twenty-sixIt was nine p.m., and the party at Polluted Press was starting to howl—Bobby Sun and Blues Dragon. Usually reserved, Bobby let his hair down, literally, for gigs. No horsetail tonight. His hair, no longer confined, flowed down over his shoulders, between his shoulder blades and down his spine.
“If you seen my little red rooster ...”
He shook. He riffed. He knelt and bent his head down so far that his waterfall of black hair rolled back over his head and covered his face. Bobby’s wild-eyed Vietnamese drummer: shaved head, gold tooth, nose pierced with studs like stars. One foot thumped the bass drum. The drumsticks in his hands rattled the snare. He swallowed the microphone on the stand by his face and sang harmony.
“I’m that little red rooster too lazy to crow for day.” Everyo
