Christian Piatt
****
Disastr House’s plan of attack is to host a show in their condemned house.
Now, in a city ranked as the 9th most violent in America and the 4th most miserable place to live in the country, the police decide that a punk show is their biggest threat on a Saturday night. The Rockford Police have stationed a couple of cars outside, waiting to arrest anyone that enters Disastr House. But word of mouth has spread and the show is being been moved down the street to a dank limestone basement.
I hand the doorman five bucks, and he stares at me awkwardly, as if he knows I’m risking my life by going to this show. The only way in is down the cellar stairs with no railing. I stumble, grunt and strain but finally succeed. The basement smells like gutter punk sweat, cheap ass beer, and angst. There is no place for me to sit and the place is so filled with smoke that when you exhale smoke comes back out. I wedge myself between the furnace and a brick wall adorned with a spray-painted anarchy symbol, just hoping to avoid being hit. A group of dirty crusties stares at me, not knowing what to think when my friend Corey spots me from the side of the stage. Corey is shirtless, barefoot, and wearing leopard print pants. He runs up and hugs me. His greasy hair falls into the edge of my mouth. He’s wearing a perfume of day old sweat and Jack Daniels. Corey is a mess, but he is a lovable kind of mess.
“Dude, I’m so happy you’re here. Like, I love you. You’re my favorite dude!” I greet him as I pull that lock of his hair out my mouth. “We’re going to play next, man. I want you to scream into the mic!” he says.
“Alright man.” I say aloud, while secretly believing I was going to die before I could get the chance.
Corey then stumbles off to hug a hipster who is carrying a cat and I find myself wedged back between the furnace and the wall again. A half drunk circle pit breaks out and someone’s leg catches my crutch, sending it somewhere to a place that I cannot reach. I quietly stand, leaning on my sole crutch, hoping I can get it back. A savior comes, my savior is the house owner, a man with half his top teeth missing and ratty dreads. He hands my crutch back and says, “You have my permission to stick this up someone’s ass next time.” I don’t know what the proper response is when someone gives you permission sodomize a stranger, so I just say: “thank you.”
“No problem, man,” he says as he spills a bit of beer on my Misfits t-shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, as my savior walks away, I see an open space on a couch where a 30 pack of cans of cheap, nameless beer rests. A young girl has her arm wrapped around it like it’s her boyfriend, and I ask her if it’s okay if I sit.
“I don’t give a fuck,” she says as sweetly as someone can say it. I engage her in conversation to find that she lives at Disastr House. “I fuckin’ hate cops.” She says. “They killed my baby…kicked me right in my stomach when they arrested my boyfriend. Disastr House is the only place I have. I can’t go back to my parents and the fucking pigs have taken away my home.” She hugs the case of beer tighter as she says “home.”
“C.J. Campbell get the fuck up here!” Corey’s voice growls over the PA. As I crutch my way through the crowd. I almost slip over a thin layer of beer that has mixed with the years of dirt that has caked on the limestone floor. I reach Corey who hands me the mic. “Are you ready to kick ass? He asks. I nod my head and turn to the crowd. Unsure faces greet me. Corey lets on the guitar with a power chord dropped to about as low as C can go. I let out a low guttural growl deep from my diaphragm.
“What’s the name of the song?”
“Government, shut up and give me my money,” I say into the mic.
The crowd hollers their approval. Corey starts in and the drummer follows. I clench the mic in my hand hard with my crutch still cupped around my forearm. I bring the mic back up to my face and realize I have no words to sing. I send up another growl. I don’t know what to scream about so I do the thing that I feel in my heart in the moment: I start screaming prayer. I know that no one can understand what I am saying so it won’t be any weirder than a crippled guy screaming the actual lyrics into a microphone.
I don’t pray because G-d is not in the room.
I don’t pray because there is evil happening in this basement.
I pray because I feel G-d in the room.
I pray for the evil that is happening outside.
Those outside forces that put those police cars at work are what need G-d, not this basement. In mid prayer the faith I have put in my lone crutch that I am leaning on fails me against the opposite force of the continually spilling beer. I land hard with a deep splash still screaming against a state that has made kids with music its number one enemy.
Corey leaves his guitar and lets feedback wail through his amplifier. He meets me in the cesspool I’m now laying in. He screams as I scream and we end our common prayer heaving breathing smoke on the ground like a slain dragon. Corey looks over at me and says:
“I love you, man”
I love Corey.
I love this room.
I love my city.
I understand that it’s worth fighting for. I can’t let it be owned by its racism, its violence, or its apathy. When I start this 75 mile walk in August I know I will be carrying Rockford with me because I am used to lying in cesspools.
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