V-NECKS

I was just about to toss them when Dean called.

“Check this out, dude. There’s a women’s rehab by my place… DOWN, Ralph-O! They’re always looking for free clothes.”

The box of women’s V-necks sitting on my table — Dean’s idea, my money — seemed to grow larger the longer I stared at it. They weren’t nearly as costly as other music-related investments I’d made: the recording sessions I’d paid for a year earlier, the pallet of unsold CDs stacked in my basement, the tour van sitting by the curb with a flat tire, or, worst of all, the loan bills coming from the college I dropped out of to become a full-time musician. But the shirts were just plain stupid.

When Dean said, “we gotta make women’s shirts,” I went along with it, though I knew good and well women never came to our shows. I did it because Dean was a great drummer, maybe the best in Chicago, and I needed at least one solid musician in the band.

I reached over and pulled one of the neatly folded tees off the top. No one had considered the problem. Not me, not Dean, not the silk screener who printed them, and definitely not the bass player or keyboardist who didn’t give a crap about branding, merchandise, music, or anything else about the band other than getting paid after a show. 

The problem was that the deep V design, which was meant to show breast cleavage, cut the band logo in half. It was supposed to show a man wearing a children’s party hat sitting on a ledge, but instead, it was just a pair of legs dangling over a line, like the bottom half of Humpty Dumpty or Kilroy in reverse. The only thing fully legible was the band name, “Bridge Jumpers,” with the words stamped on either side of the big V-neck.

“Think about it… STOP RALPH-O!” Dean yelled again. “A house full of women promoting our band wherever they go.”

Where would they go? I thought. Court? Twelve-step meetings? It was just like Dean. Perfect Dean. A dumb idea mixed with a way to prey on wounded women. I almost wanted to commend him for being so much himself.

“You should leave them alone, man,” I said. 

“Dude. I wouldn’t even. Those chicks? I’m just saying. It’s a win-win.”

When I hesitated, Dean threw in something about another band he played with and how great they were doing. He knew how to get to me. 

Soon as we hung up, I got the tire fixed on the van and dropped the shirts by his place. I felt funny about it for sure, but it was a relief having that big box out of my cramped apartment.

A week later, on the way to my job at the box fan factory, I saw a woman at a bus stop wearing one of the V-necks. I did a double-take. It was exciting to see the words Bridge and Jumpers popping off her breasts. The logo didn’t look so bad anymore, either. When I heard honking and yelling behind me, I put my eyes back on the road and drove off. I was embarrassed. Not just for staring at the woman’s boobs, but because I turned away when she smiled.

Though I only saw her for a minute, she didn’t seem like a druggie to me. Her skin was smooth, and her hair looked salon-styled. She was well put together in every way. It’s true she was waiting on a bus, but maybe her car was in the shop. It was hard to imagine her as a recovery house resident.

I drove by the same bus stop on my way to work every day, but never saw her again. After a week or so, I stopped by Dean’s place on the pretense of having a band meeting. 

“So, we’ve got that big show next week at Wayward Wayne’s, opening for Side Fries.”

“We’re opening for the opener, dude. GET OFF HIM, Ralph-O!” Dean yelled.

Ralph-O licked my work boots and then my hand. It was gross. I continued, “Yeah, but there’s a label guy coming to see us.”

“A label guy?” Dean asked skeptically.

“I mean, yeah…he said he might come. It’s a newer indie label with an office on North Avenue. Hit Bottom Records. Their roster’s amazing. We should get together this weekend, tighten up the songs…”

Dean agreed to a rehearsal after I promised to buy beer and pizza. On the way out, I asked if he’d seen any of the recovery house women wearing our V-necks.

“Once or twice,” he said, smiling.

“You give the shirts to anyone else, like non-rehab chicks?” I asked. 

“Man, I’m busy now,” he snipped, flipping on the TV and patting for Ralph-O to jump on his lap.

It was best not to push it with Dean. Though he let me call him “my drummer” at gigs, Dean made it clear every chance he got that he wasn’t a devoted Bridge Jumper. I went the extra mile for him anyway. With Dean in the band, I knew we’d get a record deal sooner or later. It was just a matter of persistence.

