{"id":3054,"date":"2014-04-16T13:15:52","date_gmt":"2014-04-16T21:15:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/onelife\/?p=3054"},"modified":"2014-04-16T13:15:52","modified_gmt":"2014-04-16T21:15:52","slug":"cat-fight-at-the-clash-show-the-town-sluts-daughter-novel-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/?p=3054","title":{"rendered":"Cat fight at the Clash show…”The Town Slut’s Daughter” forthcoming novel excerpt"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! Fiona couldn\u2019t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. She diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, swinging wildly between anger and anxiety. Why doesn\u2019t he call? That dink! She could have gone with Rita and Shannon. She could have spent her hard earned cash on something besides a new silk bra and panties. That bastard. Then, still cursing, Fiona heard his obnoxious Porsche engine out front and relief coursed through her limbs. She barely resisted the urge to run to the car.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry I\u2019m late,\u201d he mouthed, the Clash\u2019s “I Fought the Law” blasting from his Blaupaunkts. \u201cDid you hear? The Clash came out and played soccer with us!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah! Who won?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey did, of course. My shins are covered in bruises.\u201d<\/p>\n

Emmett yarded on the gears pinball wizard style. Soon they were pelted with fat raindrops. He pulled over immediately to put the top up. They cruised the block repeatedly in search of the safest parking spot for his precious steed of steel. At last they entered the fading art-deco grandeur of the Commodore Ballroom, Emmett waving tickets at the doorman, breezing by security like a diplomat. Christ. He must have been left under a cabbage by mistake. <\/em>Emmett surveyed the room, refusing Fiona\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck! Look at all the poseurs.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fiona spied Dennis across the room, stomach tilting at the reproach in his face. A young woman in a booth flanking the stage sat sneering.<\/p>\n

\u201cEmmett, who\u2019s that girl glaring at us?\u201d<\/p>\n

He ignored the question, wandered off, Fiona following.<\/p>\n

The Clash had an excellent DJ spinning a killer mix of ska, punk, reggae and dub. Fiona waved to Shannon and friends. The place was jammed with every die-hard in the city, slam dancing on its famous ballroom floor, originally designed to make any clodhopper hoof it like Fred Astaire. The Commodore had character all right and it was the perfect size. Fiona hated arena shows. The Dishrags opened. It was inspiring to watch fellow females wailing on guitar. They finished with a blazing rendition of “London\u2019s Burning”. Next up, Bo Diddley. Emmett said the Clash brought the old guy along as a way to pay homage to one of rock and roll\u2019s originators. Fiona shrugged.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m too young for nostalgia.\u201d<\/p>\n

Unfortunately, the Powder Blues were his pickup band, old fart-guitar god wannabes and though playing with a legend, forced everyone to sit through a long, boring wank session.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck this. I wanna see the Clash!\u201d Fiona was not alone in her sentiments.<\/p>\n

Shannon walked over and pulled her aside. \u201cSee that girl? That\u2019s Electra. One of Emmett\u2019s girlfriends. He told her he was bringing her tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cElectra! Sounds like an Italian scooter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s weird. Really mad, says she\u2019s gonna beat the crap out of you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Laughing, they walked over to Emmett. He lowered his drink, deigned to look at them, insisting he hadn\u2019t invited anyone but Fiona. Clouds of tension were gathering on the dance floor as well, burly security guards manning the barriers. Finally, the Clash emerged, a tidal wave of bodies surging forward, the band opening with “I\u2019m So Bored With the U.S.A.”, Emmett off the hook. For now.<\/p>\n

Beer. You only rent it. Fiona ran to the bathroom between songs, in and out of a stall quickly. Electra appeared, strutted over and squinted up into Fiona\u2019s face like a Pekinese.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey bitch! Keep your paws off Emmett or I will kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Looking around, Fiona laughed. \u201cWhere\u2019s the hidden camera? Hey, Eeeelectraaaa. I think you\u2019d better stay away from Emmett.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWanna fight about it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHah! I could squish you like a bug. Fuck off! This ain\u2019t junior high, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

What Electra lacked in size, she made up for in attitude, fueled by four-inch stilettos, garters, fishnets, black leather mini skirt, all of which had nothing to do with punk and everything to do with Emmett.<\/p>\n

