CHAPTER TWO
Return of The Acidic Chickens
I.
Just as he promised, Chuck was waiting in front of Jakon’s Comic Collectables when I arrived. He was dressed in his Saturday morning best: high top sneakers, blue jeans, and a white t-shirt with a yellow smiley face on it, with the words, “don’t be surprised” stamped underneath. I didn’t get it.
I arrived just before 10am, just like Chuck instructed. It was cool out for a September morning, but chances were the temperature would sky rocket into the 80’s again. I lived close enough to the store where I could walk, and not take my bike. I approached Chuck, who was happy to see me.
He jumped up from the curb where he was sitting, and met me halfway from where I was. He raised his hand, and we both failed at a high five. We tried again with the same results, and just left it at that.
“What’s happening, man?” Chuck smiled. I felt like I was in his territory now. I’ve heard of the store before, but never really checked it out. I was never much into comics.
“Not much. Haven’t been out this early on a Saturday morning in a long time.”
“It’s going to be fun,” Chuck said, looking back at the store. A ‘closed’ sign hung in the window, with a darkened store behind it.“I was thinking the three of us should go get some Slushies afterwards. There’s a place just down the street that sells them. They have good sandwiches too.”
“Uh, sure,” I said, trying to think of the place he was talking about. I couldn’t. I guess I didn’t really know Kings Town as much as I should have.
Moments later, during an awkward silence between Chuck and I, we could hear a small, sickly sounding motor. We both looked around, not knowing where it was coming from. It was getting louder, although slightly, by the second. Then, we saw it.
In epic fashion, Phil came puttering around the corner of the building, standing tall on a motorized scooter; he was all gums.
Chuck’s jaw dropped, “Wow, Phil has a motorcycle.”
“That’s not a motorcycle, man. That’s a scooter,” I corrected him, not once removing my eyes from the glorious sight.
When Phil’s vehicle puttered to a stop in front of us, it was hard to tell if he had turned it off, or it just died. It was a very old piece of junk.
“What’s up, my brotha’s,” Phil said, hopping off the scooter.
“Nice ride,” Chuck said, amazed by the device. He began to check it out, running his fingers over the peeling paint.
“Thanks,” Phil responded, “I got it for Christmas last year. I ride this bad boy everywhere.”
Phil really shouldn’t have described his scooter as a ‘bad boy’, as it had clearly seen better days. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had received it used.
“My grandfather got it used at a pawn shop. I’ve been meaning to pimp it out for months now – just haven’t found the time,” Phil said, standing back, admiring his ride.
I glanced back at the store, and saw the lights were now on and there was a man of medium height standing behind the glass door, looking at us. Next to his head, the ‘closed’ sign was flipped and now said ‘open’.
I nudged Chuck Taylor. “Dude, it’s open.”
Chuck turned and saw for himself. “Nice! Let’s do this.”
Phil and I followed Chuck into the store. It was a pretty cool looking place. It wasn’t very big at all, maybe the size of a couple master bedrooms put together. The walls were lined with comic books – both big franchises, and local ones. There were two aisles going down the center of the store which shelved sketches, artwork, collectable figures and busts, DVD’s, rare music CD’s and other collectable knick knacks. If you were into this stuff, it was very obvious this could be your Heaven.
Back near the entrance was an empty rack, which looked like it was intended for hanging shirts on. Next to the rack was the checkout counter. Sitting behind it was the man who was staring at us – obviously the owner. He was kind of short, had receding brown hair, thin glasses, and spoke with a lisp:
“Good morning guys. Chuck, looks like you brought me some more business,” he said.
“I hope so. I told these guys to bring some money!” Chuck gathered Phil and I up and brought us to the checkout counter. He proceeded to introduce us.
“Guys, this is Jakon. He owns the store.”
“Jakon bake,” Phil said.
An awkward silence fell over the entire store. Chuck, Jakon and I all looked at Phil, who was smiling, appreciating his own joke. He looked at me, and his smile disappeared.
“What was that?” I asked, confused.
“It was a joke,” Phil said, trying to defend his embarrassment.
“Yeah, but…it didn’t make any sense. You didn’t even set anything up. You just said, ‘Jakon bake.’”
“Yeah, that’s not a joke, Phil,” Chuck added. Phil shot a quick nervous glance at Jakon, looking for some kind of salvation. There was none coming.
“Look, guy,” Jakon said, “It’s a two for one deal here. My parents couldn’t decide on Jake or Jason when I was born, so they doubled up. So if you’re trying to take a stab at my awesome, double-sided name, then get out.”
Jakon pointed at the door. Phil stood there, afraid. He could have easily cried.
“Sorry,” Phil said, trying not to choke up.
