Fat kid rules the world Read online

  I imagine this is what it would feel like to try the best drug ever invented. My head’s spinning, my guts are pounding, my body is soaked. I’m thinking, It doesn’t get any better than this. Nothing is better than this.

  Until they introduce Curt.

  He comes on after the first break. It’s been over an hour of relentless, in-your-face songs and the audience is fatigued. People stand breathless during the break, arms limp, eyes glazed. The crowd mills aimlessly, semistoned, and I wonder how the Puppets will bring them back to life.

  What I don’t realize is, they won’t. Curt will.

  When the lights go off again there’s a swell of anticipation. I’m exhausted, but the people beside me are watching, waiting. They know what’s coming….

  Mike climbs back on stage and grabs the microphone in both hands. He holds it close to his mouth, breathes heavily, staring at us, knowing what we want.

  “You all know what’s next,” he growls. The crowd roars.

  “You all know what’s next,” he repeats. He smashes the microphone onto the floor and the sound system screeches. He yells in his true, raw voice.

  “Curt MacCrae.”

  The lights go black and the sound of Curt’s guitar wails over the audience. He plays a chord that sounds like the scream of someone being murdered, then the lights are back, blazing red, and Curt is center stage. I’m fully expecting his arrival, expecting what I heard at the subway, or at his house, but when the sound hits, my arms fall slack.

  Curt isn’t Curt anymore. He moves with energy, plays with abandon. He’s everywhere and nowhere. He plays like he’s pissed at the world, but grins the whole time. Makes me feel like a starving man given a burger, then prime rib. The band joins in, but Curt plays circles around them. He’s two steps ahead, pushing, augmenting, twisting the music into something else.

  There’s something almost frightening about it. He doesn’t look up between songs, and he throws his body around—crashes to the ground when he sings, “Frustration is my only friend,” leaps into the air at the first hint of manic lyrics, lies to us, pleads with us, tells us the truth. He smashes into the drum set, plays on the floor, cuts himself on the microphone stand, and bleeds all over the stage. The crowd can’t take their eyes off him.

  His guitar progressions make me itch because they’re too fast, too loud, too constant. My brain can’t keep up. His voice is deep and raw. It’s the exact opposite of everything he’s playing, cool to the guitar’s hot. First he’s angry, ranting into the microphone, then just when you’re surging with adrenaline his voice cracks and he lets you see what’s behind the anger.

  The crowd responds. The energy’s the same, but the mood moves from manic to primed. The surges become deep, forward grooves rather than short, spastic thrashing and the fists linger a second longer before they pull back. Chaos turns to intent and by his third song Curt could lead us anywhere. Anywhere.

  And the thing is, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t give a fuck. He’s into his music and nothing else. There’s no agenda. No moral to the story. No call to arms. Curt’s the same skinny, blond guy without a wardrobe, but he’s singing his guts out about life. Life. Smack Metal Puppets sing about rage, but Curt sings about the look on a rich man’s face when he hands you money. The Puppets sing about fear, but Curt sings about waking up nowhere, when it’s dark out and you’ve got no fucking clue where you are. And the whole time he’s singing the guitar is saying everything Curt won’t. It’s so clear I almost hear it in English.

  I can’t describe what it does to me. I’m moving, then I’m still, but all the while I’m thinking, That’s me. That’s me up there. That’s my life he’s singing about.

  I glance around the club and notice that no one is drinking. No one yells to their friends or sees me looking. They’re all watching Curt and I imagine every one of them wants to be his best friend. He’s the vortex of the whirlwind.

  People start climbing on stage and the bouncers try to push their way up front, but it’s too late. First one, then two, three, four people climb up. They have their moment in the spotlight, then dive off again. It’s as if Curt’s saying “This is your show” and they’re taking it back. We’ve passed from the question to the challenge and everyone knows it.

  The trickle turns into a stream and people are leaping from the amplifiers. I catch them without even thinking. Cheer them on. Part of me wants to rush up there, too, to leap into the void…. Maybe this time I’d take flight.

