Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality by Bill Peters

I’m twenty, Real Dad says we need to get to the Bug Jar early, before the bouncer starts watching the door.
    â€œThere are stories about the people you’ll meet tonight, stories,” he says. “Sverg, one of the music writers for City , he’ll be there—stellar guy, says some really poignant, subversivethings. Sverg was telling me Squeezebeagler’s guitarist, drunk one night, tried to go home and pass out in his apartment, but he woke up, and instead he was just in some lady’s house!”
    His forehead is getting a little sweaty, the way it does when he gets excited, like when he’s talking about Dexter’s Laboratory or Cookie Puss. So now, I’m thinking this concert is totally going to be Holy Grail Point-worthy!
    Because: Necro? Really bumming me out. Really riding the tip with me. I blew through a whole tank of gas driving past Applebee’s to try to find him last night, past Gitsi’s, Media Play, the Wegmans parking lot, past Chad Rector’s house on the off chance, the Spice Man Tower, and even the corner on Monroe where two guys, about to fight, kept yelling to each other: “This ain’t no pickupsticks!”
    But as soon as me and Real Dad walk into the Bug Jar, which is my first time ever to the Bug Jar, my shoulder nerves hum. Look, already, at the dim lighting and the giant papier-mâché fly, about the size of a tote bag, attached to a blade of the ceiling fan—with that alone, you and your flame-paintings can suck it, Necro. And even better, in the room next to the bar, Necro? A whole upside-down living room set, bolted to the ceiling. Recliner; books glued to the coffee table.
    We take a seat in the one large booth in the corner. Real Dad’s picking the label off his beer bottle, looking at the door, one-wording it whenever I ask him something. He rubs some rash cream on his hands and puts the tube back in his pocket. People trickle in. This boulder-shaped guy with a white buzz cut and maroon boots walks in.
    â€œThat’s Sverg,” Real Dad says. “He’s crazy, that guy, crazylike wild boars. The stories—he fell out the back of the stage door into a snow bank one time, crazy.”
    Real Dad gives me the One-Minute index finger and walks over to the guy.
    â€œSverg!” Real Dad goes. “Svergie!” squeezing Sverg’s shoulder. Then he says, in this hairy, over-tanned Long Island accent: “How you doing today can I take ya aside for a drink and a hardcore mastibation session? Mastibation, mastibation, mastibation.”
    Which I, at least, think is funny—Real Dad’s accent. But look at how Sverg looks at Real Dad, eyelids getting heavier.
    â€œRemember? Last month?” Real Dad says, eyes open wide, doglike and gentle. “That guy, with the accent? Standing right behind you, talking through Arab on Radar? Some Twelfth Man in a Giants jacket?”
    Sverg’s chin drifts upward, voice reclined and half-asleep on the couch. “Standing—”
    â€œForget it, forget it,” Real Dad says, waving his hands in front of his chest.
    Sverg suddenly deadlocks eyes with Real Dad. “Are you accusing me of something?”
    â€œNot at all, my friend,” Real Dad says, jamming his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth. “Just looking forward to some live music.”
    â€œWell, good to see you, okay?” Sverg says slowly, looking past Real Dad toward the room where the stage is.
    Since I already hate this Sverg guy, I go and stand in the bathroom. It’s dark but with high ceilings, overlapping band stickers of The Priests and Nerve Circus and Pengo crowdingthe sink mirror. When I walk out, I feel a hand on my shoulder, a hand that immediately feels like more success and heated driveways than I’ll ever have.
    â€œNate?” the hand says.
    I turn around. And, sweep the floors, change your shirt: It’s Garrett Alfieri.
    â€œNathan Gray,”