Ruke

RUKE

Blood, Sweat, and Raccoons

By Rob Ayotte

For weeks, every other night I’d trudge through the snow to where he lived with his mom. On nights I didn’t go there he came to my place. Locals had gotten used to seeing the red-haired giant, eternally clad in black, gliding over the ice and snow of Uptown Minneapolis on a tiny ten speed. We were both single… not by choice. The loneliness of winter had a sharp sting and music worked well to blunt its edge. So far, we’d only played hole-in-the-wall coffee shops. Tonight was our big show.

I was contemplating what to do about the large cockroach crawling up my speaker wire when a loud knock startled us. The cockroach bolted into a corner, my bandmate sashayed in and my German shepherd immediately took an interest in his right motorcycle boot.

“Man! You are so big and loud!” I spewed.

“Hey, Short and Grumpy, I’M BIG AND LOUD!” he bellowed while taking sasquatch strides around my petite living room. He stopped and stared at the speaker cord. “You got roaches.”

“That’s Danielle,” I said. Kate and Anna are around here somewhere.”

“Aren’t those your ex’s names?”

“They’re my muses.”

“Man, you’re late! Our ride’s coming in thirty minutes and we still need to practice.” I glanced down. “Why’s Cleo licking your boot?”

“This is crazy.” He pulled his boot off revealing a blood-soaked sock. “A vein burst again.”

“What the hell man?”

He wandered into the bathroom. “You look stressed.”

I ignored him and grabbed my guitar.

A tiny voice piped up. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Danielle again.

“I can’t right now. We have to practice.”

“What about my song?” Anna chimed in.

“If you guys want to hear your songs so bad, come to our shows.”

Kate crawled out from behind the other speaker. “I’ve just been waiting for you to ask me directly…”

“I HAVE. And you- you’re not Kate. Kate doesn’t want anything to do with me. None of you do!”

“What was that, man?” my bandmate called from the bathroom.

I slammed into the first chord. We plowed through our set. Cleo licked my hand, staring me dead in the eyes. “Rood ruck.” Normally she’d have gone with. That night she had papers to grade.

We waited for the Ruber outside. Snowflakes blanketed us and our gear beneath a flickering street light. Time stood still. An old beige Rubaru finally pulled up. Time sped up. A small wiry man leapt out.

“You guys want help?”

“Thanks, no, we got it,” we said.

He lifted both our amps like a circus strongman and shoved them in the trunk.

“Uh, hey, my man-“

Before we could stop him, he slammed the trunk. The amps were too big and shattered his rear window on impact.

We drove through the city, listening to glass rain down on our amps. Cold air funneled through the hole in the back. I started feeling nauseous.

We arrived at the middle school with fifteen minutes to spare. The driver didn’t help unload. “You guys are gonna help pay for that window, right?”

“Ahhhh no.”

The Battle of the Block was in the gym, mostly packed with fifth graders and their parents. We spotted our groupies- my mom, my bandmate’s mom, my bandmate’s mom’s wife, my pot dealer and my pot dealer’s pot dealer. They whooped wildly, fists pumping, startling the kids and overshadowing the raccoon harmonica players currently on stage.

We took our places, ignoring the bloody footprints following my bandmate’s every step. Rivulets of sweat collected in my stubble. Showtime. With one hand raised in a fist and the other on my guitar, I let burst a guttural scream, “I am Rob!”

My bandmate answered the call, “I am Luke!”

In unison we roared, “WE ARE RUKE!!”

The gymnasium erupted. Bird calls. Howls. A fifth grader shrieked and climbed onto the bleachers, tearing open his polo shirt. The raccoons started a mosh pit in front of the stage.

Sweat poured down my arms. Luke held out a black head band identical to the one on his head. “Here’s a headband. That’s why I’m the head of the band.”

Laughter. I wiped my face, arms and pits with it, before launching it at the amp. Like a bullet we were off.

We ruked those middle schoolers’ ears off. Even the three cockroaches that hitched a ride inside the amps were impressed.

As our final chord rang out, the raccoons shrieked in admiration, the fifth graders wept, and a mysterious man in sunglasses approached the stage showing us a badge. My pot dealer and his pot dealer vanished.

He pointed at our amps. “We’ll take the roaches.”

They escaped when he slipped on the blood.