The police were unable to locate the real body; a thorough search of the house revealed nothing out of the ordinary, besides the eerie pumpkin man. The remaining pumpkins were taken to be checked for fingerprints, with the promise they would be returned to their owners. The Bukowskis’ drummer remained incorrectly credited with calling the police, and the band’s claim to the produce was supported by the fact that every pumpkin was marked with the BBBFB logo.
When asked to confirm these facts, their singer had nodded slowly and said, “These are, in fact, our pumpkins. I was a little startled, is all. Poor pumpkins. Someone has broken them.” The police sympathized with the unsettled musician—there was something about him they just trusted—and pronounced him free to go. The show’s organizers then needlessly intervened to explain that the band was loading in when the body was found, and were therefore innocent, and should definitely not be sent to prison where there was probably no decent indie scene.
The cops agreed—besides, this problem was bigger than one newly emerging band. Over the past year, four murders had occurred at music events around the city. First, a college student received a very clean stab wound to the heart at a dreampop show on Osborne Street. Then a guest at a popular art gallery/venue was found propped outside, the ink of her hand-stamp still fresh, while a shoegaze band played blissfully on within. In early summer, two bodies appeared at the Jazz Fest’s outdoor stage during ‘Indie Night’; one was a mini-donut vendor, the other a trombone player. There were exactly zero witnesses.
The police, with no leads, didn’t know what to do. Could you shut down a city’s music scene? It would simply move underground and become more dangerous. Station cops at shows? Expensive and incendiary—and house concerts like this one wouldn’t even make it onto their radar. Sponsor self-defence training for musicians and show-goers? The demographic statistically least likely to enroll for voluntary exercise? It wasn’t in the budget anyway; they were saving up for a second helicopter.
There was no solution except to hope scenesters would be deterred by the danger and inspired to find a new, more productive hobby.
Jaymie and Jo returned downstairs to find Aaron, Anika, and Rex outside the locked van with the heap of gear, waiting for the key. Rex’s friends were saying their goodbyes and admitting they had curfews and concerned parents after all.
“So, the cops said we can keep the pumpkins,” said Jaymie. “When they’re done taking Instagram photos with them.”
“Jesus, do we even want them back?” said Jo, shaken by the scene in the bedroom.
“It’s great merch,” reasoned Anika.
“So, the police took away the, uh …?” Aaron glanced at Rex and avoided saying “body,” or maybe “corpse” or “carcass” or “pumpkin cadaver”—Jo shook her head, longing to get home to a bedtime toke and her soft pillow.
“It wasn’t exactly … I’ll tell you later,” said Jaymie. He unlocked the trunk and picked up an amp. “But yes, they’re taking care of it. We’re all good.”
“Oh really? Are we all good?” The screen door banged shut behind Garrett.
Jo had, frankly, forgotten all about him. Her one strategy in a conflict was to stare down in confusion at her aggressor until they calculated the odds of beating her in a fight and apologized for whatever they’d demanded of her, but Garrett had recovered surprisingly quickly from the bedroom scene and didn’t appear fazed even at being outnumbered five to one.
“Hey, Garrett. Thanks for coming out,” said Jaymie.
“Anything to support the band,” said Garrett. He picked up the heavy bass amp and set it in the back of the van with an ominous thunk. Rex, perched inside the vehicle, backed into the shadows and emitted a nervous “Huhuhuh OK.”
Jaymie was undeterred. “Did you pay cover? You know we’d have put you on the guest list.”
“Must’ve missed the set—did you start early?” Garrett shifted a few of their drums around, unreadable in the darkness. Jo didn’t think he’d get violent, but she hadn’t known him long, and his life’s work was, after all, hitting things.
“Liar, you watched the whole show,” said Anika.
“Stay out of it, Nik,” said Garrett.
“Oh, bad move,” said Jaymie.
“Stay out of it?” Anika snapped. “You want me to stay out of it? Maybe you should have thought of that at Harvest Moon Fest when you stayed after your set for a ‘chill night at the campfires’ and then took shrooms and got naked with that hippy chick!”