When our show at Wayward Wayne’s came around, I offered to pick everyone up in the van, thinking it would be good for team spirit, like being on tour, but they drove themselves instead. Inside the club, there were a lot of musicians standing around with their gear, trying to look cool. It turned out there were four bands on the bill instead of three. A sign by the stage said Bridge Jumpers was up first. Side Fries were a popular act. I guess everyone wanted to share the stage with them. Problem was, their fans wouldn’t be coming early enough to see the first of four bands, to see our band. I was pissed. 

Soon as the band showed, the soundman hustled us on stage and told us to start playing. No one else was there besides the other musicians and their girlfriends. The label guy was for sure not there. I told the soundman we needed a little more time.

“We’ve got a schedule to keep. Don’t play more than twenty-five minutes,” he said dismissively.

I argued that we were promised a forty-five-minute set, that we were supposed to be third on the bill, and that we needed a soundcheck. In the middle of my rant, just behind him at the bar, I suddenly saw her. 

People usually look better in dark bars than they do in broad daylight. She didn’t. Even from the stage, I could see how haggard she was. Disheveled hair, bruises, a missing tooth. She was wearing the V-neck, or maybe I should say, was still wearing the V-neck. It was torn and dirty like she hadn’t taken it off since I’d first seen her at the bus stop. 

The sound guy stormed offstage, saying we had five minutes to start or we weren’t playing. I ignored him and walked toward the bar like I was going to order a drink. 

“I’m with the band,” I heard her shout at the bartender.

“Yeah? Which one?” He asked, mockingly. 

“Him,” she said, pointing a chipped fingernail at me. 

The bartender raised an eyebrow in my direction. She was wearing our shirt. What could I do? 

“We get free drinks, right?” I asked. 

“Drink tickets. Two each. She’s already had three.” 

I gathered drink tickets from the other guys, everyone except Dean, and covered her tab. 

“Sheila,” she said, offering a hand while slurping cocktail dregs through a red bar straw. 

“I’ve only got one ticket left,” I said, embarrassedly.

“You’re cute. What’s your name?”

“Tim,” I muttered, “Nice shirt.”

“I love you guys. I’m your biggest fan,” she said, snatching the last drink ticket from my hand and waving it at the bartender. 

I racked my brain thinking of where she might’ve seen us before. No sooner had the bartender set the fresh drink down than Sheila tossed it back.

“You get high, Tim?” She whispered close. 

Her breath was heavy with alcohol, cigarettes, and something like a dead mouse doused in bleach. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. 

“I do…get high. Sometimes.”

Sheila wheeled off her stool and dragged me toward the rear exit. I looked back at the stage. The guys were taking their places.

***

Two nights later, when I finally got home, there were several messages on my machine. The first was from Ronnie, the keyboard player. He said getting stage fright was understandable, given how many people had shown up for our set. Then he bragged about doing lead vocals in my place and how much everyone loved it. He finished by saying my amp and guitar were at his house, and I could get them whenever. The next message was from the bass player, George. He said he hoped I was ok, and then he went on about what a killer set they’d played and that a label guy bought them drinks afterward. The last message was a long, rambling one from Dean. I was too hungover to follow the majority of what he said—until he got to the part about Bridge Jumpers being signed to Hit Bottom Records. When I heard that, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Looking in the mirror, I saw my shirt caked with blood and ink. Slowly and painfully, I separated Hanes cotton from crusty flesh until my chest was in full view. The words Bridge and Jumpers scrawled below my nipples, along with two legs dangling over a ledge etched across my sternum, caused an involuntary laugh to burst from my mouth. It was the half-band logo, exactly the way it appeared on the V-necks. There was even a big V scratched into my skin where the neck hole would be. As I studied the strange display in the mirror, my laughter morphed into sobbing, and then into uncontrollable wailing. I turned the shower on full blast and stepped in. That calmed me down a bit. 

I don’t usually pee in the tub, but I had to go pretty bad—no doubt from all the cheap booze I drank with Sheila. As it started streaming out, I realized it was extremely painful. I looked down and saw that my penis was red and raw. There was a tinge of blood in my urine too. Panic-stricken, I turned the water off and inspected myself. It looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to my privates. The word cheese sparked a memory. It was something Sheila had repeated toward the end of our time together: 

“Gotta score some cheese to come down from this shit.”

Thinking of Sheila brought the whole thing back. Her glass pipe in my mouth, the first hit filling my lungs, me clutching my ribs thinking I was going to have a heart attack in Wayward Wayne’s parking lot, her laughing and unzipping my pants. And then us doing it right there. Right up against a greasy dumpster.

