8 Days a Wreck

This goes back many years, but it was the first short-story that I ever wrote…

A Dying Art Form
By Mike Roe

Like most boys, Layne Larsen once plastered the walls of his room with his heroes. Rather than athletes, astronauts or actors, his happened to be of the rock ‘n roll variety – Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Morrissey, Michael Stipe, Bob Mould, John Frusciante, Chris Cornell and Brad Nowell. The posters eventually came down when his parents decided to give him up for adoption.

His birth parents kept him for the first fourteen years of his life because they were good Christians; they gave him up because they were bad consumers, and their Montgomery Ward credit card could only take the seven of them so far – something had to give, someone had to go. They could certainly turn their backs on their teenage son, but definitely not on the digital revolution that the mid-90’s promised.

Layne never forgave his parents nor did he forget his dream. Eventually, though, the orphanage and age combined to defeat his aspirations for achieving musical super stardom. It didn’t help that he proved to be both tone deaf and talentless… at least, with regards to music. When it came to making money, he proved quite capable. In fact, by the time he was twenty years old, sex and drugs were replaced with stocks and bonds… and sex.

Layne arrived at the auction house early. This would be the last such event he had planned on attending, and he wanted to take it all in, before taking the most important – and expensive – piece home. The teenager who was traded in for a big screen TV set, surround-sound speaker system, and a personal computer grew up to be a multi-millionaire – one with a flair and the funds for collecting celebrity art, or STARt as it was referred to in the popular press.

There were two types of STARt: the laughable variety – that created by out of work or over the hill Hollywood types, and the passable kind – that commissioned by rock stars. The Hollywood variety was sought after mainly by charities hoping to capitalize on the fact that fanatics would buy a piece of shit as long as it came with a certificate of authenticity. Layne had little interest in Hollywood STARt, though; he was attracted to the Rock ‘n Roll variety.

Unlike most of the old-money millionaires in attendance who made their fortunes the old-fashioned way – inheritance – Layne made his the new-fangled way, by simultaneously co-opting pop culture and cashing in on a national tragedy. In his case, France’s refusal to go along with the United States’ wishes for regime change in Iraq.

At the time, there was a patrIDIOTIC trend in the U.S. to replace any product that began with the word “french” with that of “freedom”. U.S. Representatives – obviously possessing more than enough time on their hands to juggle fighting international terrorism, fixing the domestic
economy, and jumping on the bandwagon – even went so far as to authorize that Congressional cafeterias officially change the name of french toast to freedom toast. As was often the case, though, Congress wasn’t the place to look to for originality.

Previously, Neal Rowland, the proprietor of Cubbie’s, an eatery in North Carolina, earned notoriety by serving up freedom fries rather than french fries. Layne took this trend a step further, and in the process, made millions. In fact, it paid off “big time”, as then Vice President
Dick Cheney, might have said.

Layne made a name for himself – and a small fortune – by packaging a prophylactic known as the “Freedom Tickler – For Her and Your Patriot Missile’s Pleasure”. With a tip of the Jimmy Hat to the Marines, he even printed, “Fuck ‘em all” on each individually wrapped condom. What better
way for consenting Americans to feel better about themselves and their place in the world than putting a lubricated, reservoir-tipped red, white and blue condom on their cocks and letting their freak flag fly?

It was certainly a momentous event in America’s history, one made even more newsworthy given that Layne was only twenty years old at the time. His parents probably would have been quite proud of him, if they would have heard about the story, but their big screen TV was on the blink,
their computer was, of course, obsolete out of the box, and Montgomery Ward was bankrupt and out of business.

For Layne, packaging and peddling the Freedom Tickler afforded him the ultimate opportunity – to officially begin acquiring the one-of-a- kind masterpieces of Rock ‘n Roll he so desperately sought. Though these purchases were initially rejected by society as immoral, it only took
someone of Layne’s standing to take something questionable and make it fashionable. After all, he was the epitome of the American Dream; abandoned by his first family and against all odds, he made millions selling patriotic prophylactics that gave Americans their pride back, and the
opportunity to play a little game that soon became known as, “Hide the Weapon of Mass Seduction”.

Since making a killing selling the condoms that allowed Americans to participate in various Patriot Sex Acts, Layne had turned his back on his dream of becoming a rock ‘n roller. It was for the best, though, as Rock ‘n Roll died less than a decade after Kurt Cobain fired the warning shot heard around the world.

Rock had become repetitive, predictable, boring, corporate. The labels demanded too much of their artists, and the public too little. Boy bands and barely legal teen queens over populated the musical landscape. Easily digestible and ultimately forgettable these boys and bimbos, created
by corporations for mass consumption, proved better at posing for the paparazzi and playing the press than pleasing audiences. The tweeny- boppers bared their bodies but never their souls. Rock had finally – and unfortunately – ceased to be dangerous. In fact, it was downright safe. No
one was dying in plane crashes, or overdosing, or inciting riots, or protesting anything other than royalties. Just one person, Kurt Cobain, giving the final hair-trigger finger to a world where Xerox ‘n Roll was soon to become the musical standard.