“There it is,” said Aaron. Rex let out a startled snort from the van. Jo relaxed, shook her head, and hefted two guitar cases into the trunk.
“For the last time, we were in an open relationship!”
“Maybe you were! I’m pretty sure rule number one of polyamory is you let your girlfriend know you’re polyamorous!”
“Drummers, am I right?” Jaymie muttered to Aaron, as the two stacked the components of the drum set into the van in tandem.
“Let you know? It’s what you wanted!”
“Yeah, and you hated it and you wanted to be monogamous, and I told the hot tattooed guy from my arts admin class, ‘Sorry, but I’m with someone and it’s very serious and committed—’”
While the two fought, Rex scuttled around the van fitting the gear into the space, which was a particular skill of Rex’s. The others passed up the floor tom and synth cases, offering advice or congratulations as things jigsawed into place. Finally, Anika reappeared beside them.
“Garrett says he won’t press charges if you give back the pumpkins.” She sighed. “And he wants the door money, to make up for the broken ones.”
“You worked all that out just now?” said Jaymie.
“He says …” She winced. “He thinks the police will be a lot more suspicious if they know you stole a few hundred dollars worth of produce right before someone got killed.”
“Someone got what?” said Rex.
“Some poor guy dies, and all he cares about is blackmailing us about his stupid pumpkins?” said Jaymie.
“Yeah, and about the pumpkins …” Anika smiled contritely. “I still think it’s hilarious and I appreciate that you did it.”
“Do we have a deal?” called Garrett from behind her. “Or should I tell those officers about how smashing up pumpkins is exactly the kind of thing this violent rock band is into—and I should know, I played with them for months. That’s why I quit! Too aggressive. Who knows what they’re capable of?”
Anika said “Fuck you,” at the same time that Jaymie said “We are into the Smashing Pumpkins.”
“And sure, you probably won’t get a murder pinned on you. I mean, obviously you didn’t do it … Right?”
“You saw what was up there!” Jaymie cried. “I don’t even think a human did that!”
“How would someone get that body downstairs without anyone seeing?” Jo shivered. “And to make that … sculpture? Within the time of our set? That was, like, three sets worth of detail.” She was recovering from her initial shock. Aaron and Rex, who hadn’t seen the pumpkins since their transfiguration, exchanged confused looks.
Garrett was less interested in playing detective. “Fine, you were too busy singing to kill anyone,” he said. “But either way, you’ll sure as hell have to pay for those pumpkins. Everyone who knows us knows they’re mine.”
Jaymie threw up his hands. “Yeah, fine. They wouldn’t have sold anyway.”
“Good. How much did you make at the door?” asked Garrett.
“Fifty bucks,” Jaymie replied without hesitation.
Garrett had seen the full living room and looked understandably skeptical, so Jaymie continued, “Promoters have to pay for their posters and Facebook ads and stuff. Why is this a thing with you? If you want money, go play country music.”
“Whatever. I want them back by Monday. And the fifty.”
Apparently satisfied, Garrett left them standing in the street. Jaymie kicked at some dead leaves. “Well, I think that went well! Considering.”
“Thanks for taking my side,” said Anika.
“Of course! We don’t care who said it was an open relationship when. Right guys?”
The band quickly murmured assent.
“What an asshole,” said Jo.
“Sucks about Tattoo Guy from your summer class,” said Rex.
“Oh, we went out yesterday! Found him on Insta—he’s kind of a big deal, as it turns out,” said Anika. “… Sorry about Garrett.”
Jaymie shrugged. “He got us through a few months, but I wanted Aaron back in the band anyway! I get all funny if we don’t hang out enough. I descend into emotional turmoil, pretty soon I’m an alcoholic—you know how it is.” He gestured offhandedly, as if they could all relate to the separation anxiety of being temporarily Aaron-less.
“Oh, almost forgot—while you were upstairs. For you,” said Aaron, stuffing a scrap of paper into Jaymie’s hand. It was a phone number.
“That’s really sweet, Aar, but I do live with you. I can still talk to you whenever I want.”
“Ha ha. The girl dressed up as a sexy fugitive.”