As we finished our alley sex, I pulled out and orgasmed on the asphalt. Sheila started crying then. I thought I’d done something terrible. She said she needed money right away. I said I’d do anything to help. We jumped in the van and found an ATM down the street. I was so wrapped up in Sheila, I lost track of everything else.

Our next stop was a dilapidated frame house near the Chicago River. She knocked three times on a tinfoiled window around back. A skinny biker dude named ‘Rilla let us in. “Short for Go Go Gorilla,” she said. Sheila exchanged my money for a bag of jagged white slivers. We smoked some with ‘Rilla, smoked some more in his backyard, and then went on a liquor run.

Once we were stocked with booze, Sheila took me to the Lathrop Homes housing projects. It was a rough-looking place, but I didn’t judge. I asked how long she’d been living there and if she had any roommates. 

“Nobody lives where we’re going,” she laughed. 

We came to a door with a green spade spray-painted on it. Sheila jimmied the lock with my debit card and got us inside quickly. The words “Insane Deuces” were graffitied on the walls along with pictures of pitchforks, upside-down crosses, and more spades. Sheila said this part of the projects was “Deuce ‘hood.”  By the way she said it, I got the impression the Deuces were her friends. Broken electronics, bike parts, and other junk were piled up all around. In a corner of the front room was a twin mattress covered in dried blood and grime. We had sex on it as soon as we were in the door. I don’t know why, but it felt good adding my stains, our stains, to the filthy bed. We smoked more drugs, had more sex, and talked a lot, though mostly it was Sheila talking. 

When she got tired of being indoors, we went out and wandered nearby alleyways. They were full of treasures other people couldn’t see, she said. We brought the best ones back and added them to the already-packed apartment. 

For the next forty-eight hours, we were on a cycle of ATM withdrawals, drug scores, sexual interludes, and dumpster dives until my bank account and semen both ran dry. Before it was all over, ‘Rilla tattooed my chest and told me I was a “solid bro.”

“Gonna call you Bro-lid for short,” he said.

We partied at ‘Rilla’s until he crawled under the kitchen table mumbling about ‘copters, cameras, and the CIA. I was worried about him, and the surveillance too, but Sheila dragged me out of there, saying we needed to come down, we needed some cheese. Some black dudes outside the projects were selling white powder wrapped in tinfoil. We bought some with the last of my cash. 

The next thing I knew, I was lying on a sleeping bag near the Chicago River. Sheila was gone. My wallet and van were too. It was a long walk home. 

I collapsed in bed after the shower, telling myself everything would be ok. Bridge Jumpers had, after all, signed a record deal. And Sheila liked me. She had even called me her “boyfriend.”

When I woke up twelve hours later, I replayed the messages. That’s when I heard the rest of what Dean had to say. The first part was a long rant about his “great promotional plan,” which, he said, was how Bridge Jumpers got signed to Hit Bottom Records. Apparently, all the recovery house women had shown up sporting our V-necks. Dean implied that one of them had hooked up with the label guy after the show. He went on to say that Hit Bottom was specifically looking for a power trio and that Bridge Jumpers was a perfect fit. “Trio,” he repeated.

“It’s outta my hands, dude. You’re out of the band.”

After a couple hours staring at the ceiling, I went out looking for my van. It took all day, but in the end, I found it a block from ‘Rilla’s place, full of Sheila’s dumpster stuff. After emptying it out, I drove by Ronnie’s to pick up my music gear. Neither he nor his girlfriend would look me in the eye. No surprise there. 

Then I drove by Dean’s. I could hear Ralph-O barking inside, but Dean wouldn’t answer. I drew a message on the hood of his filthy car. It was short and to the point: My band a-hole 

From there, I went to Hit Bottom’s office in Wicker Park. Their logo—a hand slapping a woman’s butt with music notes popping off it—was decaled to the door. Inside was a guy with bleach-tipped hair, jamming out to The Smashing Pumpkins while he typed on a computer.

“I heard you signed my band, Bridge Jumpers,” I said matter-of-factly. 

The label guy let out a sigh. It was clear that he knew who I was.

“I signed the band I saw at Wayward Wayne’s. Dean’s band. I don’t see how you fit into the picture…” 

He was just like Dean. A perfect match. Two peas in a shit-pod. 

