom leapt up from the table and rushed to grab the receiver.

  “Hello?” she asked, glancing back at Sean. She cupped her hand over the phone and whispered. The conversation was over quickly.

  “Is everything okay, Mom?” Sean asked.

  “Yeah, baby,” she replied. “Are you done with your food?”

  Sean nodded his head.

  “Okay, go get your shoes on, I’m going to leave you with Mrs. Church, okay? I’ve got to run an errand.”

  Mrs. Church was a widow next door. She liked cats and crossword puzzles, had grandkids that came by every few weeks. From time to time, she’d dress all in red and go out with other older women dressed in red, which Sean thought was funny. She’d watch Sean from time to time, usually when he had a day off from school and his mom would have to work. Sean didn’t know that Mrs. Church thought his mom was on drugs, but she watched Sean anyway because it was the Christian thing to do.

  Sean did know that his mom was clean, though, and had been for three years. His mom told him all about drugs so that Sean wouldn’t make the same mistakes she did.

  ******

  Sean dug into the dirt by the side of the house. He was designing a series of tunnels for his action figures. It had consumed two full hours of his time so far. He’d designed four rooms out of rocks and dirt clods with tunnels and trenches connecting them all together. He’d accidentally unearthed a worm while constructing the barracks, and in the process cut the worm in two. He’d heard they could grow back, so he piled dirt on it and moved the living quarters to the other side of the mess hall.

  His mother was still gone when he heard the roaring engine of the school bus. He stood up, wiped the dirt off his hands and walked out from the side of the house to watch the kids pile off.

  It rumbled to a stop and the doors hissed open. Jason stepped off. A few other kids followed behind him. When they saw Sean, they all stopped walking and watched. Some of the kids on the bus waved and squealed as the doors hissed closed. The bus rattled and rumbled away.

  “Hey,” Sean called to Jason.

  “Hey,” Jason replied.

  “So you got to stay at school, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Jason shrugged.

  And like that, the two reconciled. When there were only five kids on the block, neither Jason or Sean could afford to hold a grudge.

  ******

  Jason crept along the bushes, a neon green Super Soaker rifle in his hands and two small children trailing behind. Jason glanced back at one of the children, a four year old. He waved him toward a mailbox. The kid laughed and ran across the yard. The small kid’s father watched from just inside the house across the street, smiling and sipping on a cup of coffee.

  “Bang, bang, bang!” Sean yelled as he ambushed the four year old, drenching him with his two water pistols. The kid giggled manically.

  “Rattattattattat!” Jason yelled, jumping out from behind the bushes and shooting out a continuous stream of water from his Super Soaker.

  Sean tried to dodge away, but ended up tripping to the ground as Jason stood above him emptying the Super Soaker onto Sean’s head.

  “We win, we win, we win!” the four year old yelled and danced.

  Sean laughed and rolled away from Jason.

  “Okay, stop, it’s cold!” Sean gasped, shaking the water out of his hair. He turned to the four year old. “Do you have any more water balloons?”

  “Dad said it’s too cold for water balloons,” the kid shrugged.

  “Any other water guns?”

  “Yeah!” the kid exclaimed. He turned and ran across the street toward his house.

  Sean jogged to the outside faucet on his house to fill up his water guns when he noticed someone walking up the driveway. It was a short man with a thin blond mustache and overgrown, stringy blond hair. The man wore a skirt, which confused and unnerved Sean. It was actually a kilt, but even when Sean would find out the difference, he still thought kilts looked like girls’ clothes. The man also wore a concert shirt that was faded, with only “Black Crows” still visible.

  “Sean,” he called. His teeth were yellow and rotting. He scratched at his forearm, which was red where his fingernails dug in.

  Sean stood up, but didn’t respond. He stared at the man’s bony, hairy legs exposed from under the kilt. Jason walked closer to Sean, standing in between him and the man like a bodyguard. The other kids ran over to Mrs. Church’s house.

  “Hey, you remember me?” the man asked.

  Sean shook his head, then glanced at the front door.

  “It’s all right man,” the man smirked. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I met you when you was a little kid. I knew your daddy.”

