The Crew

Untitled Part 13

Chapter Thirteen

The hordes poured through the double doors of the lobby to the outside world near Main Street, at last receiving fresh air, terrorizing and frightening the "normies" of Ventura. I realized I'd been separated from The Crew. After a few minutes they arrived and found me cold and shivering on the old theater steps, my body in free fall from its zenith.

Planting his palm on my shoulder, warming me, Cannon said, "Wow Dog, that was amazing, truly, that was incredible!" He squeezed hard. "You son of a gun! I can't believe it!"

Sometimes Cannon shoved me into a jock and told me to fight him. Other times he praised me. Usually it was in front of the pack, when he praised me. But it didn't matter: It was more meaningful to me than just about anything else in my life. Only my mom could conjure more emotional resonance. A month ago I'd been a nobody, just some wannabe. Now? I was jumping on stage at punk shows! It was all because of D.D., of Cannon, of The Crew.

"Yeah, that was incredible; what the hell ever possessed you to even attempt that stunt anyway?" Bear wondered. His arms were crossed over his chest in his usual security guard fashion.

"The kid has guts, I'll give you that," Bone said from the corner, leaning against the wall of the theatre, trying to play it cool, like it was no big deal, like I hadn't just defied death.

"I was in that pit and was overcome with peace and my one thought was, 'storm that stage, get up there.' So I went for it. Man, I thought for sure that security guard was gonna nab me; that woulda been bad."

"Bad?" D.D. giggled. He rubbed my hair roughly, play-slapping my cheek like an Italian mob boss. In his leather jacket, he almost appeared like a drunken punk Fonzi. "Now that, Dog my man, was the pit of disorder. I'm jealous. The only question is: what was the eye of the storm like? How did it feel?"

Cannon grinned, shouldering D.D. with a shove. "Leave 'im alone, D. He's tired. The point is, he stormed the stage. He's a hero. What do we do with our heroes?" he asked.

The rest of The Crew, as if they practiced this secretly, answered back in unison, "Give him praise. He is one in the body of The New Church."

Cannon reached his hand around my neck and rested it there. He eyed me intensely. "That's right boys. We give him praise." He slapped my back. "To The Crew! To The New Church! Not the church of our parents, not the church of St. Andy's, but our church! May DOG prevail! In DOG we trust!"

Everyone in The Crew was pleased and they all leaned in and placed their hands on me. Again they chanted, "In Dog we trust! The New Church prevails!"

"Um, excuse me?"

We all stopped, finding the voice who'd interrupted, belonging to an exceptionally attractive punker chick, silver-studded leather jacket, short yellow Mohawk, a bar pierced through her septum. Breasts were sumptuous, exposed in a low V-neck. Her black, washed-out T-shirt said, "Nausea," a notorious female-fronted hardcore punk band.

She examined me, seeming to analyze my clothes, my face. Then she tromped up to me in a fast move, opened my palm, placed a piece of paper in it, like Sarah, and said, "That was pretty badass. Gimme a call sometime."

I stood dumbfounded. Cannon smacked my shoulder with the heel of his hand.

"I'm Dog," I said.