Free Struts & Frets by Jon Skovron Page A

nothing nice or quiet about Idiot Child. It was a big, dark room full of broken-down couches and La-Z-Boy chairs. The air was so thick with cigarette smoke that you had to slouch in your seat and keep as low to the ground as possible, just so you could breathe.And it was always packed with a smelly, grungy, angsty cross-section of Columbus’s underground scene: skaters, punks, ravers, hippies, goths, and people who were just plain weird. But the coffee was cheap and surprisingly good, the music was always cool, and they let you hang out for as long as you wanted, as long as you bought something. For a dollar fifty, you had a place to hang for the whole night with no waitresses, cops, jocks, or parents to harass you. And it was worth all the rest just for that.
    Plus, as a bonus, Rick and I knew the owner.
    Francine was in her late twenties when her parents died in a car crash and left her with a ton of money. She spent it all on two things. One was a bunch of tattoos. She loved comics, and so she had her favorites—
Sandman, Emily Strange, Death Jr
., and
Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
—inked on just about every inch of skin. And she was not a tiny person, so that was a lot of tattoos. One time she told me that she guessed she had about ten thousand dollars’ worth of ink on her body. But she said it was worth it because she’d never liked looking at herself in the mirror before and now she did. She said it also scored with the chicks.
    That was how we got to know Francine. When Rick realized that he was gay, he didn’t tell his parents (they would totally freak). But he told our school guidance counselor,Mr. Liven, who was so cheery and unthreatening, you felt like you could tell him you’d just murdered a busload of nuns and he’d still be nice to you. Mr. Liven recommended that he join some kind of support group, I guess to talk with other gay people about being gay. Our neighborhood, German Village, was a pretty gay area, so he found a place that he could walk to after school. He went to a few meetings, and that was where he met Francine. Rick wasn’t really into the meetings, because he said it was mainly a bunch of depressed old queens. Francine wasn’t into it too much either. She’d hoped to meet some chicks, but she was the only lesbian there. So the two of them spent most of the time hanging out in the parking lot, smoking Francine’s cigarettes and talking about comics. They both quit the group, and Francine said he should start hanging out at the coffee shop that she’d bought with the rest of her inheritance: Idiot Child.
    Idiot Child was just as loud and smoky as usual. The only person who worked there besides Francine was Raef, a middle-aged dude with long red hair and a gnarly beard who filled in on Francine’s nights off. He was standing behind the counter waving one hand in the air, the other pressed against the stereo receiver.
    â€œHey, kids,” he said to us. “It’s gonna take me a second to pour your coffee. I’ve almost got a clear broadcast.”
    We waited while he raised and lowered his body and waved his hand slowly back and forth. He had metal fillings in his mouth and a metal plate in his head and he claimed that if he positioned himself in just the right way, he could pick up radio signals in his brain and transmit them to the stereo. He said that the first time he’d discovered this ability, he’d accidentally channeled a Pink Floyd song, “Breathe,” and it had changed his life forever.
    But I guess it wasn’t happening tonight. Eventually he gave up and said, “Just coffee, kids?”
    We nodded. Neither of us had enough cash for a real espresso drink.
    After we got our coffees, we sank into a couch in a corner of the room.
    â€œI hope you didn’t take what Joe said seriously,” said Rick.
    â€œWhat, about my songs being total shit?” I asked.
    â€œYeah,” said Rick.