Fat kid rules the world Read online

  “I’m not nervous, Dad,” I say. It’s a total lie, yes, but how do you admit you’re debilitated by fear to a man who has crawled through jungles on his stomach carrying a knife in his teeth? “I’m fine,” I say again.

  I hear Dad move. I hear the sound of his huge body slumping against the bathroom door and picture him in his boxer shorts and undershirt sitting on the floor, trying hard to think of anything to say to his disappointment of an eldest son. I wait for the textbook sermon on fortitude.

  There’s a long silence.

  “Troy?” Dad says at last. “I’m proud of all the hard work you and Curt have put into this. You kids have worked diligently and that’s to be commended.”

  I’m sitting on the toilet with my head in my hands, but I look up slowly.

  “Dad?” I whisper. My voice breaks.

  I move to the door and open it an inch, but he’s gone. I stand there anyway, a half-dressed Fat Kid blinking back tears in an empty hallway.

  62.

  BY MIDAFTERNOON I’M FEELING slightly better. Curt arrives and we run through our entire set, just like we usually do, but it’s like pulling teeth. I can’t keep the beat and Curt seems distracted. He yawns and hops and retunes his guitar. We struggle through an hour of practice before he flops backward onto my mattress. He crosses his legs and his toes stick out of the holes in his socks. I set down my drumsticks and move over to my dresser. I dig around until I find him some decent socks, then toss them across the room.

  “Your feet smell,” I say. Curt grins. He puts them on and pulls them up over his pant legs halfway to his waist. It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in weeks. Maybe it’s because we’re practicing all the time, but he seems thinner and dirtier and more serious than he used to.

  “You think I’m ready?” I ask. I pray he says yes, but Curt’s face goes all slack and dumb like it does when he wants to lie. He makes an exaggerated show of thinking.

  “Well, umm, in some facets I suppose, yes, but in other ways kind of no,” he says. He studies the wall. “You’re technically really good. I mean, really … but maybe you’re missing some minuscule thing. I don’t know this for sure, but maybe you’re not listening to the music.” He taps his fingers rapidly and wipes his nose on my bedspread.

  I want to tell him that he makes it pretty hard to listen sometimes, but I don’t. I can feel the acid churning in my stomach.

  “You think so?” I ask. “I mean, I’m trying to listen….”

  Curt shrugs, adjusts his socks, and looks away.

  “Maybe you’re too self-conscious sometimes.” He frowns. “Maybe you’re thinking about yourself instead of the song … possibly.” He pauses and shoots a glance at me. I can tell he’s trying hard to make me see something, but I just can’t get it.

  “Drumming’s about how you relate to the music,” Curt says. His face morphs from dumb to intent, the way it always does when he starts talking about music. He stares up at my ceiling. “Anyone can play a beat,” he says, “but the great drummers listen to the sounds around them, then add their own part in the conversation. They influence it. Know what I mean? You can’t think about yourself when you play, even if you’re thinking bad things, because, well, that’s still thinking…. See?”

  For the first time ever I feel myself shrink. I clutch the drumsticks until my fists turn white and Curt screws up his face until he looks like a ferret again. He shifts uncomfortably and studies the wall.

  “You’ll do fine tonight,” he says. “Really. You’ll do great, but I’m just saying that maybe you’re missing the point. That’s all I’m saying. I’m just suggesting you play the music, not the drums. That’s all.”

  It’s a good speech and I want to respond. I really do. But I’m busy morphing from obese guru of self-consciousness to tiny speck of worthless foam.

  63.

  TWO HOURS BEFORE THE GIG:

  I can’t stop thinking about what Curt said. He’s gone on an errand, something very important that came up just after he told me I suck. We’ve agreed to meet at the club, and he’s given me the complete lowdown on the gig. Theoretically, it’s doable. If I weren’t such a loser.

  We’re to play three songs as the opening act for the Stoned Rollers. We’ll open with “Lonely,” then move on to “Fucking a Cat” and “NyQuil.” If I feel confident I’m to add something to the conversation. If I feel panicky I can fake it by simply playing a steady back-beat while Curt does the rest.

