The Night We Became Honey Banana


Our future college-age selves are driving home from yet another lousy gig when Jan, heretofore passed out on his drums in the back of Ernie’s van, lifts his head and murmurs, “That guy was right, you know.”

“What guy?” I ask.

“The one who stood up at the end of our set,” Eva answers, sighing, “and shouted that we’d ruined his evening.”

Oh. That guy.

Ernie glares at me from behind the wheel, adjusts one of the combs in his fatfro. “I told you keyboards have no place in rock music.”

“Hey, my keyboards are our secret weapon,” I retort.

“Shut up, the both of you.” Eva shakes her head. “I’m in no mood to spend the ride home listening to the bass player argue with the keyboard player who’s more expendable.”

“I can tell you right now who’s more expandable—”

Ernie swerves on purpose, attempting to throw me from the passenger seat. “That’s it! I’m rolling us into a ditch!”

Unconcerned, Eva says, “Have fun with that. Meanwhile, anyone have any ideas about saving our band from certain demise?”

“Simples. We change our name again.”

“Ernie, every week we have a bad show, and every week we change the band name.”

“That’s what you do when you’re starting out, keep changing your name until your first hit single. Duh.

“What if we don’t have our first hit single until 2050?” I ask.

Ernie scowls. “I’ll be dead by then, God willing.”

“Hm. We could call ourselves Dead in Twenty.”

“Pocket Sock.”

“Already a thing.”

“No way.”

“Yep. Saw them at Meanie’s last month.”

Jan calls out from the back: “What about Suga Luga?”

“What the shaft does that even mean?” Ernie asks.

I look up the name on my phone. “Also already a thing.”

“TBA, then. As in ‘to be announced.’ People will see a band list and think our slot has yet to be announced—but that is our name. To Be Announced.”

Eva frowns. “I like it. I’m just not in like with it.”

“The Impending Death of the Virgin Spirit,” I offer (I’ve secretly always dreamed of being in a band named after a Will Ackerman song).

“Nay. We need to keep it simple. Memorable. Nondescript, but also cute. Like, we’re good enough, confident enough that we don’t care if our name sounds ridiculous. Honey Banana or something.”

Ernie’s eyes go wide. “Dudes…we…are…”

“…Honey Banana!” I finish, high-fiving him.

Ugh,” Eva moans. “That’s it—I quit.”

I glance over my shoulder at her. “You say that every week.”

“Seriously, Ernie, unlock the back door. I’m jumping out right now.”

Jan leans across his drum kit, puts a hand on Eva’s shoulder. “Be patient. It’s only for a week.”

Love is a little red pixel heart

Thanks for reading!

Dookie, a cheesy horror novel by Jesse Gordon

Published by

Jesse Gordon

Geek. Writer. Supreme overlord of the SUPERMEGANET pseudoverse. Author of THE OATMEAL MAN, DOOKIE, and other such wasteful nonsense.