fretboard. âThe way he veges on those steps. Iâm waiting for him to shotgun one of those Cokes and start moshing around the garage.â
They warmed up with some coversââLos Angeles,â âTV Partyââbut the image of his father, nodding along to the beat and tapping his foot, kept messing with Dustinâs groove. Whoâd ever heard of a punk band whose biggest fan was a forty-three-year-old real estate developer in boat shoes? He was impossible to avoid, because you never knew when he was going to be home anymore. If Dustin turned up the amps to an ear-blistering ten, his dad would just shut his eyes and lean his head back against the wall. The louder they played, the more he seemed to enjoy it.
Today, sure enough, he wandered into the garage in the middle of âMandy Rogers,â Dustinâs paean to loss and suffering in a godless universe. (You prayed to Him at night like a good little nun, the one person, you thought, who wouldnât shun or make fun.) As usual, his dad got a Coke from the fridge and then sat on the steps with that lost look on his face, as though he were waiting for a life-changing message to wash up on the beach. Biesty grabbed the mike from its stand and began prowling the garage while he belted the chorus, as though searching for Mandy or God or both; normally Biestyâs stage antics inspired Dustin, but now they seemed dumb and overwrought. It was his fatherâs fault. Somehow, just by sitting there, he had a way of making everything seem ridiculous. Why couldnât Dustin just have a normal dad like Biestyâs, who never took any interest in anything and jerked off in his bedroom all the time to his ten-year stash of Hustler s?
âWould you play that one song you wrote?â Dustinâs dad asked while they took a cigarette break. He didnât care if they smoked, whichâdespite Dustinâs gripingâgave him a measure of respect with the band. âAbout the shit hitting the fan?â
âDad, this is practice! We donât do requests.â Dustin glared at his fatherâs polo shirt. âAnyway, thatâs the Circle Jerks. We didnât write it.â
âThe Circle Jerks?â
This had always seemed to Dustin like the perfectly irreverent nameâbut now he began helplessly to doubt it. Wasnât it a bit juvenile? Before Dustin could stop him, Biesty turned to his father with a courteous expression.
âItâs when you stand in a naked circle of men,â he explained, âand masturbate the participant in front of you.â
âAre they homosexuals?â
â No, Dad. Jesus.â
âDo you have a recording of it?â
Dustin shook his head.
âIâve got it at home,â Tarwater said. âI could tape it for you, Mr. Ziller.â
âThank you, Brent. That would be great.â
âYou might like the Ramones, too. Theyâre more middle-aged.â
Dustin raised his voice. âLook, Dad, do you have to be in here?â
âItâs chill,â Starhead said. âHeâs only listening to us practice.â
âItâs not chill. Christ. What are we going to do next? Invite the neighbors over for juice and cookies?â
The way his dad stared at his Coke, smiling as though he had indigestion, gave Dustin a twinge of guilt. Still smiling, his father hunched up the stairsâthe back pocket of his khakis pulled out like a rabbitâs earâand disappeared inside the house. Dustin remembered the Halloween when he was seven, how some teenagers had run by on his way home from trick-or-treating and stolen all of his candy. Heâd come home in tears. Dustinâs father hadtaken him out later in the dark, carrying him on his shoulders under the strange high buzz of the streetlights, through the clumsy swooping of bats, knocking on peopleâs doors and rousing them out of bed in their pajamas, until Dustin had filled three