Electra spit at her. Missing her target\u2014Fiona\u2019s face\u2014the gob splatted onto her clavicle. Fiona looked down. Nearly blind with fury, she handily hoisted Electra up by the lapels. Shannon barged in. Fiona slammed Electra into the wall, back of her head banging the paper towel dispenser. Electra yelped.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou bitch. You fucking whore!\u201d<\/p>\n

Shannon grabbed Fiona by the arm. They walked out dogged by the undaunted Lilliputian. Fiona barreled over to Emmett.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat were you thinking?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told you! I didn\u2019t ask her. She just assumed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wee Electra was at the bar again, glowering.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet lost, you skanky broad!\u201d Emmett hollered at her.<\/p>\n

Snotty pose pierced like a balloon, Electra flumped away, people laughing in her wake.<\/p>\n

\u201cGod Emmett you\u2019re an asshole!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, I brought you. What do you care?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI care because it\u2019s the same way you treat me. Like shit!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck this!\u201d He walked away in a huff.<\/p>\n

Fuck this all right! Fighting tears, determined to revel in this night to remember, Fiona formed two fists and shoved her way through the crowd, jabbing, elbowing, bashing. She glanced back. Emmett gone. Naturally. Though the faces on the floor were familiar, the horde formed one huge alien, reeking of stewed leather and body heat, Clash so loud they cloaked the clamor of thumping heart, roaring blood. Fiona was rammed. Hard. She heard the wind go out of her lungs, body boxed about as if by bulls. She slipped, nearly going down, floored by the vision of her fractured skull ground into the boards by dozens of tightly laced combat boots. <\/em>I am too black in the heart to fall! She carved a line out of the crush to the foot of the stage, stared up at Simonon. He was perfect\u2014angled cheekbones, mouth gaping open like a Lego-focused kid, long, lean muscles. An art student apparently, before hitching up with the Clash, couldn\u2019t play a note till Mick Jones taught him. Like John Lennon. Must be a British thing, that link between art school and rock. So why did I let Trent talk me out of art school? Oh my God. Simonon! He\u2019s looking right at me! Got a girlfriend, according to Shannon, some tart who writes for NME<\/em>. Strummer strained against his Telly, snaking the mic stand with his body. Tossing his guitar onto his back, he leaned over the crowd, ranting, railing. <\/em>Loose-kneed Mick Jones was running, leaping, boinging all over the stage, carving out notes with an axe, his golden Gibson Les Paul. Goofy booster Dennis vaulted onto the stage during “Career Opportunities”,<\/em> ricocheting off amps and various Clash members, security goons giving Keystone Cops chase. Strummer even let Dennis commandeer the mic and bray out the chorus with him, Fiona feeling a twinge of envy.<\/p>\n

Several encores later, Shannon and Rita caught up with her, the usual confusion about the party location ensuing. Fiona felt a tap on her shoulder, turned around to Emmett, eyes trained on the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWanna go to the party?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

He threw his bead back, looked up at the ceiling. \u201cKee-rist! Get over it will you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s Eellectraaa?\u201d Fiona couldn\u2019t say it with a straight face. \u201cEmmett and Electra. Electra and Emmett. Has a nice ring, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, are you coming or not?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, alright.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rita couldn\u2019t disguise her disdain.<\/p>\n

Shannon watched as Emmett tried to open the car door. \u201cYou\u2019re drunk,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, I\u2019m the best drunk driver in the world. Just kidding! I\u2019m not drunk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be fine.\u201d Fiona waved at Shannon and Rita. \u201cI\u2019ll see you at the party.\u201d<\/p>\n

Emmett handles his car the way he handles everybody she thought, knowing exactly when to switch gears, drop the hammer, brake. As in broken.<\/p>\n

No stars. No moon. They stopped at a light, Fiona watching a man buy a bouquet of roses at a Chinese grocery. I wonder who they\u2019re for? Lucky girl. Or guy.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, do you know where the word \u2018anathema\u2019 comes from?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, but you\u2019re gonna tell me, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAren\u2019t you interested?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. But I am interested in history, theology, philosophy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is beyond theology. It\u2019s goddess worship. God was a woman two thousand years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPagan.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou say it like it\u2019s a bad thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you\u2019ve been hanging out with that bull dyke drummer too much.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey! Rita\u2019s my friend, you know.\u201d Fiona turned to glare at him. \u201cAnatha was the goddess the Canaanites worshipped, the fierce, bloodthirsty goddess of fertility. Of course Zeus banished her. Anathema<\/em>\u2019s the only sign she ever existed. Ever since, God<\/em> has replaced the Goddess<\/em>, and thousands of women have been accused of witchcraft, burned at the stake, etc.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAccording to who?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhom. Forget it. You\u2019ve never heard of them. All you read is porno magazines.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not true!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yeah. I forgot. Henry Miller. Misogynistic crap.\u201d<\/p>\n

