Fat kid rules the world Read online

  68.

  WE’RE AT THE DINER and Curt is slumped against the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign. He looks terrible. Worse than I’ve ever seen him, and he won’t talk to me, just pops his dirty feet out of his sneakers then slides them back in again. He sneezes, closes his eyes, and makes a strange noise through his nose. Everyone looks over.

  “How you been?” I ask when the silence stretches too long. “I mean … since the gig?” It’s a stupid thing to say. Anyone with eyes can tell how Curt is. He’s got dark lines permanently etched into his face, a bruise on his left temple. His hair’s so dirty it looks brown.

  Curt grins.

  “Good,” he says, quickly. “Really good. I’ve been writing new stuff. You know, for when we practice again. I figured you’d come back. I figured it….” His voice trails off and he picks at the chipped plastic on the sign. I open my mouth to say something, but that’s when our waitress comes up. It’s the same waitress we had the first time and she looks sexy.

  “Look who’s back,” she says, smiling. She takes a longer look at us and her smile fades.

  “Aren’t you two a pair,” she comments. I think she means fat and skinny, then realize she means bleeding and filthy. She’s staring at my chin, and at Curt.

  “Over here,” she says, nodding at our table. She puts one hand on her hip and I watch her wrists turn out. My body reacts against my will and I have to slide quickly into the booth.

  Curt sneezes and wipes his nose with his sleeve. He puts his head down.

  “Don’t feel good,” he mutters, then closes his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say, but it’s not what he wants to hear. His head snaps back up.

  “Don’t be fucking sorry,” he says. “Why are you apologizing for my snot?” He picks up the menu and pretends to read it, then slides it to the front of the table and sinks down low.

  “I’m fine,” he says, “and if you hadn’t woken me up I’d feel better now.”

  I nod, but I can’t stop staring.

  “Sorry,” I say again without thinking. I cringe and Curt glares.

  “Forget it,” he says. “I’m not speaking to you anymore.”

  It sounds final, but two minutes later he asks, “How much money you got? And then I’m not speaking to you.”

  I reach into my pocket to pull out a twenty.

  Nothing but lint.

  I reach in again, stretching out the fabric of my tan pants as I raid my empty pockets. I know I had a twenty. I know I did.

  “It must’ve fallen out when I tripped,” I mutter.

  Curt frowns, surprisingly unfazed. He reaches into his own pocket and takes out a twenty.

  “Fine, be that way,” he says. “Now you owe me twice….”

  69.

  I STARE AT THE TWENTY, then back at Curt. He ignores me and changes the subject.

  “Why’d you bail?” he asks, staring at the saltshaker.

  The question is unprompted. I squint at Curt, and he drums his fork on the table, but won’t look me in the eyes. He asks the question casual-like, as if it’s just any old question, but there’s an edge to it. I almost say I’m sorry, but catch myself in time.

  “I don’t know,” I say slowly, then realize it’s a lie. “No. I mean, I do know.” I huff loudly.

  “I can’t pretend anymore,” I say. “It’s got nothing to do with you. I’m grateful for everything. Really. And we can still be friends …”

  Curt puts his head down on the table. No matter what I say, he won’t look up.

  We sit in silence until the waitress comes over and sets down three glasses of water. I’m so miserable I almost don’t notice her. Then she picks up a napkin and dips it into the extra glass. I’m expecting her to wash Curt’s face with it, like a mom might do for a toddler, but she reaches over and dabs at my chin.

  Curt, the diner, the twenty … everything vanishes and I’m so damn aroused I think I’m going to explode right there in the booth. She reaches out and actually touches my skin with her skin. It’s an accident—a by-product—but it happens. FAT KID GOES TO HEAVEN.

  She dabs at my bloody chin and I get the most incredible close-up of her breasts. The top button of her blouse is unbuttoned and I can see the crack leading down to her bra. My mouth opens unconsciously and I let out the loudest huff I’ve ever made.

  “There now,” the waitress says. “That’s better. What do you want to order?”

  Curt looks up for what I think is the first time. “Chicken soup,” he says quickly. He watches me watch the waitress and there’s a spark in his eyes. A spark resembling an idea.

  As soon as the waitress leaves, Curt perks up. He kicks me under the table.

  “You are so hot for her,” he says. “Do not deny it.”

  I blush and shake my head, feeling my fat move from side to side. I wonder if the waitress felt the fat on my chin, and try to remember if her hand made an indent, or if it just brushed past. Then I catch myself and remember why we’re here.

  “That’s not the point,” I say, but Curt scoffs loudly.

  “Of course it’s the point. Tell me you’re not sitting there with your legs crossed.”

  My cheeks flame and puff and I wonder if the waitress would be disgusted by me. For that matter, I wonder if all the women I think about would be disgusted by me. I’m mortified, but then I chuckle.

  FAT KID GETS A HARD-ON. Could be kind of funny …

  Curt laughs, too, then stops suddenly and looks me straight in the eyes.

  “She’d fuck you if you stay in the band,” he says. “I guarantee it.”

  I’m stunned.

  After all that’s happened Curt still sits across from me, giving me the sincerest of his most sincere looks and I realize that not only does he still want me to be in his band but he’s actually trying to manipulate me into doing what he wants.