  That’s when I truly realize what I’ve stumbled into. It’s the first time I see what everyone else sees when they see Curt MacCrae. He is a legend. And he’s picked me to be his drummer.

  44.

  THE SHOW’S OVER WHEN CURT leaves the stage. The crowd screams bloody murder for an encore, but Curt won’t come back. He’s gone. No dessert. The band keeps going, but the thrashing is lighter, and people start to leave. The Puppets smash all their instruments to compensate.

  I stand with the crowd until the club lights come on and people start to disperse. I stare at the spot where Curt stood. Some guy comes up to me and screams in my face. He’s so drunk he can barely move, but he can yell “Motherfucking concert” until he’s hoarse.

  I turn away and let myself think what I’ve been wanting to think all night.

  I came here with Curt MacCrae.

  The crowd thins and I pry my way to the stage door. There’s a couple passed out on the floor beside the stairs, a guy with a bleeding lip hanging on the railing. Five women are planted on the steps, combat boots blocking my way.

  “Hey, soldier,” one of the girls says. She’s looking at me, clearly expecting a response, and I wonder what spectacularly embarrassing thing will come out of my mouth.

  “Coming through,” I say at last. My voice doesn’t crack and I look up, shocked. I sounded almost cool. Casual, even. I start to grin and my chest heaves.

  The girl nearest me giggles. She’s wearing a tight black skirt and a shirt that spills off her shoulders. I stare at the exposed flesh like it’s going to leap out of her shirt and attack me.

  “Didn’t you come in with Curt?” one of the girls says.

  I nod stupidly. Yes, I think. Yes, yes, yesss. She drapes herself over my arm and smiles drunkenly.

  “Then I’m with you.”

  The rest of the girls laugh.

  “You’re such a whore,” one of them says, but two more of them attach themselves to me. Their skin is actually touching my skin. On purpose. Voluntarily. I cease to breathe. My lips pucker and I choke on my own spit.

  “Well, come on,” says the girl in black. “Let’s go find Curt.”

  I tell myself I must enjoy the feeling of three girls hanging on me. I must because it may never, ever, ever happen again. Goddamn it, I must …

  But I can’t. Later, I’ll probably jerk off to the mere recollection, but at the present time it’s too much pressure. I have to walk without waddling while pushing my way through a crowd. Breathe without huffing while trying to suck in my cheeks. To make matters worse, one of the girls keeps bumping into things and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s drunk or because I’m steering her wrong.

  “Sorry. Sorry ’bout that. Sorry.” Every two seconds I’m apologizing.

  I pray Curt’s nearby. I scan the crowd, looking for his blond hair and ratty shirt, but don’t see him. The girls are looking, too. I can tell. They’re hanging on me, but their eyes never stop scanning the room.

  Everywhere, there are people talking at once and I catch snatches of conversation. Stuff about the show and how soon until the next gig. Every now and then I catch someone talking about Curt. I’ll see a head bobbing and hear someone’s voice say, “Where’d he go, anyway?”

  I’m running out of places to look when I hear a voice yelling right by my ear.

  “Still have my car keys?”

  It’s not a voice I recognize. One of the girls disengages from my arm and squeals while I turn almost full circle to see Piper. He’s standi
ng on his tiptoes with the girl now planted firmly beside him. She beams and Piper ignores her. He’s totally smashed.

  “What?” I yell. “Where’s Curt?”

  He sways precariously and gives me the thumbs-up sign. “Yeah!” he says. “Yeaaahhh!”

  I watch as he disappears with girl number one, and realize that soon there’ll be no girls at all. I keep making the rounds until finally I find Ollie dismantling the drums. He’s drenched in sweat and rivulets of red paint leave blood marks down his face.

  “Where’s Curt?” I yell. Ollie looks up. He’s on his knees adjusting a foot pedal. The second girl disengages and repositions herself near him. She gets in his way and laughs for no reason. Ollie looks at me, then looks at the girl and shakes his head.

