in parentheses

Jason M. Thornberry’s writing appears in JMWW, Los Angeles Review of Books, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere. Assaulted by strangers, he overcame a traumatic brain injury. Relearning to walk and speak, Jason earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University. He’s currently seeking a home for his first novel.

Works by J. M. Thornberry have been previously featured by In Parentheses.

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Free Beer

They called him Dyno Dave. Dave dyno-tuned classic cars, analyzing the roar of metal on metal, listening for imperfections only he could hear. His ear was perfect, like a conductor overseeing an orchestra, detecting a sour note from a stray violin. But Dave didn’t wear protection, and the ceaseless volume macheted a forest of cochlear hair cells in his ears—those sensory receptors that convert sound waves into electrical signals, transmitting them to the brain. As hours became years, Dave succumbed to the eternal barrage, becoming tone-deaf. He was our lead singer.

Our band was called Free Beer, and our singular purpose was to perform at Pacific High School’s twenty-fifth reunion for the class of 1966—the year Dyno Dave graduated. Dave warned that our name would create a stampede of people. He envisioned a concert packed to the rafters, belching smoke machines, and flashing lights. “It’s gonna be incredible,” he shouted, arms stretched wide like a car salesman. My father believed Dave’s charisma alone could draw a crowd. Dad graduated from Pacific High the same year. My father joined Free Beer, providing backing vocals. Dave and Dad’s buddy, Bob, another PHS graduate, became the guitarist. Bob’s daughter, Beth, joined on keyboards. I became the drummer, and my best friend, Art, provided bass guitar. Dave’s girlfriend, Debbie, joined my father on backing vocals.

We practiced in Dad’s garage late after Art and I finished writing songs for another project. “Hey brother,” Dave said when he arrived, clapping my father on the back, beaming at everyone else. “You guys ready to rock?” 

I sat at my drums, admiring the care our singer took to look like a vintage rocker: Dyno Dave’s black and white snakeskin boots; his crotch-laced black leather trousers; his black suede jacket with tassels traveling the sleeves; his vintage psychedelic button up shirts—every night, he wore a different color: floral pink, Tyrian purple, paisley green, macaw yellow. Dave’s bowl cut hung stiffly near his jawline, a grey helmet. The rest of Free Beer sported combinations of hoodies, T-shirts, sweatpants, and tennis shoes. 

Dave lit a joint before he touched the microphone, passing it along to his wife. They analyzed the philosophy of rock and roll with raspy, holding-the-smoke-in cadences. Bob and my father sucked at the soggy doobie as the garage filled with smoke. Art and Beth noodled on their instruments; I rubbed my eyes, thumping my bass drum, tapping my cymbals, waiting to play.

We began with “Baby, It’s You,” a Burt Bacharach tune popularized by the Beatles. That night, we played it seventy times—a song simple enough that Art and I could’ve traded instruments. Beth and Bob were bored, but Dave wanted it just right. Weeks later, we graduated to song number two: Manfred Mann’s version of “Do Wah Diddy Diddy.” While our musicianship was clunky, Dyno Dave’s voice was unlike any I’d ever heard.

He was a maestro with automobiles, but Dave sang like a man slowly eaten alive by a shark. He howled into the mic, eyes clenched, weaving in his boots. Somewhere in the front yard, a dog joined him. He threw his elbows, bumping Bob’s amplifier. Bob clenched his teeth, offering me a glance. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept going. Take after take, we played those two songs—and we played them again.

One night, in the middle of “Baby, It’s You,” Art fell asleep, seated on a burgundy barstool, head on his chin, hands wide awake, playing the song. Beth’s eyes were also closed. I switched from left-handed drumming to right-handed. While I played, I began Jim Morrison’s biography, No One Here Gets Out Alive, and wondered if I’d ever escape. I considered teaching my little brothers—then five and seven—to play my drum parts.

When my senior year ended, Free Beer added a third song: “House of the Rising Sun.” Dave grew restless, and Free Beer broke up before the reunion, but we managed to play a bar in the San Bernardino Mountains. Despite our name, the stampede never came.

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