Jakon slowly nodded in a forgiving way. “It’s cool, man.”
Chuck broke the tension, “Alright guys, check out the store. Buy some stuff!”
The three of us spread out and absorbed what the store had to offer. Jakon kept his eyes on us the whole time.
I hit the far wall and looked at the new releases. Since I was never into comics or superheroes or anything, none of these new titles sounded remotely familiar: ‘Radioactive Time Warp Team’, ‘Bloch and the Androids’, ‘The Nuclear Kids Go to Mars’ and ‘Hiroshi’s Mustard Van’ – I wasn’t even going to question that last one.
I turned around to see what the guys were doing. Phil was clear on the other side of the store, fingering through a white box jam-packed with old comics. It looked like ‘December 1988’ was scribbled on the side with black ink. He seemed to pick a random comic from it and stuff it under his arm as he fished for more.
Chuck was in the aisle of collectable figures popping pills…I squinted to make sure I saw that right. I did. He had a small orange pill bottle, and shook out a couple pills into his palm. He launched them down his throat and struggled to swallow. He let out a couple dry coughs afterwards. I went back to pretending to look at the wall of comics until it was time to go.
II.
About an hour later, the three of us were gathered outside of Father Peanuts, a small café around the corner. We sucked down some of the Slushies that Chuck had mentioned earlier, exchanged some small conversation, and split for the day.
I spent the majority of my Sunday sitting in my room with a six-pack of Root Beer and listening to the new Iodine Eyes CD. They were my favorite band; one of the alternative rock genre who created catchy riffs and hooky melodies. They’d been around for as long as I could remember; I think I had gotten into their stuff back in fifth grade or something.
I had gone downstairs and started to rummage through the cabinets in the kitchen, desperately looking for something to eat. There were a ton of boxes and cans of crap, but nothing sounded good. Mom was at work, so that meant I was on my own.
I heard the front door open and I dashed into the living room, hoping it was Mom. “Mom!” I called out. I stopped when I realized it wasn’t her, but it was Mark and the rest of Red Badger. They filed in, carrying their gear, ignoring my cry for “Mom” – thank God. They were in the middle of a heated discussion, arguing with one another about random stuff.
Mark noticed me, and pointed in my direction. “Scout will tell us the truth!” He assured his comrades.
I didn’t know what he was talking about, and the dumb look plastered on my face gave that notion away.
“Scout, you think were good, right?” Mark asked. “As a band, I mean.”
Kristen, Blane and Leo all looked at me for an answer. Should I tell them the truth? Or just what they wanted to hear?
“Uh, of course you guys are good.” I closed my fist, and pointed it towards them. “Red Badger Fever!”
“Right…” Mark said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, you remember when we were in middle school, right?”
“Um, yeah…”
“Then you must remember our musical arch rivals, ‘The Acidic Chickens’?”
I tried to hold back a smirk. The Acidic Chickens? I didn’t think there was an even worse band name than Red Badger’; I was definitely wrong.
“Well, get this Scout,” Mark began, “They broke up in 9th grade and they all moved away to different corners of the country. Well, guess what?”
“They’re back?” I took a wild shot in the dark, even though his question had an obvious answer.
“How’d you know?” Kristen squealed. “Have they contacted you?”
I shook my head slowly, sort of mocking them.
“Well, they are back,” my brother said, “and they’re bigger than ever. Now they’re thinking about joining the battle of the bands in October.”
“So?”
“So?” Mark repeated. He turned to his band mates. “'So?’ He asks!”
The four of them laughed at me for some reason.
“We already registered for battle of the bands, Scout! We were a sure thing to win! Now, we have to beat these monkey lovers to a pulp.”
Mark seemed to get his group all jacked up. They hooted and hollered as they grabbed their gear and headed for the stairway. “C’mon, Badgers!” Mark yelled, leading his rebellion, “We have to write the badest song of all time! We need to win this thing!”
Red Badger celebrated their vague plan and retreated to Mark’s bedroom upstairs.
I stood by myself in the living room, wondering what just happened. I started thinking about school the next day.
III.
The bell rang and homeroom began. I looked to the back of the room and Chuck wasn’t there yet. Mr. Watson walked to the open classroom door, closed it and returned to his desk. He picked up the roll call sheet, and once again began to demand a “Here!” from everyone.
The start of the second week felt a little more uncomfortable than the previous. It was almost like I was starting to settle in, but I was still aware that there were four more years of this stuff. I didn’t like it.
I knew I had to make a name for myself. Maybe try out for the football team? Nah, I was already about 100 pounds disqualified. I needed a sport that would make me stand out a bit. Tennis? No. The chess team? That was more my thing, but I’m sure I would’ve probably got beaten up. Maybe a club of some kind? Glee? No, I couldn’t sing a lick of crap.