  “Curt’s gone, man. Sorry.”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. I turn and stare at the last girl, knowing I’ve just lost my one and only shot at getting laid while still in high school. She detaches from my arm.

  “What do you mean?” I say, desperately. I want to shake him. Dislodge the right answer. “He can’t be gone. I came with him.”

  Ollie just laughs.

  “T,” he says, “no one comes with Curt. He always comes with you.”

  45.

  IT’S LATE. THE CROWD’S GONE HOME, and I’m sitting outside in the cool night air, drenched in sweat, T-shirt clinging to my chest. The girls have disappeared and The Dump is shutting down, but I don’t care. I have no idea how I’m getting home and since I’m still holding Piper’s car keys I have no idea how he’s getting home. I have no idea where Curt’s gone. It’s 3:45 A.M. My ears are ringing. But none of that matters.

  I’m grinning like a massive lunatic.

  Who would’ve thought? I muse. Who would’ve imagined I had it in me to be such a stud? Never mind that I’m sitting out here alone with no way to get home. Never mind that the girls were looking for Curt.

  This is the best night of my entire life.

  “Still here?”

  A voice startles me from my reverie and I look up. It’s Ollie. He’s standing next to me, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

  “Need a lift home?” he asks. I shrug as if to imply I’m not desperate, then get up as quickly as my body will allow, afraid he might leave without me. Ollie laughs.

  “Still got Piper’s keys?” he asks. I pull them out of my pocket and jangle them. Ollie nods.

  “That’s good because Piper left with that girl, so we’re driving his car home. Mike and Curt went to some party and … hey,” he says, “what happened to your entourage?”

  I have the distinct feeling he’s making fun of me, but it doesn’t matter. Ollie can laugh all he wants and I won’t even drive myself crazy about it. Yet.

  I hand over the keys feeling as if I’ve just completed an important mission, and this time, when we climb into the Buick, I sit in the front. Ollie pulls out and I turn all the way around to watch The Dump fading away behind us. When I can’t see it anymore I turn around and start talking. I don’t mean to, but once I start I can’t shut up.

  “That was the best thing. I mean, damn, when Curt was up there playing and the crowd started climbing on stage … I caught this one guy who dove off the amplifier and I swear he would’ve splattered if I hadn’t been there. He was careening to the floor and I wasn’t even looking and then, bam, he’s crashing into me. I was like one huge fucking air bag. Oh, man …”

  I keep moving back and forth and just can’t stop. We’re heading down Houston Street and the lights outside are blurry and freaky and everything I think seems very important. Finally, Ollie cocks an eyebrow in my direction.

  “You’re high,” he comments at last. It’s a general observation, but it strikes me as pure genius. Yes. That is definitely it. I am completely high. Then the panic hits. If Dad finds out …

  “Holy shit.” The thought is sobering.

  Ollie laughs. “You’re not that high,” he says, his voice cracking on “that.” “You just breathed in a lot of that sweeet night air….”

  I turn the thought over in my brain, wondering if Dad makes a distinction between “high” and “that high.”

  “Think it’s okay?” I ask at last. I’m worrying about Dad, but I’m also wondering about Curt and Mike. I’m wondering what kind of party they went to and why Ollie didn’t go. Maybe he hates drugs and thinks I’m a loser. I wait for the hammer to fall, but Ollie just shrugs.

  “Yeah,” he says, glancing at me. “I think it’s okay if you don’t get caught up in the bullshit. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d get caught up in that.”

  I stop moving and look suspiciously at Ollie. Was that a compliment?

  It occurs to me that I might want to be the kind of guy who gets caught up in the bullshit. I’d sell my high-school soul to get caught up in the bullshit if it meant I’d be cool for a day. I don’t say that to Ollie, though.

  “You seem like a good guy,” he’s saying. “I think you’ll make a decent drummer for Curt. He needs someone to be a strong beat under the guitar line, know what I mean? He needs someone solid. Someone who’ll tow the steady line, freak out when he needs you to freak out, and rein in when he’s on the ledge. Lots of people can’t do that. They’ve got to turn him into something he’s not. But you … I think you might be the one.”

