Tietam Brown by Mick Foley Page A

big-time.
    Suddenly I had a premonition, and took my hand off the wheel to press the forward button on the stereo. In an instant I heard Bruce Springsteen singing my life story. “One soft infested summer me and Terry became friends, trying in vain to breathe the fire we was born in.” I didn’t really know what that breathing-the-fire thing was all about, but that part about me and Terri was perfect.
    I knew as I barreled past Terri’s house one last time that this was meant to be our song, even if we’d never actually done the things that Bruce and his Terry had done, such as sleeping in an old abandoned beach house and getting wasted in the heat. I listened again as I passed by Terri’s house again, this time being the last for real, but couldn’t really get all that much of it, partially because the Fairmont’s speakers shook anytime the volume was up past 5, and partially because, well, honestly, Bruce sounds like he’s singing in a cave on that one.
    It was eight-thirty by now, or about six and a half hours left, when I stepped into the high school gym. I looked around for Terri and saw instead a jumbled mass of about a thousand bodies, moving seemingly in unison to a song I can’t quite remember. Actually I can’t quite remember anything, except that my heart was pounding, and that I was possibly the most hated guy on the planet, or at least in Conestoga High at the time.
    I saw a bright glow of red and tried to focus, which worked, and was relieved to see that it wasn’t so bad, it was just Baskin’s skin, attached to his face, which was asking Terri to dance. What the hell! Asking her to dance, gesturing at the dance floor with his big arms, his tight satin shirt nearly ripping at the seams. Terri was shaking her head, and she was looking around. Looking for me, but I didn’t quite dare make myself seen.
    Baskin was resilient, but still Terri declined, and for a split second I stepped forward, so as to approach and say, “Excuse me, the lady’s with me,” and escort her to the floor. But instead I felt weak and sat down, looking out in amazement at all the mullets surrounding me. They were everywhere. Those short-in-the front, long-in-the-back, shaved-on-the-side horrible mullets. All around me. I saw a quick flash and imagined myself smack-dab in the middle of the Michael Jackson “Thriller” video, and it was horrible. I mean that video is always horrible, and Michael Jackson by himself is pretty scary, but instead of being surrounded by corpses and ghouls, he was surrounded by Conestoga High football players in mullets. And right in the front was Coach Hanrahan, with the most frightening mullet of all.
    The flash went away, and so did the horror, and I looked for my Terri and saw her still looking. Looking for me. I wanted to just run to her, take her in my arms, and spin her around. And you know what? That’s exactly what I was going to do. Just as soon as I went back to the car and listened to “Backstreets” one more time . . . for motivation.
    I unlocked the car, hopped in, and played the song one more time. This time I thought I heard Bruce saying something about trying to walk like the heroes he thought he had to be. The song ended, and I decided I was ready to return to the gym. Almost. I checked out a different song.
    I heard the opening chords of “She’s the One,” and I swear it was like music to my ears. Wait a second, that’s got to be the dumbest analogy I’ve ever heard. Of course it was music to my ears. But when Bruce started singing, I felt that magic, and knew he was singing for just me and Terri once again.
    Once again the Fairmont’s speaker system didn’t shed much light on just what Bruce was talking about, but by the time I made out “with her long hair falling and eyes that shine like a midnight sun” and Bruce launched into the Diddleyesque guitar solo, I found myself