Start the Riot

"C'mon honey," my mom said to me. "It'll be fun." While I doubted it would be, I also had no desire to sit in the house all day and sweat. My mother didn't believe in liberal use of the central air and it was always a few degrees too warm?approaching comfortable but somehow worse than just baking with a window fan blowing hot air all over the place.

"I'll get my shirt," I said, and pulled a slightly stained wifebeater over my head.

She let me drive her big, white Japanese car to Best Buy and I played a jungle tape that a friend had sent me in the mail. This Photek track came on and I turned it up.

"Listen to that bassline," I said in reverie. "You like it?"

She looked at me doubtfully, but said, "Well, it sure is...interesting."

I parked the car between an old, beat pickup and an impossibly large SUV.

"These guys'll ding my doors," she said as she got out, but we made our way to the sliding glass entrance, trying to escape the wicked Iowa sun.

Mom headed straight for the appliances and I trailed off, making my way to the music department?thinking that what they lacked in selection, they compensated for in price. Best Buy had driven nearly every privately owned music store out of business by charging eight bucks for the same CD that cost $14 in a Mom 'n' Pop.

I browsed, looking at hot girls, then back at mediocre discs. There was an impossible amount of fluff with the odd glimmer of... what's this? Atari Teenage Riot. I'd heard a couple of the digital hardcore tracks and seen a video on some late-night MTV programming. That song "Start the Riot" was off the needle. Way aggressive. What the hell was this doing here? They had tons of them, like some punk kid in charge of ordering had played a joke on the Midwest in general. Turning it over to take a look at the track list, I decided that this was a must-have.

I trekked around and found her in between the washers and dryers and the computer programs. "Mom, can I get this?"

She gave me that look that she always did when of course she wanted to buy it for me but maybe I hadn't asked very nicely. "Okay," she said with a smile, which made me feel bad for not saying please.

"Thanks."

She patted my head, dyed Andy Warhol white the week before. I moved a little out of reach so she wouldn't mess it up.

We checked out and went back to the car, a blast of heat and moisture befitting Vietnam or the Congo hitting us full force. Taking the bag from my mom, I fished the CD out and unwrapped it. As the plastic came off, so did the cover of the jewel case. "Shit. It's broken."

"Watch your mouth. Here, take the receipt and go back to exchange it."

I jogged inside and joined the burgeoning line at the checkout. When my turn came, I asked the guy if I could just go and get another one. He told me to wait a second and got on the horn to his manager.

"We can't give you another, but we will get you another jewel case if you want."

Eight bucks or a million, I didn't like the thought of broken shit, especially when my mom shelled out the bucks. "Okay. Whatever. That's cool."

He left the register and all the people in back of me groaned. I would have groaned, too, if I had been in their shoes, but I wasn't. Fuck 'em. Register guy was gone for a couple of minutes and people were heading to other lines. There was a yuppie guy and his girlfriend behind me who kept sighing. They were the kind of people who walk through the mall on weekends with their hands in each other's back pockets and wear matching hats with ironic slogans and so on.

"What the hell is taking so long?" she asked.

"This asshole," he replied, nodding toward me.

"Excuse me?" I said like a ghetto sister, taking a step closer to him. He was bigger than me, but I had a nose ring. I was pretty sure that in his moneyed mind that made up for the lack of 30-inch biceps. He looked away. Just then, the cashier came back and told me to wait; that somebody would be along in a second with the case. I stood aside and stared cancerously at my new friend, who checked out and departed in a huff.

Somebody appeared and gave me the case and I went back out to the parking lot, where my mom had pulled up front and was waiting with the motor on. As I went to unlatch the door, Mr. Asspocket slowly drove by with his middle finger extended and sneered, "You little cocksucker!"

I saw red. Releasing the door handle, I ran after his slow-rolling Audi, caught up to it and kicked the back quarter panel, hard enough to leave a dent, I think. He sped up and flew out of the parking lot. I turned around to see my mother's frightened face behind the wheel of her car. I couldn't blame her. That scene must've looked mad ugly.

She pulled up beside me and said, "Ben, you're out of control." Then she drove off.

As I set out on the four-mile walk home, I cursed the decision to wear jeans in late July.