  I’ll be faking it. The weatherman predicts a zero percent chance of confidence today. It’s hateful with a chance of suicide.

  64.

  ONE HOUR BEFORE THE GIG:

  Dad dropped me off just moments ago, promising on my mother’s grave not to show up with Dayle. I considered trying to climb in the trunk while he was pulling away, but it was locked, so now I’m sitting backstage at The Dump surrounded by people, staring at the wall. I can’t think. I can’t remember my name or how old I am. I can’t remember how I ever allowed myself to get to this point—forced into making an ass out of myself in front of a potentially violent crowd. How exactly did this happen? Even for me it’s mind-boggling.

  People stop trying to talk to me and I concentrate solely on breathing. I hear the crowd out front and my breath becomes ragged. The Stoned Rollers aren’t as popular as Smack Metal Puppets and Curt comes by repeatedly to tell me that there’s no one here. It’s freaking empty, he says. But I know better. I hear them waiting.

  After a while, Curt sits beside me and smokes pot. I have a feeling he’s doing it on purpose so I will accidentally inhale his smoke. He removes three unidentified pills from a prescription bottle, swallows them with beer, then drums his finger in wild time to something inside his head.

  Ollie comes backstage to see if I’m okay.

  “You look a little pale,” he comments, but I don’t respond.

  A girl I don’t know sits on my lap and I hardly notice. She says, “Everyone’s nervous their first time” in a sexy voice, but instead of making me hot it makes me want to puke.

  Curt watches me and shakes his head.

  “Shit,” he says. I can see the caption above his head. SKINNY KID MAKES BIG FUCKING MISTAKE.

  The noise outside increases in volume and the lights dim. The dreadlocked woman sticks her head in.

  “Time,” she says.

  My stomach churns. Curt stands up and shakes his body like a boxer getting ready for a fight. He hops in place, spins in a half circle. His eyes look glazed, and he shrugs unnecessarily.

  “It’s just three songs,” he says. “No big deal. If we suck, we suck. That’s what you’ve got to tell yourself. We’re not doing it for them. We’re just, well, you know … playing music.”

  I realize I’m supposed to get that by now, but I can’t even nod. Ollie stands behind Curt and surveys the scene.

  “I don’t know, man,” he says. “He’s not looking so good….”

  Curt shakes his head, quick and decisive. “No way. He’ll be fine. He’ll be great. T is the essence of punk rock, see, and once he gets out there he’s going to kick some serious skinny ass.” He smiles, and picks up his guitar. “Yeah,” he says again, as if convincing himself. He looks over at me.

  “All right,” he says. “Let’s get this show on the … uh … yeah. Let’s go.”

  I stand behind a makeshift curtain waiting to be announced. How absurd is that? Me, waiting to be announced. Me, Troy, who has made a lifetime career of trying to disappear, am now standing behind a curtain waiting to be ANNOUNCED.

  Curt leans toward me.

  “Play anything,” he says. “Kill time until you’re ready.” He’s starting to get nervous. To doubt his judgment of me. I stare straight ahead.

  I hear someone on the other side of the curtain say our name. They say it splashy-like. “Rage/Tectonic.” I’m in a dreamy state, contemplating the sound of the announcer’s voice.

  Curt slides on stage and plays the opening chord then looks
back at me, still stuck halfway behind the curtain. The crowd goes wild as Curt glares at my incapacitated form. They don’t know why, but they know he’s pissed. He plays the entire first song while I do nothing but watch. He plays it loud and mad and it sounds good.

  I watch intently, thinking I should leave, but after the song ends, he stops and says, “I’ve got a drummer for this one.” He motions me out and I swear my limbs won’t move. They’re thick like Silly Putty. My nausea increases.

  I waddle on stage and for the first time see the mass of faces below me. They’re everywhere, looking up expectantly, and I can tell they’re waiting for me to screw up. Waiting for the Fat Kid to look like a moron so they can laugh and laugh.

  I take my place behind the drum set and my brain turns to helium. Everyone stares, waiting for me to pop.