***

I picked up more hours at the factory to replenish my bank account and take my mind off things. Every day on the way to work, I passed the bus stop where I’d first seen Sheila wearing the V-neck. Of course, she was never there. I thought about her a lot. Not only because the most exciting two days of my entire life had been spent with her, but also because of the extreme pain in my penis.

When it became unbearable to pee, I went to a local free clinic. A woman doctor—they were all women there— wanted to stick a giant Q-tip into my urethra. I didn’t believe it would fit. She jammed it in before I could protest. 

A few days later, when my tests came back positive for chlamydia, I tried to be mad at Sheila, to disown her memory. But we still shared something, even if it was just a bacterial infection. That was meaningful to me. The doctor said I should let all my sex partners know right away. Sheila was the only sex partner I’d had since leaving college two years earlier. Finding her was the responsible thing to do.

Though I didn’t want to talk to him, I called Dean, figuring he might know of her whereabouts. Surprisingly, he picked up on the first ring.

“S’up dude?” He asked like nothing had gone down between us. 

“I’m calling about this girl, Sheila. She came to Wayward Wayne’s…”

“Don’t know any Sheila’s, dude. Hey, wanna sell your van? I got a big tour coming up…” 

That was Dean. Perfect Dean. He wasn’t content just to rip your heart out. He wanted to eat it right in front of you too. Hell no, he wasn’t getting my van. For one thing, I needed it to find Sheila. 

Retracing our steps, I drove to the Lathrop Homes. I walked around and around the sprawling brick buildings, but they all looked the same. That’s Chicago housing projects for you. The only identifying characteristics I could make out were the occasional gang graffitis spray-painted here and there. Following the Insane Deuces’ tags like a breadcrumb trail, I eventually came to the door with the big green spade on it. Excitedly, I jimmied the lock with my new debit card, same way Sheila had done. Inside, I found a man and woman sitting naked on the dirty twin mattress, right on top of our stains. The couple turned from their pipes and scrunched their beady eyes at me like trapped rats. When I asked about Sheila, the woman yelled, 

“You can’t come in here without a warrant!” 

It was strange being mistaken for a cop, but I decided to use it.

“No one gets arrested… if you tell me where Sheila is.”

The man looked me over menacingly. “You’re not five-O,”  he growled.

“Beat his ass, Johnny,” the woman commanded, throwing an empty beer can at me.

I ran out of the building quick as I could. When I realized the guy wasn’t chasing me, I paced along the Chicago River, considering my next move. I already knew where to look next.

When I got there, ‘Rilla was in the backyard benching weights with a couple of burly biker guys. 

One of them came at me, hollering, “The fuck you want, creep?”

“It’s cool,” ‘Rilla said. “How’s the chest, Bro-lid?”

’Rilla, it seemed, was the only person in my life who cared how I was doing. I pulled up my shirt and showed him. The pus-filled tattoo was a perfect match for my state of mind. The burly guys nodded in appreciation.

“Some of my finest right there,” Rilla said proudly. 

But he hadn’t seen Sheila. 

“Maybe she went and got clean again,” he laughed. “Check Salvation Army.” 

When I thanked him for the information, ’Rilla fist-bumped me and asked if I needed something “to get me going.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d never done drugs before Sheila. As I walked off, I heard him repeating that I was a solid bro, his “Bro-lid”, and that I was welcome at his place anytime. A small comfort, but a comfort just the same. 

I found the Salvation Army drug treatment center a few blocks away on Clybourn Avenue. Not knowing Sheila’s last name, I gave a description to a man at the front desk.

“She might be wearing a Bridge Jumpers’ shirt,” I said. 

“What’re you saying, she’s suicidal?” The man asked.

I’d never thought of Bridge Jumpers that way before. For me, it was about fun times and good memories. When I was younger, in Dekalb, we would jump off this one low train bridge into the Kishwaukee River. Everyone did it on their birthday. It was a tradition. I tried explaining that to the Salvation Army guy, but he waved me off, saying they didn’t give out info on “program residents.” 

At home, I compiled a list of every drug treatment place in town, same as I’d previously done with music venues and record labels. Each day, I drove by one on the way to work and one on the way back. After a couple weeks, having driven past them all and still no sign of her, I started back at the beginning again. And that’s when I found her—walking down the street, right around the corner from the Salvation Army on Clybourn. Amazingly, Sheila looked like she did the first time I saw her—clean skin, salon hair, well put together in every way.

“Oh god… you look like shit,” she said when I pulled up next to her in the van. “I don’t hang out with users anymore. Stay away from me, ok?” 