Emmett clenched his fists round the steering wheel. \u201cI read Nietzsche. Ellison. Phillip K. Dick. Kurt Vonnegut. William Burroughs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yeah. The junkie that murdered his wife in Mexico.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was an accident.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike their marriage? Playing William Tell with pistols. Brilliant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re such a bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou say it like it\u2019s a bad thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Emmett set his jaw.<\/p>\n

Fiona sighed. \u201cAs far as I\u2019m concerned any woman worth her salt has to be a bitch sometimes. What\u2019s the corresponding male term for bitch<\/em> anyway? Guess what? There isn\u2019t one! The closest might be asshole<\/em>, which is a perfectly acceptable thing for a man to be. It means he\u2019s self-assured, determined. A man can bitch<\/em> all he wants. A woman asserts an opinion and she\u2019s an evil hag. Not a nice girl.\u201d<\/p>\n

He accelerated. \u201cYou have me confused with someone who gives a shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Engine roaring, Emmett pulled out to pass a little green MG, Fiona\u2019s head jerking back, hands flying to the dash. The MG sped up. \u201cNow that\u2019s an asshole,\u201d muttered Emmett, overtaking the car.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, Emmett. Why should you care? You\u2019re in the driver\u2019s seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019re not. That\u2019s no accident.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t stand that I have a brain! That I might wanna do more with my life than suck your cock.\u201d<\/p>\n

Emmett slammed on the brakes. \u201cYou think you\u2019re gonna bust my balls!\u201d<\/p>\n

Crash-test-dummy flung forward, Fiona\u2019s head met the windshield with a loud *THUD*. She saw stars. The moon. The sun.<\/p>\n

\u201cTalk about assholes!\u201d A warm, sluggish rivulet of blood trickled toward her eye.<\/p>\n

Emmett sat dumbfounded, mouth open, loose as a cornhole. Fiona heaved herself up and out of the Porsche.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho the fuck do you think you are?\u201d she screamed, guts churning. \u201cI\u2019ll kill you!\u201d<\/p>\n

She delivered a mighty boot to the car door instead, turned and bolted, blundering along a row of cars, blindly seeking the sidewalk, cold air whirling around the base of her spine.<\/p>\n

Emmett pulled up. \u201cGet in.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, Fiona!\u201d His voice strained containing fury. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m not even gonna get out and look at the damage.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! You\u2019re not sorry. Any kindness from you is just a fluke, as random as all the cruelty and bullshit. We<\/em> are not going anywhere!\u201d<\/p>\n

Lips curdling, Emmett shouted, \u201cFine!\u201d gunned it and sped off. <\/em><\/p>\n

Boy, I really know how to pick \u2018em. Where the fuck am I? Broadway and Main. Mt Pleasant. Yeah, right. Shit! Fiona couldn\u2019t remember the address of the party. She wiped her eyes, slinging tears to the rain. Who can I call? Stumbling along Main St, Fiona trained her eyes on the North Shore Mountains, deep blue even at night. Nothing open. Fucking hick town! She spied a head full of pink foam curlers in a picture window, in an apartment above a shoe store, wondering what it must be like to live above a shoe store. A woman on a couch. Maybe some guy stood her up. Fiona sighed. If only. She saw lights on in a restaurant across the street. Yes! A Ukrainian restaurant. Hah! She peeked in to see the staff sitting at a table. Face smeared with blood and mascara, Fiona entered. She hated to ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cMay I use your phone please?\u201d<\/p>\n

A hulking, meaty fellow and the cook, a large seasoned woman, frowned. His mother? She reminded Fiona of Grandma Koretchuck. They must think I\u2019m crazy. I must look crazy.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re closed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s local.\u201d<\/p>\n

