Free The Scar Boys by Len Vlahos Page A

Us,” and a pop tune called “The Girl Next Door.”
    I know, it’s been said before
    In every movie and Broadway musical score
    But I’d give my right hand and my parents’ car
    And my left leg and my guitar
    For just one night
    With the girl next door
    ’Cause she’s older than me and she’s smarter than me
    She’s taller than me and that’s how it should be
    Just one night, with the girl next door
    It was a song I had written about Leslie Murphy whose family lived two doors down from mine. She was four years older and babysat for me when I was a little kid. I had a monster crush on her that continued until she left for college. Strike that. The crush continues to this day.
    Watching Johnny belt out the vocal from the iso booth, listening to the small flaws in his voice—the tiny bit of nasal inflection, the occasional drift off pitch—lay over the already recorded guitar, bass, and drum tracks like paint on wood, I knew,
I knew
without any trace of doubt that we were an unstoppable force.
    The highlight was Dan’s invention of the “stereo bells.” He set up microphones on each end of the studio and had Richie run between them shaking a tambourine. The effect, other than to make Richie gasp for air and make us laugh ourselves stupid, was to hear the tambourine, whenlistening through headphones, moving from one side of your brain to the other. It was the crowning achievement on a record that was defined by whimsy.
    The day the singles arrived—ten cartons of a hundred records each—was, and still is, one of the greatest days of my life. To hold in my hands the tangible fruit of five years’ labor was an indescribable feeling. I imagined that this was what it must feel like to get laid. I can still remember the intoxicating smell of the ink on the jacket cover, a black and white photo of the band onstage.
    We spent the better part of a week in my parents’ basement stuffing envelopes and mailing the record with the
Village Voice
press clip to night clubs and college radio stations all across the country. Richie and Cheyenne spent the following week making phone calls. We had no idea how much an actual record would legitimize the Scar Boys, because in less than ten days, with what felt like a Herculean effort but in retrospect was really pretty easy, we had a tour. Twenty-three gigs through nineteen states in forty days.
    Everything was falling into place. The only thing left to do was bag ourselves a set of wheels.

RIP OFF
    (written by Marc Bolan, and performed by T. Rex)
    Richie’s dad—Alec, Mr. McGill, Mr. Mac—was a retired mechanic. He was a gruff man with thick hair shining an unnatural black from Grecian Formula, and skin turned to leather from years spent absorbing car exhaust. Mr. Mac barely came up to Richie’s shoulder, but his hands were rough, scorched, and enormous. They were a source of wonder to me, large like a basketball player’s, but nimble like a pianist’s. He was the only one of my friends’ parents who didn’t seem uncomfortable with my deformities. He treated me like he treated any other kid, and I loved him for it.
    “You’re not gonna get much with thirteen hundred,” he told us. Mr. Mac was on his hands and knees, his head under the sink, the sound of a wrench twisting, scraping, banging metal. I can’t remember a single time at Richie’shouse when Mr. Mac wasn’t busy working on something.
    “Yes, sir, we know,” Richie said. “Except, we already bought the van. It’s out front. We’re hoping you’ll take a look.”
    The banging stopped and I could see Richie tense up. His relationship with his dad—a blend of respect, fear, and adoration—was so unlike the relationship I had with my own father, that it was kind of inspiring.
    Richie’s mom died when Richie was still in grade school. Stage four ovarian cancer. They say it doesn’t strike women who’ve given birth, but someone forgot to tell Richie’s mom’s ovaries. Mrs. Mac—none of us had ever met