Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,29

bite with the edge of the fork.

There is no doubt that this is the single greatest bite of French toast Coffen has ever ingested. Still chewing, he says simply, “Superb.”

“Rum: the other white meat,” says the trailblazing, bathrobed chef.

Which, of course, makes no sense, but Ace is smiling and so is Coffen, and why ruin a good moment, a great bite, with something boring and purposeless like sense?

“You and I,” Ace says, “don’t really know each other. For example, did you know that I’m in a Kiss cover band called French Kiss? Our singer is from Paris, and he can sing like Paul Stanley. Total dead ringer. There are a lot of schmucks out there playing Kiss songs exactly the way they were originally recorded. Which is fine. To each their own. But we have a secret weapon that those schmucks can only fantasize about. Our singer sings the songs in French. In French! As far as I know, we’re the only Kiss cover band on the entire planet where the singer goes international, baby. That’s what separates us from the packs of poseurs and wannabes.”

“Sounds interesting,” Coffen says, savoring each succulent chewing motion. He’s also savoring all of Ace’s inane blathering, more distraction from Jane booting him out.

“We may be old and balding and fat as hell,” Ace muses, “but we can still rock and roll with the best of ’em.”

Coffen has devoured his portion of breakfast, and he now sips his coffee. “If you opened a diner that served only this French toast, you’d be a very rich man.”

“I do it for the buzz, not the glory.”

“Honorable.”

“Can I pry a bit?” Ace says.

“Why not?”

“Did you sleep here last night?”

“I fell asleep at my desk because I’m finishing up a new game design.”

“Oh yeah, what game?”

“Scroo Dat Pooch.”

“And it’s about … ”

“Pooch screwing.”

“Not gonna tell you how to do your job, Chump Change,” he says, “but is there a market for dog sex games?”

“Probably not.”

“It’s like rock and roll. You have to give the kids what they want. If you don’t, you’ll be banished to obscurity.”

Something makes Bob feel like telling the truth. Maybe it’s the rum. Maybe it’s waking up on a beanbag. Maybe it’s that Ace is staying here, too. “My wife threw me out last night.”

“So did my girlfriend. Not last night. Wednesday.”

“Why?”

“She wants to get married.”

“You’ve been staying here since then?”

“Unofficially.”

“I won’t say a word to Dumper,” Coffen says.

“We’ll be roommates here.”

In some way that makes Bob feel better—or again, the rum is kicking in. He checks to see if Brent or Margot texted back yet. Nada.

Coffen sends the same note to both of them this time: I’m the luckiest dad in the world!

“You’re all right, Chump Change,” Ace says.

Coffen thinks, Why all these nicknames? First, there’s the plock praising Robert for all his years of faithful service. Then there’s Tilda calling him the capitán of Mexican lasagnas and also a cop. Why doesn’t anybody think of Bob as Bob?

“I am Bob,” he says.

“You staying here all weekend?” Ace asks.

“Unfortunately.”

“Are you going to mope the whole time or should we have some fun?”

“Probably I’ll mope,” says Bob.

“It’s not going to do you any good. Mope when you’re old. Tonight let’s remember that we’re lucky to be alive.”

“I don’t feel lucky to be alive.”

“Well, you are—we all are—even those of us squatting at work. And my band is gigging tonight at Empire Wasted. You should come along.”

“I think I’ll stick with moping.”

“Not a chance I’m letting you do that. Come on—get out of your head. Let’s go out and live a little.”

Coffen likes this idea of living a little. Maybe it’s exactly what this house cat Robert Coffen needs—to get out of his head, get out of his latest game, get out and interact with somebody. “You know what? I’m in,” Bob says. “Let’s live a little.”

“Rock and roll is quite the temptress. Few men can ward off her seductions.”

“What instrument do you play in the band?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

So Coffen asks, “Why shouldn’t I have to ask?”

“My nickname is Ace, as in Ace Frehley. I even got him tattooed on me,” he says, rolls up his gaping bathrobe’s sleeve and points at a picture of a guy with long straight black hair wearing white paint all over his face like a rodeo clown. There’s black lipstick on him and also black patterns painted jagged around his eyes.

Coffen doesn’t get it.

“He’s the guitarist in Kiss—meaning I play guitar in French Kiss. I’m a straight-up

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