American Outlaw - Jesse James [49]
“TOUGH GUY, HUH??” With a crushing forearm, the red-bearded pirate bowled over his three nearest neighbors.
We continued to fight with each other by proxy. As the Vandals whipped the crowd into greater and greater frenzies, we continued to smack unsuspecting punks in the throat, balls, and breasts, knocking the wind out of them, boldly spinning them into unknown corners where no punk had gone before.
I was crying with laughter by the time the set ended, even though somebody’s fingernail had somehow managed to cut the side of my face open.
“What’s your name, man?” I said, extending my hand, blood dripping liberally off my forehead.
“Dimwit,” he answered. Ignoring my hand, he drew me into his huge body for a sweaty, disgusting hug.
“Dimwit?” I said, my bloody face pressed into his giant, jean-jacketed vest. “The Dimwit?”
“I’m him,” he answered proudly. “Drummer for the Four Horsemen. Legend in my own motherfucking mind.”
I probably should have known. Dimwit and his brother, Chuck Biscuits, were cornerstones of the hard-core movement. They hailed from Vancouver, British Columbia, but had risen to SoCal fame throughout the 1980s. Chuck, in particular, had been in an assortment of the most important punk bands of the decade: the original drummer for D.O.A., he had played with both Black Flag and the Circle Jerks in following years.
“What do you do?” Dimwit asked me, the sweating crowd slowly filing out beside us. A few of them, who we’d injured, shot us dirty looks. “Beat up on people, I guess?”
“I’m a welder,” I answered. He looked at me incredulously. “Though lately, yeah, I’ve been beating up on people.”
Dimwit stared at me, still confused.
“I’m security,” I explained. “For a comic book store.”
“You should talk to Chuck,” Dimwit said. “He’s playing with Glenn Danzig these days—you know him?”
“Sure I do,” I said. “I like Danzig.”
“Well, they’re about to go on tour to Europe and shit. I think they’re still looking for security.”
“I don’t know,” I said carefully. “I’m not so sure I want to make a whole life out of this.”
“You got something better lined up?” Dimwit asked.
“Nope.”
“Tour life’s very cool,” he confided. “Just trust me, dude, it’s one hell of a party. Music, chicks, Scandinavian punkers who are, like, just begging you to laugh at them. Great times.”
Fender’s Ballroom had almost emptied by now. The coarse floorboards were littered with spent cups and broken glass. The manic swirl of energy that had occupied the club was gone, but something still rang there, a certain power and meaning. One lone punk kid who appeared to have drunk a bit too much was still on the floor, crawling painfully across a small pool of vomit.
Dimwit gestured grandly at the garbage all around us. “I mean, what more could you want?”
7
The next morning, the phone rang at my mom’s place.
“Jesse?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Dimwit. Listen, man, I talked to Chuck about you,” he said. “And he’s definitely interested. Danzig’s playing tonight at the Palace, so if you want, you can meet up with Glenn.”
I decided not to dress up for Glenn Danzig. I wore a wife beater. In fact, I probably looked like a wife beater. My face was still all scabbed from the previous night’s show, and I had the beginnings of a shiner going from a random punch in the face that I couldn’t even remember. In Seattle, I’d gotten even bigger: I was 240 pounds of pure muscle.
Yep, I thought, looking in the mirror, I’m going to get this job.
Still, there was competition. A big tattooed black dude, about thirty years old, was already in the room with Glenn when I came in. Danzig looked us over, one to the other.
He began with my competition. “Bill, you’ve got the leg up on experience,” he said. “You’ve done tours, correct?”
“I’ve been doing concert security for ten years,” he explained. “Been all over the U.S., Europe, and South America. I know this job inside and out. That I can guarantee you.”
Glenn nodded. “Jesse?”
I raised my eyebrows, giving him a blank look.
“Do you have much experience in concert security?”
I shook my