  It’s the coolest thing anyone’s ever said to me and I have absolutely no idea how to respond.

  “Next street over,” I say. Ollie makes the turn and follows my extended finger to double-park beside my apartment building. I mean to get out of the car, but don’t. I have to make sure I got it right.

  “So, what you’re saying,” I ask at last, “is that you think I’d make a good drummer for Curt?”

  Ollie shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  I slide out of the car.

  “Ollie?” I say. He squints at me, twisting his skull ring.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I might.”

  46.

  I, TROY BILLINGS, FAT KID extraordinaire, could make a good drummer for Curt MacCrae. The words have been uttered and there is no taking them back.

  I lie on top of my covers turning the thought over in my mind, drumming my fingers incessantly. Drum, drum, drumdrumdrum … I try to shut my eyes, but next thing I know, they’re open again, staring at the ceiling. I turn onto my stomach, but that doesn’t help. I stare at the dark silhouette of my drum set, my brain on turbo.

  Drumdrum … drumdrum … I think about the concert, remembering every vivid detail. Hot air inside the club, crowded bodies, a girl’s ass rubbing against my thigh, violent thrashing, something un-contained. I picture myself on stage, playing the drums behind Curt. I don’t look so bad. I mean, I don’t look funny. I’m almost sure of it. Or maybe I do and no one’s looking. They’re all watching Curt.

  Drumdrumdrum … I think about being part of the crowd. The music swirled like smoke and I was breathing it in like everyone else. This may not seem like much, but when you’re fat, people get annoyed when you breathe. It’s their space. Their world. And usually they’re right. Usually the world belongs to skinny people. But not tonight.

  Drumdrumdrumdrum … I think about me. I imagine myself on stage, a huge shape that’s meant to be huge. The crowd spreads out below me, pounding their fists into the air and waiting for me to bring my sticks crashing down. All those hands reaching for me. All those eyes looking at me. I wonder if they’d laugh. Maybe they would. Or maybe they’d scream louder than they’d ever screamed before. Without even trying I’d be king of the freaks.

  47.

  THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE UP drowning in cotton. The first thing I notice is the smell of cigarette smoke from last night’s clothes. The second thing I notice is the coating on my tongue. Putrid.

  “Damn.” I roll out of bed and glance at the clock. It’s almost noon and I’m starving. The sun shining through my window is annoying. And did I mention I’m starving?<
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  I shuffle to the kitchen hoping Dad won’t be around. He’s not, but Dayle is sitting at the kitchen table eating corn flakes from a pie pan. He’s used all but the last inch of milk. Bastard …

  I don’t say anything, but Dayle does. Right away.

  “Dad went out,” he says as soon as I walk in. I glance at him but don’t respond. Seems to me I didn’t ask.

  Dayle waits a beat. “Yeah, he went to the store. Said not to wake you because you didn’t get in until late. I should’ve anyway because you were snoring like a hog.”

  I scowl, but don’t take the bait. I’m taking a lesson from Curt, making my little brother work for my attention. Dayle keeps eating, but he looks over at me every now and then.

  I take out a chicken potpie and stick it in the microwave.

  “What time did you get home, anyway?” Dayle asks.

  I rub my eyes for effect.

  “About four-fifteen.”

  Dayle’s eyes bug out and he momentarily forgets to play it cool.

  “Dad didn’t freak out?” he asks. I give him the look.

  “I’m a senior, you know. He wasn’t even awake. At least, he wasn’t in the living room…. Besides, you can’t go to a club and leave early. The show didn’t start until midnight.” I pause, then casually add, “You should’ve seen Curt. He was incredible. He played at the end of the set and people were climbing on stage, diving off….”

  The timer rings and I take the potpie out of the microwave. Dayle watches me slide it onto a plate.

  “You’re such a liar,” he says. “There’s no way you went to that club. No way.”