  Curt buys time by tuning his guitar. He looks back and talks low under his breath.

  “Don’t bail on me,” he whispers. “I swear to the big fucking A, Troy. Don’t bail on me.”

  I don’t respond. I’m staring into the audience, knowing I cannot lift my fat arms in front of all these perfect, competent, skinny people. I cannot pretend to be a rock star. My nauseous stomach lurches as if I’ve just crested the top of a mammoth roller coaster. I can taste the bile in my mouth and then …

  I am Mount Vesuvius.

  Everything I’ve eaten for a week erupts. Canned ravioli, leftover pizza, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, mashed potatoes, Twinkies, Sprite, pretzels, bean burritos … I am the mother of all volcanoes.

  There is stunned silence. Absolute and total silence. There’s vomit everywhere, covering the stage like Pompeii. I wait for the laughter, and decide that when it comes I will literally die. I will stop my heart by sheer force of will.

  Then I hear it. Someone is laughing. It’s Curt. He stares, wide-eyed, grinning like he’s just seen the best show on earth.

  “Holy shit,” he says. He turns to the stunned crowd.

  “How’s that for punk rock?” he asks them. He grins, then says it again louder with both middle fingers extended. “How’s that for fucking punk rock? Now that was a very new thing.” He screeches his guitar and the crowd goes nuts.

  65.

  I SHOULD STAY. REALLY, I SHOULD. Curt has just saved my life. For the second time. I should stay to clean up the drum set. I should stay to apologize to Ollie.

  I don’t stay.

  I make a stupid bow, playing along with Curt’s charade, then leave the stage in a haze, waddling back the way I came. I hear the crowd yelling, cheering, thrashing, leering … but I don’t see them. I don’t see Curt either, even though I hear him playing. I’m only conscious of walking, one foot in front of the other until I’m off, through the back room and out the exit. I don’t breathe until I’m outside.

  I stand in the alleyway behind The Dump, right next to the Dumpster. It’s overflowing and smells like shit. I puke again onto the sidewalk, then wipe my mouth with my T-shirt. A rat crawls by and I shoo it away. Nearly makes me sick again, but this time I hold it in. I keep thinking, This is the worst day of my life. I try to remember every horrible day just to be sure, then I confirm it. Yes, short of the day my mother died, this is the worst day. It ranks number one uncontested on the humiliation list.

  I step around loose garbage to reach the curb, then hail a cab. While I wait my eyes get all red and puffy. I ignore them, concentrating instead on the putrid taste in my mouth. I look down at my shirt to see if there are any stains. Of course there are. It figures. It just figures.

  I shake my head and think, Well, at least it must’ve been funny. I’m sure it was funny for someone. It was funny for Curt, right? Curt laughed right away. The audience laughed once he did.

  He saved my ass, there’s no denying that, but I hate that he laughed. Why did he think it was funny? It wasn’t. It wasn’t fucking funny.

  A cab pulls up, and I rub my eyes, then turn to stare at The Dump one last time before climbing inside.

  66.

  I TELL DAD I’M SICK and he lets me stay home from school for three days. Curt calls fifteen times, but I ignore his calls. Ollie calls twice, but I won’t talk to him either. Instead, I eat.

  In seventy-two hours I eat an entire Entenmann’s cherry cheese danish, one whole lasagna, five corn muffins, three cans of Chunky soup, two bags of Doritos, one can of Pringles, a package of Oreos, six bagels with cream cheese and jelly, eight fried eggs, a box of Wheat Thins, leftover turkey and stuffing, three-quarters of a meatloaf, and three cans of SpaghettiOs. I eat everything in the cupboard but refuse to leave the house to buy more. I imagine myself stepping onto the curb in front of our apartment and everyone in Manhattan doubling over in laughter, or vomiting when they see me.

  I tell myself I’m doing the world a favor by staying inside.

  FAT KID MARTYR.