The cook shot Junior a No through narrowed eyes. They argued in Ukrainian. He grunted, rose and led Fiona to a red phone on the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you!\u201d<\/p>\n

They sat in their white uniforms staring as she dialed home. Yeah, better watch out. I might steal something or run you through with a butcher knife. No answer. Everybody\u2019s at the party! Having fun. With the Clash! She considered calling Rory. Forget it. She goes to bed with the chickens. God, this place stinks. Trying to make it look fancy but what\u2019s fancy about peasant food? Fiona recalled Grandma Koretchuk, always miffed that her daughter-in-law, the French Mick Jeanette, cooked better cabbage rolls than she did. Of course, her mother\u2019s were weird. They weren\u2019t bland, greasy little green turds stuffed with sticky rice. Jeanette improvised, using an entire cabbage leaf for a single roll, roasting them under a pork rind with tomato sauce. Yum. God, I\u2019m starving!<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you put in your perogies?\u201d<\/p>\n

The old woman stared blankly. Fiona felt like saying, take your precious perogies and your precious red phone and stuff \u2018em up your big bohunk ass, lady. Bohunk. Jeanette loved calling her father a \u201cbohunk.\u201d And he called her \u201cfrog\u201d or \u201cpea souper.\u201d What a pair! Nice family. No wonder I\u2019m so fucked up.<\/p>\n

She walked out and down the street, passing a derelict dance studio, a deli with checkerboard tiles beneath a shiny, paper mach\u00e8 bull\u2019s head, snout painted on. Oh well, it\u2019s closed too. She stopped at a crosswalk. What a fucked up neighborhood. No one around. What am I gonna do? Fiona found a one-dollar bill in the pocket of her jeans and a diner open. Relieved, she sat at the counter and tried to figure out her next move, ordered coffee. A pockmarked, mocha skinned man with a black eye sat fondling a young woman. Dying for a cigarette, Fiona moved over into his smoke. The man grinned and offered her one, flashing rings on nearly every finger.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your name young lady?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFiona.\u201d Shit. I should have lied.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello. Perry Kashkouli.\u201d Perry was Persian, neglected to introduce his girlfriend, who was gone anyhow, swaying, nodding off, lit cigarette in one hand, pretending to read the menu.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what\u2019s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you serious?\u201d Fiona realized he was as serious as the audaciously wide lapels and gold medallions gracing his furry chest. \u201cHow\u2019d you get the shiner?\u201d<\/p>\n

Perry brightened. \u201cWhy, defending the honor of a damsel in distress.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat one?\u201d Fiona pointed to the girl about to fall off her stool.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, she\u2019s just taking a break. She\u2019s a good girl. So what\u2019s the lovely maiden doing out all by herself?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, just taking a stroll.\u201d Fiona leaned over an ashtray and wrung the rain out of her hair. The matronly waitress came over and topped her up. \u201cWhere\u2019s Victoria Ave from here?\u201d asked Fiona.<\/p>\n

\u201cEast. About 20 blocks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I walk it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d The waitress sighed and set the coffee pot down. \u201cCan you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey. We’re leaving,\u201d said Perry, rising, smiling. \u201cWe can drop you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, no thanks. I\u2019m fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, really. It\u2019s no trouble at all. I insist.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLeave her alone, Perry,\u201d said the waitress sternly.<\/p>\n

He smiled and bowed, handing Fiona a business card. Shangri-La Escorts.<\/em> The waitress snatched his bill off the counter and motioned him to the till.<\/p>\n

\u201cCall me anytime,\u201d said Perry. \u201cI\u2019m always hiring.\u201d He gathered up his mohair coat, the girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere,\u201d said the waitress, grabbing a handful of change out of the tip jar. \u201cGo over there across the street, catch a 25 to Kingsway, then transfer to the 20 Victoria.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fiona read her nametag. \u201cThanks Joyce!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got a daughter your age. At home, where she belongs.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fiona paced for twenty minutes, happy not to be in a car with that pimp and his junkie whore. And thank God for weary old waitresses. She was relieved finding everyone out when she finally arrived at the house, cold and black as a cave. Icing her bump, Fiona huddled in a blanket in front of the TV wondering why she took shit from anyone anymore.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! Fiona couldn\u2019t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. She diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[10],"tags":[246,319],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3054"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3054"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3054\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3054"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3054"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heatherhaley.com\/hh2\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3054"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}