CHAPTER 14: POLICE STATION BLUES
Vincent
As the seconds blurred into minutes since Saturn dumped me and I began gazing up at the stars on this clear and increasingly bitter Halloween night, I literally felt frozen on that curb outside the police station. I could exhale white fog into the night air again and again, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk into that station and face my band mates yet. I knew I should be there for Friday, but my heart was stabbed; my brain was careening between the most amazing lyrics I had ever thought of and fantasies of driving my truck into a tree; and my legs were trying to persuade me to cross the access road for a better look at the loud cars racing by on I-95.
Eventually, I did make my way over to the fence by the freeway. The nearby Westin Hotel loomed over everything, probably full of lovers ripping off their sweaty Halloween costumes and getting it on. Later I would find out that Freeway and the two hotties he picked up after the show were among them. A three-way for Freeway. Yeah, I was pretty fucking jealous, but he deserved it. There was no doubt he was carrying our band at that point.
I looked back at the hulking, glass-encased, state-of-the-art police station. If you fly over it in a helicopter, you’ll see it’s in the shape of a gun, or so I’ve been told. Big fucking deal. Typical Providence. Capital of the nation’s smallest state, but you still gotta brag about what your packing — whether it be your Italian balls or your illegally acquired gun. Don’t worry too much about getting caught either. The mayor and some of the cops were just as corrupt as the criminals in this mob-infested city. I would find out later that Uncle Al’s “friends” within the police department helped make sure Eddie got sprung right away. Friday, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. Number one, he was black. Number two, he had previous weapons violations. Friday, as it turned out, would not be getting out of jail on Halloween night or anytime soon.
But as I stood there and stared at the police station, I remembered my mother telling me how she met my father on that not-so-hallowed ground many years ago when there were many different clubs and businesses — before they all got swallowed up by “one giant muthafuckin’ pig fortress,” as Friday liked to put it. Mom and dad used to go there all the time when it was a rock-and-roll club named R.J.’s Fastlane. Apparently, my uncle went there a lot, too. It was the place to be if you were a young wannabe mobster, tough guy, biker, muscle head, alcoholic, recreational drug addict or long-haired head banger — some may well have been all of the above — and the sexy, wild-haired women who loved them.
It was more than a tad ironic that I had just gotten dumped there, literally kicked to the curb at the same spot where my parents fell in love. Saturn had certainly given me plenty to think about, and think I did. Soon, the words and ideas rushed into my brain so fast that I had to grab the pen in the right back pocket of my jeans (my afro wig was still sticking out of my left back pocket) and write them on my hands. I filled both palms with black ink in no time and started writing on the back of my left hand, too. Before long I began singing the chorus and verses to myself as my eyes darted from the freeway to the police station and back again. Chills ran down my spine. I knew I had a good song. Maybe I had tapped into some of that same “Spanish Castle Magic” that Freeway discovered every day on his front porch as he channeled the forever-27-year-old soul of Jimi Hendrix into the strings of his Les Paul. Or maybe it was that afro wig in my back pocket. Either way, it felt amazing that I could create something so good and pure out of heartbreak. I’m quite sure it also felt much better than shards of glass and bark of a tree in my cold, dead face. No, I wasn’t ready to die just yet. I wanted to see what this mysterious life had to offer. Mostly, I wanted to create music. I wanted to be inspired … and to inspire. Love, which seemed far more mysterious than the power of music, would have to take care of itself in time, I figured.
Little did I know, I was about to debut my new song to complete strangers. Clumps of drunken revelers occasionally would stumble across the bridge over I-95 that connected the access roads on opposite sides of the highway. Two girls in costume saw me through the fence, clearly checked me out for a few seconds and then took a right down the sidewalk toward me.
“Yes, it’s him!” one of them shouted. “I told you.”
The taller, hotter one had long, dark hair and was wearing a red leather coat, tight black jeans and black horns. She looked Hispanic. The other one was shorter, plumper, Italian and trying her best to look and act like Snookie from “Jersey Shore.”
“Hey, do you play in a band?” the shorter one asked as they approached me.
“What happens if I say yes?” I asked, forcing myself to be playful, which was becoming easier the more I gazed at the taller one and she stared right back with gorgeous milk chocolate eyes.
“Well, if you’re one of the singers in Freeway & the Vin Numbers, which I think you are …,” the shorter one said.
“How can you tell without my afro on?” I interrupted, smiling at both of them.
“You are him,” the taller one said in a sultry tone.
“Yes!” I confirmed.
The two girls high-fived.
“Good eyes, bitch!” the Devil praised Snookie.
“We saw your show before the one tonight, too,” Devil informed me. “That’s how we know it’s you.”
“We friggin’ love you guys” Snookie shouted, clearly drunk in the midnight hour. “Too bad those losers started that fight. Usually, we start fights, but not tonight. Now we’re out here walking the street like a couple of hookers instead of partying in the club!”