  “What do you want?” Jason asked, standing firm in front of Sean.

  “Just to talk to the kid,” the man said. “Your daddy’s got something of mine that I need back.”

  “He doesn’t live with us,” Sean mumbled.

  “I know that,” the man smiled. “But your momma’s holding onto it for him. It’s a razor blade, she’s probably got it hidden away somewhere. Might be a bit of blood on it. You know what I’m talkin’ about?”

  Sean shook his head.

  “You know what a razor blade is, don’t ya?”

  Sean nodded, keeping his eyes lowered.

  “Sure you do, you’re a smart one,” the man said. “You get that for me, I’ll pay you forty dollars. Shouldn’t have to pay for it, since it’s mine, but know that you deserve something for your trouble. We got a deal?”

  Sean didn’t answer.

  “Who are you?” Mrs. Church shouted, as she strode across her yard in flip-flops, a bathrobe and curlers.

  The four year old’s father emerged from their house and walked across the street. The stringy-haired man flinched back and walked away. Mrs. Church walked up to Sean and Jason and stood in front of them.

  “Forty dollars, Sean,” the man called over his shoulder.

  “Go inside my house, kids,” Mrs. Church said.

  “Remember, Sean,” the man called, waving with a grin. “A razor blade, she’s got it somewhere special!”

  “Get outta here!” Mrs. Church yelled. “And go put on some pants!”

  The four year old came running out of his house with water guns in both hands. He ran past his father, who then ushered him right back into the house.

  “Ooohhh!” the child moaned, as he stomped back inside.

  The other kids were quickly herded into Mrs. Church’s house as she called the police. Jason walked up to Sean.

  “Forty dollars, Sean, that’s a lot of money,” Jason whispered. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  Sean shrugged.

  “Let’s look for it when your mom gets home.”

  Chris

  Delicious wore a McDonald’s uniform as he screamed a long series of unintelligible lyrics. Delicious’s real name was Norman Butler, and he was a short, barrel-chested wrestler from an affluent private school in Oklahoma City. He maintained a part-time job due to his parents’ character-building regimen. In his three-piece punk band, though, he was a gutter-bound heroin junkie from Southern California.

  And he was named Delicious.

  His fingers danced over the frets of
his guitar while he raced through a vicious, yet precise transition through three different scales. Chris Nguyen smirked and ever so subtly rolled his eyes. He sat at the mixing console in the control room, listening over the speakers and watching through the window at the young guitar hero who just couldn’t commit to punk’s minimalism.

  Chris took off his ratty “Titleist” baseball cap with a torn brim and rubbed his scalp. Delicious’ band was the only one Chris had slated for today to record at Nguyen Chime Studios. It was the premier studio in Oklahoma, and he always had a waiting list of bands wanting to record there. Chris wanted to get a lot done today with Delicious so they could finish the album early and free up the studio for a New York musician traveling into Oklahoma next week.

  Chris threw the cap on the mixing console and then pulled out a Buddhist mandala pendant from under his shirt and lifted it to his mouth. It was a gift from his father, who’d traveled back to Vietnam every few years to visit family. It was supposed to remind Chris of his heritage, and Chris felt mild guilt that he only thought about the pendant when he chewed on it.

  Chris’s ears perked when he heard a rattling D chord, and he glanced up at a tall bean sprout of a rhythm guitarist. The kid’s eyes were barely discernable through the stringy black hair that hung to his shoulders like an overused mop head. Chris let them continue, but listened and waited. The bean sprout missed the chord again and grimaced. He was the only one of the three that really looked like an earnest punk, and he was the only one of the three who had no idea how to actually play.

  The others were lost in their own roles and didn’t notice that their messy haired companion was beginning to unravel. The kid’s face turned red; he bit his lip and then missed a C chord entirely.

  “Hold it,” Chris called into the intercom that led to the next room. Chris pulled on the ballcap, stood up from his chair and walked over to the door leading into the studio.

  The walls in the studio were covered in layered art deco woodworking with soundproofing foam stuck to the ceiling. An amp chord led to the bathroom nearby, disappearing behind the door. It was Chris’s makeshift isolation booth.