nonexistent, but they are spending time together, which Evan figures is just as good. People talk too much anyway. Sometimes just standing next to a person is better than making a contrived effort to communicate with him through language.
After they finish dinner, they walk around a while, stopping long enough to watch a guy get his lip pierced in the window of a tattoo shop. Evan, clever father that he is, remembers that there’s an Urban Outfitters in the mall on the north end of Broadway, so they go and buy some clothes. Dean changes out of his uniform of protest and paradox and into something more appropriate for a contemporary Seattle teenager.
They hop another cab and head down to Belltown. When they arrive at Jefferson Bank, an old bank building converted to a night club, Lars is waiting on the street. Lars Hero, a six-foot-four Swede, is the drummer of Evan’s band, The Last. Amazingly dexterous with drumsticks but almost comically clumsy without, he is a very large, thickly built, platinum-blond man, who, it’s been said, is slightly retarded due to a childhood blow to the head he received courtesy of his hammer-wielding brother, Berg. Evan suspects that Lars was slightly retarded long before the blow to his head, since the blow occurred thusly:
Lars and Berg, fifteen and thirteen respectively, were working in the yard, breaking rocks for the Japanese garden their father was building, which, when completed, would boast a twelve-foot waterfall and an impressive collection of immaculately groomed bonsai trees. Lars and Berg argued. Berg, the younger, threatened Lars: “I’m gonna knock your head off with this hammer.” Berg gestured with the heavy clawed chipping hammer in his hand.
Lars, not to be intimidated by his little brother, responded: “You’re gonna have to pull it out of your ass first.”
Then, Berg, being a man of his word and a bit quicker than the hulking Lars, swung the hammer and connected with Lars’s head just above his ear. The sound was similar to the sound made when uncorking a bottle of wine. Pock. Not loud, but disturbing nonetheless.
There was blood, screaming, a trip to the hospital, a skull repaired with a hard plastic disk and some baling wire. But no lasting damage, thank God, except that Lars had problems comprehending his math homework after the incident. But, apparently Lars had problems comprehending his math homework before the incident, too. That the incident occurred at all suggested to Evan that there was a certain chemical deficiency in the Hero family.
“Hey, Ev, ” Lars calls out, waving frantically, as if a giant albino with a dent in his head is hard to pick out of a crowd.
Evan and Dean make their way toward him. There’s a larger than normal mob of young Bohemians gathered on the sidewalk. Evan never would have thought Lucky Strike was that big a draw.
“Hey, Lars.”
“What’s with the kid?”
“This is my son, Dean. Dean, this is Lars.”
A look of panic sweeps over Lars’s face. His hand instinctively goes to his mouth, he chews at the tender flesh around his thumbnail, a nasty habit.
“I didn’t know you had a kid, ” he whispers to Evan through his thumb.
“I do, his name is Dean. This is him.”
“You didn’t have a kid last week.”
“Well, I do now, ” Evan confirms.
While Lars digests this new information, he tears a piece of flesh off of his thumb and chews on it with his front teeth, grinding it up, gnashing it, pulverizing it. When it’s gone, he licks at the bloody wound he has just created.
“They’re sold out, ” he says.“Do you have a ticket for him?”
“What?”
“The show is sold out.”
“You’re kidding me!” Evan cries.
“Nope.” Lars stuffs his hand in his pocket, apparently overcome by a sudden feeling of guilt at the profuse amount of blood flowing from his thumb wound.
“How could they be sold out?” Evan asks, dismayed.
“Someone posted on the Internet that Tom Waits was showing up. I
After they finish dinner, they walk around a while, stopping long enough to watch a guy get his lip pierced in the window of a tattoo shop. Evan, clever father that he is, remembers that there’s an Urban Outfitters in the mall on the north end of Broadway, so they go and buy some clothes. Dean changes out of his uniform of protest and paradox and into something more appropriate for a contemporary Seattle teenager.
They hop another cab and head down to Belltown. When they arrive at Jefferson Bank, an old bank building converted to a night club, Lars is waiting on the street. Lars Hero, a six-foot-four Swede, is the drummer of Evan’s band, The Last. Amazingly dexterous with drumsticks but almost comically clumsy without, he is a very large, thickly built, platinum-blond man, who, it’s been said, is slightly retarded due to a childhood blow to the head he received courtesy of his hammer-wielding brother, Berg. Evan suspects that Lars was slightly retarded long before the blow to his head, since the blow occurred thusly:
Lars and Berg, fifteen and thirteen respectively, were working in the yard, breaking rocks for the Japanese garden their father was building, which, when completed, would boast a twelve-foot waterfall and an impressive collection of immaculately groomed bonsai trees. Lars and Berg argued. Berg, the younger, threatened Lars: “I’m gonna knock your head off with this hammer.” Berg gestured with the heavy clawed chipping hammer in his hand.
Lars, not to be intimidated by his little brother, responded: “You’re gonna have to pull it out of your ass first.”
Then, Berg, being a man of his word and a bit quicker than the hulking Lars, swung the hammer and connected with Lars’s head just above his ear. The sound was similar to the sound made when uncorking a bottle of wine. Pock. Not loud, but disturbing nonetheless.
There was blood, screaming, a trip to the hospital, a skull repaired with a hard plastic disk and some baling wire. But no lasting damage, thank God, except that Lars had problems comprehending his math homework after the incident. But, apparently Lars had problems comprehending his math homework before the incident, too. That the incident occurred at all suggested to Evan that there was a certain chemical deficiency in the Hero family.
“Hey, Ev, ” Lars calls out, waving frantically, as if a giant albino with a dent in his head is hard to pick out of a crowd.
Evan and Dean make their way toward him. There’s a larger than normal mob of young Bohemians gathered on the sidewalk. Evan never would have thought Lucky Strike was that big a draw.
“Hey, Lars.”
“What’s with the kid?”
“This is my son, Dean. Dean, this is Lars.”
A look of panic sweeps over Lars’s face. His hand instinctively goes to his mouth, he chews at the tender flesh around his thumbnail, a nasty habit.
“I didn’t know you had a kid, ” he whispers to Evan through his thumb.
“I do, his name is Dean. This is him.”
“You didn’t have a kid last week.”
“Well, I do now, ” Evan confirms.
While Lars digests this new information, he tears a piece of flesh off of his thumb and chews on it with his front teeth, grinding it up, gnashing it, pulverizing it. When it’s gone, he licks at the bloody wound he has just created.
“They’re sold out, ” he says.“Do you have a ticket for him?”
“What?”
“The show is sold out.”
“You’re kidding me!” Evan cries.
“Nope.” Lars stuffs his hand in his pocket, apparently overcome by a sudden feeling of guilt at the profuse amount of blood flowing from his thumb wound.
“How could they be sold out?” Evan asks, dismayed.
“Someone posted on the Internet that Tom Waits was showing up. I
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