“Actually, her car got towed because Snookie here parked illegally and didn’t think the cops would be checking. Now we’ve got to go in there and cry for sympathy and a lesser fine,” the Devil said, nodding toward the police station.
I guess our band wasn’t the only one with legal troubles on Halloween night. In fact, we were indirectly the cause of Devil and Snookie’s legal troubles, too.
“It’s Vin, right? What are you doing out here all alone?” Snookie asked, empathetically putting her hand on my arm.
“Yeah, I’m Vin,” I said. “It’s a long story. What are your names?”
“I’m Angel,” the taller one said. “Get it?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” I said. “Angel dressed as the Devil.”
“Nice to meet you, Angel, outside the police station of all places,” I said, smiling just as much as she was as we shook hands.
“And I’m Pauline,” the shorter one said, forgoing the handshake and bull-rush hugging me. The upper tufts of her generously hair-sprayed black hair only came up to my chest.
“Nice to meet you, Pauline,” I said.
“Did you guys get in trouble, is that why you’re here?” Pauline probed as she stepped back from me a few feet so I could breathe again.
“Yeah, remember the dude with the chainsaw, he got in some trouble for pulling a gun,” I told them.
“Holy shit,” Angel said. “That was a crazy show.”
“You guys come packing for a show? What the fuck!” Pauline shouted, more impressed than anything. “You don’t mess around.”
“I don’t blame them,” Angel said. “Remember what happened to that guy from Pantera at that show in the Midwest a few years ago.”
“No shit,” Pauline said. “Good for you guys.”
“All it takes is one crazy nut job and it’s all over,” Angel said.
“That’s why you guys shouldn’t be walking the street late at night, especially on Halloween,” I said, Mr. Chivalry all of a sudden.
“The cops are right there,” Pauline said. “Plus we’re pretty tough. We know how to protect ourselves. We’re good at kicking people in the balls!”
Pauline tried to kick the fence with her black heels and almost fell over. Angel and I laughed as we helped right her ship. If nothing else, these girls were providing a little comic relief and helping me forget about Saturn. But for some reason, I decided to bring her up. These girls seemed
like they would be cool to talk to about my situation. And if Angel wanted to console me over it, all the better.
“Another reason I’m out here alone is my girlfriend just dumped me when she dropped me off here,” I admitted.
Both girls went, “Nooooooo!”
“You poor thing,” Pauline said, hugging me again with even more vigor.
“Dumped at the police station? That’s horrible. What happened?” Angel asked, even more attentive to me than she was before.
“She gave me a few reasons, but mostly because she’s 22 and I’m only 18,” I said.
“Wow, you are young,” Angel said. “You can’t even drink yet.”
“Sure he can. You look older than 18 anyway. Hotter, too! Right?” Pauline said, banging her hip into Angel.
“No argument there,” Angel said with a smile. “We both turned 21 this past summer.”
“And we’re drinking as much as we can, can you tell?” Pauline said.
“Yeah, who’s driving?” I asked them. “The cops ain’t gonna let you drive your towed car away if you’re both drunk.”
“I’m OK,” Angel said. “I only had one or two like way early in the evening. I’ll drive her car.”
“Cool,” I said. “Anyway, part of it is my fault that this girl dumped me. I kissed another girl after the show.”
“Well then you deserved it,” Angel said.
“I’d let you kiss other girls,” Pauline said. “What’s the big deal? Just let me in on the action.”
I chuckled and looked at both of them. They were the perfect audience, just what I needed at that depressing and confusing moment in time.
“You guys are a Halloween night riot,” I said. “I just came up with a new song called ‘Police Station Blues.’ Can I test it out on you right here by the highway?”
Pauline gasped for air, bent over and nearly fainted.
“Yessssss,” she finally uttered, looking up at me like I was the second coming of Bono or something.
“We would be honored,” Angel said.
That first raw a capella rendition of “Police Station Blues,” amid the ebb-and-flow roar of I-95, went a little something like this:
“Her name is Angel, but she’s dressed as the Devil … just kidding,” I said smiling, as Angel and Pauline laughed their asses off.
“Good one,” Angel said, warmly clutching my arm and restoring my confidence as I slowly rediscovered my sense of humor.
OK, the second time it was for real:
“I’m too young to fall in love,
Like Motley Crue say
She told me to sing about love
After she took hers away
She left me at the station
My biggest crime is youth
I swallowed every bullet
fired by her Colonel of Truth
Too young to fall in love
But old enough to fail
Yeah, I made some mistakes
And went directly to jail
No, I ain’t coming out
So don’t pay my bail
Just need some time to think
Cuz this heart ain’t for sale
They gave me one phone call
But she won’t answer
Somewhere a dance floor is open
But I got no dancer.”