Layne no longer had a family, and he never wanted to invest in friends; he had “people”. And, it was one of his people who both informed him that the auction was about to begin and then ushered him to his front- and-center seat.

As he walked through the crowd, he took notice of two people who meant so very little to him – Bing Maurer, the soul-less sole proprietor of the Billboard Bistro, and Sir Devon Trent, the old as dirt, drunk as hell Director of the Rock ‘n Roll and Hip Hop Hall of Fame. Kneeling to be
knighted wasn’t the first time Sir Devon had dirtied his knees to get something he didn’t deserve. A self-made, middle-aged man, Layne was disgusted by the old man’s ease at getting ahead by giving it. His dislike of Sir Devon was personal; his hatred for Bing was professional.
For Layne, Rock ‘n Roll was a way of life or, at least, for a great deal of his life, he had hoped it would be. For Bing, it was business. Bing was smart enough to know just how dumb the people were who frequented his establishment. They didn’t care about art or authenticity, only
atmosphere. It was a place to purchase an overpriced t-shirt to add to one’s Casual Friday collection. They weren’t smart enough to realize that they were throwing good money after a fad t-shirt, all the while, paying to be a living, breathing billboard.

Layne accepted that the Billboard Bistro started out as a place to showcase original, authentic rock memorabilia. But, as more and more of the bistros opened, authentic pieces were replaced by guitars that some musician was paid to say they played – half-assed, autographed “limited
edition” collectibles mass produced for crass commercialism… something to stare at while stuffing one’s mouth with deep-fried flesh… a topic of discussion when there was a lull in the dull conversation.

As Layne flipped through the auction catalog, he thought briefly about Bing and Sir Devon, and considered whether or not they would prove to be a threat to his acquiring this one last particular piece of Rock ‘n Roll STARt. Individually, neither had the funds to compete; Layne had more green than most of the blue bloods in attendance. He thought that they might try to team up against him, to bump the price up. They would only embarrass themselves if they did; they couldn’t outbid him, and everyone at the auction knew it. Besides, Bing knew that those who flocked to his schlock-rock establishment didn’t care or couldn’t tell what was the real deal versus that which was simply a good one. And as far as Sir Devon was concerned, he’d have to answer to the Hall of Fame’s Board of Directors for everyone dime he spent.

Finally, the auction began. Over the course of the next hour or so, childhood homes and high school yearbooks, Oscars and one-of-a-kind automobiles would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Then, at the very end, they came to what Layne had come for, and the item that everyone
there had come to see him get. The auctioneer revealed the piece and announced, “Category: Musical. Title: Cat and Mouse. Late Twentieth Century. Michael Stipe”.

Later that night, just a few short hours after the close of the auction, Layne looked around his library – the musical variety – and admired his life’s collection of Rock ‘n Roll STARt. Rather than the Renoirs, Van Goghs, Gauguins, or the Monets that most of the rich prized, Layne preferred
Grohls, Rollinses, Roses, and Weilands.

Some of rock’s royalty sold their STARt simply because they were sick of looking at it. These were the fortunate ones for whom significant royalties still Rock ‘n Rolled in; others sold theirs, though, because they desperately needed the money. All in all, it could be summed up that the
Condom King acquired the world’s most complete collection of Rock ‘ Roll STARt because rock stars were destitute, dying, or already dead.

Layne couldn’t be a part of the rock world, but he could own various pieces of it. On his walls, he had hung the framed flesh, the pieces of body art from some of rock’s greatest personalities… “Ozzy” from the madman’s knuckles, John Taylor’s “DD”, Henry Rollins’s “Search & Destroy”, and the Superman logo from Jon Bon Jovi’s shoulder. These early ones were
especially hard to come by. Initially illegal to possess, Layne had to utilize an extensive network of corrupt coroners, greedy “loved ones”, drug- addicted doctors, crooked cops and good old-fashioned grave robbers.

There was the “FF” from the back of Dave Grohl’s neck, the “W. Axl Rose” from Axl’s right delt, the tomahawk from Eddie Vedder’s calf, “Slit Here” from Eminem’s wrist, as well as the dragon from the arm of Stone Temple Pilot frontman, Scott Weiland. There was an entire wall dedicated
to just the Red Hot Chili Peppers. To add a little kitsch, Layne even purchased Brett Michael’s “Poison” logo. And, finally, much to his satisfaction, his newest and most prized piece of celebrity skin – the “Ignatz Mouse and Krazy Kat” tattoo from Michael Stipe’s right bicep. He
would stay up late that night, but eventually he would go to bed a happy man.

Like most boys, Layne Larsen once plastered the walls of his room with his heroes… forty years later, he still does.