Fathermucker by Greg Olear Page B

will be quick, painless, and easy to clean.
    No sooner does the hot water jar me into some semblance of higher awareness than I remember that Roland’s class has a field trip this afternoon. Vanessa, our hapless but always-available babysitter, is coming at noon to stay with Maude—after the playdate at Jess’s—and I will be joining the Thornwood preschoolers for the annual foray to the pumpkin patch. Last month, when we went apple picking, pee-wee Zara Reid—whom Roland has a thing for, as best as I can tell; he tends to like littler girls—was accompanied by her notorious old man, erstwhile lead singer of the seminal D.C. punk band Circle of Fists. It was his incongruous presence at the apple orchard, in fact, that prompted me to pitch the interview to Rents in the first place. So Chris Keeslar’s note was well-timed. It may well be that I will encounter Daryl “Duke” Reid this very afternoon. And what better place to approach him about a parenting interview than a preschool field trip? He might not show, of course. But if he doesn’t come, his wife—the Québécoise model Céline St. Germain, whose Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue pictorial, although a good ten years old, remains the stuff of masturbatory legend—probably will. And I could ask her. Although frankly, Reid is less intimidating. Either way, better brush up on my Circle of Fists trivia before the pumpkin patch. I’m at best a casual fan; I only have the one album, the one with “My Heart Is Hydroplaning” on it, The Worst Crime , the same one everybody else has. I don’t know if I can even name a “classic” Fists song, one from the vault that predates their signing with Universal, learning how to actually play their instruments, writing melody lines with hooks. Talent and musicality are anathema to punk, and knowing more than three chords akin to selling out, so a generation of early Circle Jerks turned on the band when “My Heart Is Hydroplaning” came out. A shame, really. It’s a catchy tune, so much so that I find myself engaged in the time-honored pastime, singing in the shower:
    You’re wet you’re wet you’re wet you’re wet
    Cuz love love love is raining
    Inside inside
    I slip and I slide
    Yeah my heart is hydroplaning
    My face is full of lather—or rather, the left half is; the right is already smooth, give or take a stray graying whisker—when the phone rings. No way to get it in time, not with the shave half complete, so I don’t try. But whatever momentary peace I’d derived from the gallons of almost-scalding water on the back of my neck evaporates, and the curiosity eats at me, and a I feel a tinge of distress who could be calling at this hour? , so I finish up as quickly as I can, nicking my upper lip in the process. Ablutions as unsatisfying as the previous evening’s self-generated orgasm. A cold shower of a hot shower.
    Puddling water on the cheap hardwood floor in the bedroom, I check the message. Stacy, on the voice mail. Early in Los Angeles—half past four, there. Jet lag, five days in?
    The recording begins with an intake of breath, as her messages always do, and then she speaks:
    Hey, Josh, it’s me. Woke up really early for some reason, so I figured I’d try you before the day gets away from me. You’re probably, I don’t know, maybe you’re in the shower? That’s probably good if you are. Are you asleep? Shit. I hope you’re not asleep. No, it’s seven thirty there, there’s no way. Anyway . . . really miss you guys. It’s nice out here, but I really can’t wait to come home. It’s time. Too long, too long to be away. I’m going to try and go back to sleep, I think, so . . . yeah, I’ll just . . . I’ll call you later, okay? Hope the drop-off goes okay. Love you. Miss you. Bye.
    She called, what, five minutes ago, so it’s