It’s true I was overworked and stressed out, but I didn’t think I looked like shit. I parked and caught up with her, explaining that I hadn’t used drugs since I’d seen her last. She turned, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “Yeah, what’s your sobriety date?”

Not knowing what that meant, I imagined going someplace nice with her, like a museum or a park. Like a date without drugs or alcohol. I was still thinking about it when she raised her voice and snapped, “That’s what I mean. Lowlifes like you don’t know shit about sobriety. Buzz off, tweaker.”

Before I could say anything else, Sheila’s recovery crew came thundering out of the Salvation Army and bullied me back to the van. There was no way I could tell her about the chlamydia, or the new people on our bed, or how much she was on my mind. Not in front of all those people. 

I passed ‘Rilla’s street on my way home. Considering he was my only friend, I decided to stop by. When I didn’t find him around back, I knocked on his tinfoil-covered window three times like Sheila had done. I could hear whispering inside. 

“It’s me… Bro-lid,” I said. 

There were some shuffling sounds and floorboard squeaks. The door suddenly cracked open an inch. It was ‘Rilla’s eyeball staring at me. 

“You seen ‘em?” He whispered.

“Helicopters?” I asked.

The eyeball nodded. 

“Not so much,” I said. 

“Better be straight,” ‘Rilla gritted through his dozen or so teeth.

“Maybe a couple. Kind of far off though,” I said, not wanting to be disagreeable.

In a second flat, ‘Rilla’s skinny arm was through the door, yanking me inside. He hustled me to the kitchen. The two burly bikers I’d seen before were under his table, shaking and grinding their teeth. ‘Rilla pointed at his ear and then at the guys. I understood. The helicopters couldn’t hear us under there. 

Once we were all safely below the kitchen table, I nodded hello to the guys and told ‘Rilla I wanted something to get me going. 

“Bro-lid,” he said, pointing to my chest. 

I took off my shirt to show him the tattoo. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers over the scabs like a braille reader. It seemed to relax him. It kind of relaxed me too. 

After selling me a little baggie of translucent crystals, ‘Rilla pulled out two cigarette lighters, naming their colors, “green…red,” as he handed them to me. Sticking my cash down his pants, he gave a go sign and ran with me to the back door.

I found an aluminum can in a nearby alley and poked holes in the side of it like I’d seen college kids do for toking weed. Lighting up all the slivers at once, I sucked through the mouth hole, breathing in whatever I could as the dribbly mess melted inside the can. When it got too hot to hold onto, I dropped it and kicked it across the dirt, wishing I had Sheila’s pipe, wishing I had Sheila. 

As I walked along, stepping on dirt, weeds, bottle caps, and glass shards, I suddenly realized that every texture, every detail of the items underfoot, could be felt through my shoes. It was like finger-touching them, but more sensitive than that. Before I could give it another thought, the intensity of my breathing had taken me over. When I exhaled, it felt like I was creating wind for the entire world. ‘Rilla got me going alright. I ran back to the van and started driving. 

There was too much zinging through my brain to make a plan or choose a destination, but my hands and feet knew exactly where to go. When Wayward Wayne’s marquee came into view, I pulled over and stared up at it. I read the words forward and back. I read them out loud: This Friday – Dean-O and The Bridge Jumpers – SOLD OUT

***

There are a lot of bridges in Chicago, but most don’t have proper ledges. Not like that one train bridge over the Kishwaukee in Dekalb. It took a lot of driving, clear to the Southside, to find a good one. I parked at the bank of the Calumet and climbed the criss-cross girders all the way up. When I got to the top, I took off my shirt and hollered at the top of my lungs like we did as kids. Sitting there was the first time in a long time it felt good to be alone. I laughed when I saw my legs dangling over the ledge. They looked just like the half-band logo on my chest, except for the scabs, of course. I closed my eyes and ran my fingers over the lumpy tattoo like ‘Rilla had done, wondering if it would ever heal, hoping, just a little, that it wouldn’t.

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Jake La Botz‘s fiction has appeared in, among others, Mojo Journal, The Razor and NUNUM. His music and acting have been featured in film and television, including True Detective, Ghost World and Rambo (yes, Rambo). His debut collection of short fiction is forthcoming from the University of Wisconsin’s Cornerstone Press. Oh, and he’s probably playing at a bar near you. More at www.jakelabotz.com