Free Californium by R. Dean Johnson

haircut is winding the cord around the microphone stand. When he stands all the way up, the park lights make him 3-D. “That’s Gus/Gary,” I say. He’s wearing jeans and a stupid tank top that looks like a British flag, and he’s saying, “Check. Check. Check,” into the mic. I guess he got to come to Astrid’s party because he’s helping the band.
    People start crowding around the porch and Keith’s got the binoculars out, saying any second the whole band will come walking out the glass sliding door. But they don’t. A couple guys who were just standing around pick up guitars and start twanging them a little. Another guy climbs behind the drums and thumps the bass a couple times. Gus/Gary is still at the microphone when a frumpy-looking guy in a plain white T-shirt steps up next to him. Everybody cheers and Gus/Gary puts his arm around the frumpy guy and says into the mic, “Thanks, you bastards.”
    Everyone cracks up and then Gus/Gary pulls the frumpy guy closer and says, “Ted!” A roar goes up and people start chanting, “Ted, Ted, Ted.” Ted throws his arms up, his belly flops out of his shirt, and Gus/Gary shoves him into the crowd. Everyone keeps chanting, “Ted, Ted, Ted.”
    â€œHoly shit,” Keith says. “
This
is Ted Two.”
    Gus/Gary shakes up a can of beer and pops the top, sending a stream of suds over the crowd. The guitars scream, the drums roll, and Gus/Gary throws the can over everyone, out into the darkness of the yard. He yells into the microphone, “Fuck you; we’re Filibuster!”
    The whole backyard roars like they’ve elected a new pope, and Keith pulls the binoculars down and grabs my arm. “Holy shit. Filibuster!”
    â€œVan Doren’s band?” I point at the lead singer, at Gus/Gary, even though Keith’s looking through the binoculars again. “
That’s
van Doren?”
    â€œGuess so,” Keith says. “Van Doren’s the lead singer.”
    It’s amazing. Gus/Gary still looks like Gus/Gary, but he’s van Doren now and he’s all over the patio, pogoing, pushing the people at the front of the patio, pushing the other guys in the band, swirling his head, swirling his whole body. The music zooms like race cars flying by, and the only word I can make out is
fuck,
which seems to be every other word. The song lasts about a minute and a half, then just stops. Everyone erupts into cheers. The people in front slap hands with the guitar players, but when they reach for van Doren’s hand he gives them the finger. Then there’s a
tap-tap-tap
from the drummer. The next song starts, and it sounds like the first song.
    â€œThese guys are
awe
some,” Keith says.
    They’re not awesome. I mean, it’s not like I expect them to sound like Billy Joel or the Bee Gees, but Uncle Ryan used to listen to Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, and even with all those guitars and the weird lyrics you can tell those guys know what they’re doing. It is cool how the guitarist in Filibuster plays with one hand and slaps people’s hands with the other. And the bass player is leaning back, his head up at the sky all peaceful, like he can’t even hear the sonic boom coming out of his amp. Van Doren’s bent at the waist now, leaning out toward the crowd, both hands hugging the mic. His body is perfectly still, but his head thrashes in a blur and he spits out every word like a cat with a hairball.
    The backyard is a hurricane. There’s a mass of guys circling,all in the same direction, bouncing off each other, kind of light at first, then faster and harder. Some guys spin while they circle, all of them smashing into each other randomly. Even a couple girls are in there. Not Astrid, though. She’s off to the side with some of her cheerleader friends, bobbing her head a little to the music. Her hair is pulled into a sideways ponytail, like maybe