Third period came pretty quick and I found myself in Astronomy. It was a pretty cool class I guess. I always thought space was interesting, but never gave it any extended thoughts. My teacher was weird though – actually, my Professor. That’s what he liked to be called. Professor Nog. His name was hilarious. Every time he said it, or anyone said it for that matter, I had to do my best to hold back a smile.
Rumor had it that he was a Professor at a University at one time, but they fired him for his wild theories that he tried to preach in class. That rumored history fit his appearance for sure. He was short, skinny, wore square-framed glasses, was balding with possibly the worst comb-over in history, and always wore a red tie under his lab coat – even when his shirt was red.
Professor Nog started to babble on and on about the Crab Nebula, so I sort of tuned out. I found myself wondering what Chuck was up to. Was he running late for a class? Thinking about comics? Sweating nervously? The possibilities were endless. And what about Phil? Philly? Did he really give himself a nickname, and an unoriginal one at that?
“Hey”, a quiet, feminine voice whispered to me. I snapped out of my thoughts and saw a short, cute Asian girl sitting ahead of me turn around in her chair.
“What?” I whispered back, hoping Professor Nog wouldn’t hear us.
“Is the teacher’s last name Nog? Or Knock? I can never tell what he’s saying,” the girl asked.
“I think its Nog.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
She smiled then turned back around and faced front again. I smiled as well – girl interaction! I was wondering how long it would take! Second week into high school – has to be a record.
I looked at the digital clock above the chalkboard – three minutes until class ended. Professor Nog noticed it too.
“Okay,” Nog began, “For tomorrow, I want everyone to read chapters one through three in the text book. We’ll have a quiz all about the Crab Nebula on Thursday.
“And just as a formality, since no one will join anyway, I want to let you all know that I run an after school club called the Astro-Nogs. The sign-up sheet is in the back if anyone’s interested. We look at the stars and pictures of space and stuff. It’s a pretty decent gig.”
With that, the bell rang and class was dismissed. Everyone left quickly with their belongings, but I stalled for a moment. An after school club for Astronomy? Sounded enticing, but I didn’t want to be the only one who signed up for it.
I walked to the back of the room to see if anyone else had signed up for the club. The empty sign up sheet was on the wall next to a large, bolted metal door. The door looked extremely out of place given the appearance of the rest of the classroom. I curiously studied the door for a moment, and then looked back at the sign up sheet. I would be the first name on there if I signed up, and possibly the only one. Dare I?
“Scott Bricks?” Nog’s voice startled me. I swung around and saw the old fogy standing before me.
“Scout Brooks,” I corrected him.
“Whatever. Were you just thinking about joining the Astro-Nogs?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why don’t you just go ahead and sign up for it anyways. If you don’t like it after the first couple meetings, I’ll refund your money.”
“It costs?”
“Of course not,” Nog joked. It wasn’t even that funny, but he got a chuckle out of it. Good for him. “It’s a school club, we can’t charge for it. Your parents taxes pay for this stuff.”
“Oh,” I said, not even remotely interested in taxes. I turned the attention to the large, metal door. “What’s that?”
“Oh that?” Nog said, scratching his head nervously. “It’s just a closet.”
“With a metal door?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“Just lab equipment, jeez.”
The metal door began to shake, and something large on the other side began to pound on it repeatedly. I jumped back, my eyes wide in terror:
“What the heck is that!?”
“Nothing,” Nog calmly said, turning around and walking back towards the front of the class like nothing even happened. “So are you going to sign up for the club, or what?”
I watched the odd Professor walk to the front of the classroom, where his next class began to file in. I looked back at the metal door, which had settled down, and then at the sign up sheet. My heart was pounding from the unexpected disruption.
“Heck yeah I’m joining the club,” I muttered to myself, pulling out a number two pencil from my backpack.
IV.
When I got home, I grabbed fist full after fist full of ruffled potato chips and placed them on the paper plate in front of me, in a heap. I then unstrung a couple rods of string cheese and placed the strings gently across the top of the chips, weaving them in and out of each other like some grandmothers newest pie concoction. Thirty seconds in the microwave, and I had a snack - some poor mans nachos – but it hit the spot.
I plopped down in front of the TV, but didn’t turn it on. All I could think about was the banging on the metal door in Astronomy, and the way Professor Nog purposefully ignored it and changed the topic. There was definitely something in there – something I had to see. The first meeting of the Astro-Nogs was on Friday, and I was pumped.
The only thing was, I didn’t think I should tell anyone about it. They would think I’m crazy. Until I found out what it actually was, I needed to keep my mouth shut. I started to eat my snack, and enjoyed them with a smile on my face. Sweet.