Losing in Gainesville (9781940430331) by Brian Costello

they will hit thousands of kids all over the world in just the right place at just the right time. Ronnie drinks can after can of Brain Mangler malt liquor, leans against load-bearing poles in different parts of the tiny square room, surrounded by strangers, thinking of what he would sing about if he accepted this as valid, as something he could do without wanting to laugh.
    He watches this band, the third of three (the first some pop punk band who sang only about girls around town they had crushes on, with titles like “She’s the Publix Cashier Girl,” “She’s the Zesty Glaze Girl,” “She’s the DMV Eye Test Girl”; the second some ska band who sang about whatever it is ska bands sing about), thinks about what kinds of songs he would sing if he could indulge in this level of self-pity onstage. Thoughts of Kelly, who left the trailer three days ago, the bandages around the forehead gone with no traces except for a jaundiced peeled look to the covered skin, standing by his truck in front of the trailer in the eerie Jonestown silence of the late afternoon heat and humidity, his parting words: “Good luck, and try not to starve to death.” Ronnie laughed at this, in the doorway of the trailer. “Hey, thanks! You too! And the next time you dumpster dive, look out for ants.” Kelly winced, still feeling the receding welts across his tongue. “You can always come back,” he offered, like an exasperated father, before sighing, looking up to the trees, muttering a final exasperated “Jesus Christ, dude,” and stepping into the truck. Ronnie watched as he drove away, back to the lonely house, to another dead-end job, to a comfortable nothing, with one less friend. He deserved a song in the style, subject matter, and presentation of Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit. If anyone did, it was Kelly. Or in the trailer, Alvin deserves a song. Alvin—who Ronnie imagines sitting there in his moldy barrel living room chair, holding a dandruffy gerbil in his pudgy hands. “This here is Squeaky,” he had said the first time Ronnie met Alvin’s furry little pet. Alvin extended Squeaky outward with his stubby arms. “Wanna pet it?” “Uh, no. Thank you,” Ronnie huffed, haughty, uncomfortable. Stevie was in the middle of the room, sweat marks expanding across his black t-shirt, trying to copy the moves in some Jackie Chan film, bending over to pick up the VCR remote and rewind the movie and show the scene again and again—Jackie Chan hi-yahing a bank safe—a sharp pop that instantly craters the safe at the point of impact—Stevie, who, Ronnie thinks, probably deserves an emo song too, was swinging his fists and karate kicking the air in uneven flailings. Meanwhile Squeaky slipped out of Alvin’s hands, landing in the dirty shag carpeting, running—ratlike—straight towards Ronnie. “Eeeeeeeeee!” Ronnie squealed, high and girlish, as the gerbil beelined towards his feet. Stevie’s hand dropped, fat ninja-like, to the rug, plucked Squeaky by the tail with a hearty “Hi-yah!” and lifted him off the ground. The poor gerbil dangled as Stevie held it between index finger and thumb. Ronnie watched, heart racing, as Stevie walked Squeaky to Alvin, placed him back into his hands, announcing to one and all in that redneck-who-doesn’t-know-he’s-a-redneck timbre and cadence Ronnie had grown to fear and despise, “Ya see that shit, hoooweeee! I am a badass muth-ur-fuck-er! Ooooo!” Alvin held Squeaky in his hands, pulled him close to his face, scolded, “Pffff. You shouldn’t do that, Squeaky. You’ll scare Ronnie. Bad gerbil. Bad! Gerbil! Pffff!” The tableau was too bizarre for anything more than a mumbled “I’m going to my room now” from Ronnie. There could be emo songs for Kelly, for Alvin, for Stevie. As the