“Oh, is that what she was!”
“Mira … Mika … She told me her name but I forget. I’m sure you remember though.” He smiled insincerely at Jaymie, who did not remember.
Jaymie looked down at the wavy dashes and loopy zeros. He put the paper in his pocket. “Thanks, Aar. I appreciate you giving me this, rather than impersonating me, going on a date with that beautiful woman, marrying her, and living a lie for the rest of your life.”
“As you would have done to—”
“As I would have done to you.”
The exhausted Bukowskis got the last gear Tetris-packed into the van, and Rex drove them to the large house where the siblings lived and jammed. Rex hadn’t asked about the murder, trusting Jaymie to provide a dramatic and overly-detailed explanation at home.
They left their equipment in the kitchen, to be unpacked in the morning. Jo drank a glass of water and dug for her car keys while Jaymie lit his last cigarette of the night. Rex slouched and sang a Cat Came Back bassline under their breath. Aaron broke the peace.
“This was the last one, Jay. It’s dangerous and it’s fucking tiring. And, as I’ve told you more than once, I’m busy. I’m going back to school.”
Rex tensed. As much as they wanted both brothers to be happy, it was simple and obvious that they should all be a band together. They waited for Jaymie to resolve the issue.
Jaymie tapped his cigarette into a dead petunia still hanging by the door from summertime. “Yeah, right,” he said. “You’ll be bored out of your mind. They’ll kick you out of Psych 101 for compulsively drumming on your little lunch kit all day. You’ll flunk Intro Logic because you won’t be able to find a rationale for meaninglessly sitting there hour after hour. You’ll drop math once you put two and two together that you’d rather—”
“I’m not taking math! Have you ever once asked me what I’d study? No, because you only think about yourself. It hasn’t even crossed your mind that I’m not just a duplicate of you who exists to be your helper for whatever stupid plans you’ve come up with. Maybe I want to take … Biology! Or … I’m not sure …”
“Biology? That’s nature. You’re afraid of nature! You know what nature includes? Dogs! Stick to your comfort zone, Aaron—you’re barely even comfortable there.”
“You think this is my comfort zone?” Aaron’s whiskers had commingled with nervous sweat into a chimney-sweep smear, and the sooty line of makeup connecting his nose and upper lip blurred like a nosebleed. He was breathing heavily, and Rex hoped he was working out some anger rather than initiating another panic attack.
“You know what?” said Jaymie. “I never asked because I know you so well that I don’t need to! You’ll drop out, and—”
“No, fuck this! Quit blaming me for—forget it. I’m leaving.”
Jaymie finally lost his composure. “Leaving! Where the hell are you going to go?” He gesticulated wildly with his cigarette, alarm clear on his face.
“To bed, Jaymie! It’s fucking three in the morning!”
“Oh … OK goodnight. Love you.”
“Love you too goodnight.” Aaron deflated, half-heartedly slamming the door behind him.
Jaymie stubbed his cigarette in the petunia and smiled contentedly at Jo and Rex. “Good show, friends! He’ll come around. We’re going on tour!”
Garrett’s pumpkins were declared fingerprintless, picked up by one Brzezinski or another, and returned to him, as promised, along with fifty dollars. The sharpie-pen logos on them were distinctly off-brand. Still, the remaining twenty-two sold at the next farmers’ market and went to new homes in time for Halloween.
The pumpkins missed Jaymie Brzezinski terribly. From pantries and front porches, they reflected on their brief time with him, remembering the feel of his arms around their middles and his voice in the back seat of the car and his synthesizers weaving haunting melodies from the crowded living room. From 12:00 until 12:05 every night, each pumpkin could be heard quietly singing the Bukowskis’ opening song, and each, when carved into fearsome Jack-o-lanterns, mourned the concealment of their beautiful band logo and rotted immediately in protest. The BBBFB Instagram page received nine new followers after the show, and twelve more after the farmer’s market. One buyer liked the logo, and he looked them up, appreciated their musicianship, and messaged them about playing a tribute show he was organizing in December. So, all in all, it could be considered a successful night.
Bukowski's broken family band 
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