For Those Who Don't Believe in Love Songs

Chapter 7 Pt 2 - Beer Bounce

Scott Dimonte lived in a partially developed subdivision of generous lots. James found a place to park in front of a home in mid-construction. The concrete basement lay exposed and surrounded by frozen dirt left jagged by construction vehicle tires. James and Martha got out of the car and walked toward the collection of finished homes. They were identical save for the color. The buyers were given the choice of gray, beige, and dark beige. James guided Martha up the driveway of one of the beige units and to its door. He rang the doorbell and she braced.

The door opened to the varsity starting nose tackle wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. His face lit up as he said, "Quinn!"

"Sup, Dimonte?" James replied.

"Sup, dude?" Scott noticed Martha and his expression returned to its normal, vacant state.

With the slightest hint of condescension, James explained, "This is my girlfriend, Martha. Martha, this is Scott DiMonte."

The gears turned slowly as he looked from James to Martha and back. Finally, his face swung back to eager congeniality. "Cool. Alright. That's cool. Come on in." He stepped back to allow James and Martha to enter. "Most people are in the basement." Martha could hear muffled Beastie Boys playing through the floor. "You can put your coats over there," he pointed to a coffee table covered with coats in the middle of an oddly sparse living room. "Or keep 'em on, whatever." James took Martha's coat and walked it and his own to the table. Scott motioned to her shirt. "What's 'Flood?' That a band?"

Martha wondered if she'd tempted fate, dressing to antagonize the locals. "It's an album. They Might Be Giants is the band."

"Oh, I think I heard of them." Scott nodded his head. "Cool. I'll have to check that out."

"Yeah, you should," she agreed, nodding her head with him. In a bizarre turn of events, it appeared to Martha that the 6'3", 250 pound colossus was fawning as if desperate for her favor. James returned and Scott showed them the door to the basement.

The guitar solo from "No Sleep Till Brooklyn" mixed with laughter as they descended the wooden steps. The basement was unfinished. Its walls and floor were concrete as were the support beams, spaced every ten or twelve feet. On the far end were the washer, dryer, and second refrigerator. To the left was a ping-pong table, half covered with liquor bottles and plastic cups and surrounded by members of the popular crowd. To the right were two couches skewed haphazardly, on loan from the living room.

Once at the bottom, James was greeted with shouts of 'Quinn!' or repeated 'Woof!'s in the style of Arsenio Hall's Dogpound. He grabbed Martha's hand with his right and fist bumped the kids they passed with his left. They walked around to the far side of the table where a boy, shorter and most likely younger than Martha, was pouring vodka over Hawaiian Punch and ice. He wore a black and gray striped sweater with a black turtleneck underneath.

"Derrick," James greeted.

"Yo, Jimmy. How's it goin' dude?"

"Good, man. Good. You on badges tonight?"