Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Read Free Book Online

wait.
    â€œMy ex-wife . . . “ he tries again. “She made me a mix CD. ‘Flip the Trick’ was on there. The second song, actually . . . right after ‘California Stars.’”
    Fucking Wilco. Goddamn it.
    â€œCan I just tell you—you’re a really good drummer,” he continues.
    Without asking, I hand him another beer. He accepts it appreciatively, cracks it open, and continues to gush about my ability with the sticks. (Non-drummers are so cute when they try to describe what drummers do, but they don’t know the right terminology or even understand how a drum kit works. He finishes by comparing me to John Bonham “ . . . but, like, a sexy female John Bonham,” and praising “that one part of the song where your hands go really fast.”)
    I open a second PBR for myself.
    â€œWhat other songs are on this mix by your ex-wife?” I ask. “Other than... Wilco”
    I’m always curious about other bands that SBVD fans like. We can try to poach their fan bases on social networking sites—get those people to come to our shows. Sometimes it actually works.
    â€œUh, lessee,” he says. “She’s kind of all over the place. There was some Beatles, of course. She loves the Beatles. Some John Mellencamp—she’s a Hoosier. And then bands like Nickelback.”
    â€œExcuse me while I puke a little in my mouth.”
    â€œOh,” he says, realizing this selection is not to my taste.
    â€œNo offense,” I tell him, “but if music were the human body, nu-metal would be the taint.”
    â€œHeh,” he says. “That’s a good line. I’m gonna steal that.”
    â€œIt’s fucking true.”
    He smiles. He’s cute when he smiles.
    â€œNot to bring up a sore subject,” I say. “But . . . um . . . she can’t have been your ex for long.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?” he says, as if my question is confusing.
    â€œIf she made you a mix CD with ‘Flip the Trick’ on it,” I clarify. “We didn’t release that song until four months ago. So if she made you the CD and then you got divorced.”
    â€œOh, we were divorced before,” he says. “It’s been official for about two years now.”
    â€œBut you still.?”
    â€œWe’re still friends, if that’s what you mean,” he tells me. “I still care about her a lot. It just didn’t work out.” “Did you have kids together or something?” “No,” he says.
    â€œGood” I tell him. “Because eww.” He gives a big toothy grin. “What, you’re not into kids?” “Umm, what do you think?” He laughs again.
    â€œNo . . . my ex and I are just friends. Not every relationship that ends has to end badly, you know?” I let him have that one.
    I need to go warm up on my practice pad, and tell him as much. I have the feeling this guy’s going to hang around for the show.
    â€œHey,” he says as I began digging through my backpack for some sticks. “My name’s Ben. Ben Bennington. I don’t think I told you before.”
    Awww. He’s trying to be bold.
    â€œHello Ben,” I reply. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Ben Bennington
    So I decide to stick around for the show. (It was fun to talk with Maria about the zombies. I wished I’d had more to say on the topic, but I still think I did okay.)
    I leave the hallway, return to my chair at the back of the nightclub, and wait patiently for the remaining politicians to fnish. All the speeches are so similar. So boring. I swear to God, if another person quotes Daniel Burnham I am going to start throwing things.
    Can this get any worse?
    Oh wait, it can. The serious looking alderman at the microphone just brought up Al Capone. Ugh. That’s the worst.
    There’s always somebody who wants to talk about how Chicago needs to be known for something other than Al