  I don’t practice the drums the entire time. I sit in my room and stare at my drum set, but absolutely do not pick up the sticks. Dad asks what’s wrong, but I won’t tell him. Would you admit to your father that you threw up on stage at a place called The Dump? I don’t think so. Dayle doesn’t even ask. He assumes I’ve screwed up, but I don’t care. He’s right, so I just think, Fuck him. That’s how it’s going to be. End of story.

  Except for Curt.

  Or maybe I should say except for Ollie. It’s Ollie who gets my attention.

  Thursday afternoon I’m watching television when the phone rings. I’ve been avoiding the phone all week, but I figure at this point I’m safe. I’m reaching for the scrap paper to take a message for Dayle when I hear the voice on the other end. It’s Ollie.

  “Hello?”

  I pause. Part of me, the same part that turns purple and starts huffing with embarrassment, wants to hang up immediately. But another part is curious, so I clutch the phone tightly.

  “Hello,” I say. There’s a sigh of relief on the other end.

  “T, is that you? I’ve been trying to reach you all week, man. I kept getting your kid brother and he told me he was giving you my messages but …”

  He pauses, waiting for me to make some excuse about not getting them. I don’t.

  “Well, anyway,” he says, “I was hoping you’d come back for a few more lessons. I could use the money.”

  FAT KID CHARITY. I see right through him.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I don’t think so. I’m not really cut out to be …” I choke on the words and Ollie jumps in before I can say anything else.

  “Listen,” he says, “I know you’re embarrassed about the gig, but you shouldn’t be. You’re a fucking legend now, man. I’ve been trying to get through to tell you. Everyone thinks it was a stunt and a goddamn cool one at that. People ask about you. They talk about the great vomit incident.” He laughs. “It’s not as big a deal as you think.”

  I put down the bag of Doritos and turn off the television, conscious that my body is suddenly alert. I want to believe him, but I threw up all over the freaking stage. It doesn’t get worse than that.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I really can’t.”

  There’s a long pause. I think he’s going to hang up, but he doesn’t and when he talks again he almost sounds angry.

  “Fine,” he says, “but if you’re not going to come back for you, then at least do it for Curt. He thinks you hate him because you won’t return his phone calls. He knows you’re home because he’s been sleeping in the park beside your apartment building.”

  I choke. “What?” There’s a clicking sound on the other end and I imagine Ollie’s huge skull ring clicking against the receiver.

  “Yeah, well, don’t tell him I told you, but he has been. Curt has a hard time when people bail, you know. I keep telling him you’re just embarrassed, maybe you need some time to get over this, but he’s not doing so good….” He pauses, then speaks carefully. “Now, I’m not telling you what to do, but if I were you I’d get my ass up and find him. I think he’s moved to one of the subway stations now….” He pauses ag
ain, waiting for my response.

  “Ollie,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  67.

  I HAVE A GOOD IDEA which subway station Curt will be in. I make my way to Second Avenue and start scouring the place. Filth-stained underground pit that it is, I don’t see how anyone could sleep here. Ever.

  I look gingerly, not wanting to touch anything, and I’m being so careful that I trip over Curt before I notice he’s there. Suddenly, I’m falling forward and down, belly first onto the food-stained, spit-splattered concrete. My body becomes a wave tank of flesh, rippling back and forth until I skid to a stop. My chin is bleeding and a small crowd stares in morbid fascination. INSTANT FAT KID FETISH.

  Curt wakes up pissed. He sits up, frantic, then glares at me from his position on the floor.

  “What the hell did you do that for?!” he asks. “Can’t you tell when a person is sleeping? You don’t wake a guy up like that.” His brow furrows accusingly.

  I’m trying to get up, but can’t get my balance. I’m on my knees in a patch of gum, feeling the blood trickle down my chin. The woman nearest me opens her mouth then closes it again and again, like a fish.

  “Sorry … sorry … sorry,” I say to the crowd, then wonder what the hell I’m sorry for. No one else has blood trickling down their chin.

  “Sorry,” I say again, this time to Curt. For the first time he seems to focus.

  “What are you doing down there?” he asks.

  I’m halfway up, so I shrug.

  Curt runs his fingers through his hair and says, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here because you so fucking owe me dinner.”