  The thought is so stunning it requires me to swallow very hard, repeatedly. He’s been pissed, pleaded ignorance, implied that I owe him for a dinner he’s buying with my money, and now he’s promised me that a forty-something woman will sleep with me if I’m his drummer. The last was the tip-off. The idea that anyone would ever sleep with me is so absurd I know it’s a con.

  I swallow again, unsure what to do. The waitress brings our food, and Curt gives her his biggest smile.

  “We’re in a band,” he says, looking endearing. “It’s an offshoot of punk, but I think you’d like it.” Then, as an afterthought he adds, “What kind of music do you listen to?”

  The waitress sets down a bottle of ketchup. It’s for me, but she sets it beside Curt.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she muses, distracted by Curt’s sniffling. “I like Billy Joel and Fleetwood Mac. Bonnie Raitt …”

  Curt considers, frowns, then pushes the hair out of his face in a confident way.

  “You’d like us, then. We’re a punk version of Fleetwood Mac, with fewer people. We have a gig in another week.” Curt sneezes hard into his soup and rubs his sleeve over his nose. “I’ll be better by then,” he adds, as if he hasn’t just done something very gross.

  The waitress’s brow crinkles in sympathy.

  “You’d come, right?” Curt asks. “To our gig?”

  Her lips part slightly, and she tilts her head.

  “Of course I’d come,” she says. She pauses. “More water?”

  Curt is triumphant.

  “See?” he says, after she leaves. “I told you.”

  He’s waiting for me to blush, or laugh. To huff and go along with the charade. But for once, I can’t. I look at Curt with his drippy nose and tired eyes, and remember our first meeting when he lied to my dad about us having a band. Why me? I think. Why the Fat Kid? Why still, after the worst of all horrible things happened and I threw up, upchucked, vomited, spewed all over the stage at our first gig? Why?

  Before anything else can happen, I must have the answer to this one question.

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  Curt leans against the wall, o
blivious. “What?” he asks.

  “Not what, why?”

  “Why what?”

  I take a deep breath. “Why do you want me to be your drummer? I left. I bailed. I sucked. Everyone laughed. Why do you still want me to be your drummer?”

  It’s a simple, straightforward question, but Curt looks confused.

  “No one laughed,” he says. “Who laughed?” He rubs his eyes, but I won’t let him off the hook.

  “Just tell me why. Why me?”

  Curt frowns, then looks serious. Almost serious. He ruins it by sniffing loudly.

  “Musically,” he says at last, “I absolutely need a drummer. That set would have destroyed people with a drummer behind it. And I know which drummer I want. You are punk rock, T. You just don’t know it yet, and I don’t know how to convince you.”

  I say nothing and Curt blows his nose into a napkin. He sneezes, waits, and after a few minutes, when I still don’t say anything, he squirms.

  “Aw, man,” he says. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

  I make him spell it out.

  He sighs, then crinkles every saltine packet as he empties the crackers into his bowl.

  “Aw, fuck,” he says. Then, “All right. All right, fine, but I’m warning you: When you believe something, when it’s sacred, you’re not supposed to talk about it. It’s like talking about God. People need to shut up. But, for you, because I want you to be my drummer … because it’s the most important thing …”

  He pulls too hard at the saltines and the packet flies open scattering crumbs over the table. Curt frowns but doesn’t scoop them up.

  “It’s like this,” he says. “People say, ‘Curt,’ they say, ‘music is dead. There’s nothing new coming down.’ And that’s true. Only it’s not the music that’s dead. Music never dies. Music is what we create it to be, right? It’s something else that’s dead.” He stops as if he’s finished. “Get it?”

  I shake my head, so he tries again.

  “It’s like when people say, ‘Curt,’ they say, ‘why don’t you dress the part? Put a little effort into it? Invest in some fucking hair dye.’ And on one level they have a point. I’m the laziest fuck in town. I never have any money. I get sick all the time. But that’s my point. That’s why I’m a great musician.”

  I stab a forkful of hash browns and try to comprehend what he’s saying.

  “You’re a great musician because you defy conventions?”

  It’s the first thing I’ve said in a long time and Curt chokes on his soup. His eyes bug out and he looks around quickly to make sure no one else heard me.

  “No! No, no, no! God, you got that wrong.”

  My cheeks turn the color of bacon. I almost say I’m sorry, but Curt rushes on. He rubs at his eyes. Moves all his silverware. Whispers.

  “This is why you shouldn’t talk about this stuff. You can’t tell it.”

  I nod as if I understand, but I don’t. Curt leans back in the booth.

  “Let’s try something else,” he says.

  70.

  I’M SUPPOSED TO WATCH PEOPLE EAT.

  I’m to watch a certain couple seated at the counter until I’ve figured out exactly what Curt’s talking about. Why I’m the essence of punk rock. I’ve been watching for half an hour now and I see nothing.

  “What am I looking for?” I moan. This is starting to annoy me, and I’m beginning to think Curt’s avoiding the issue. He takes out his used napkin and blows his nose again.

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” he says for the fifth time.

  I roll my eyes and go back to staring at the couple. As near as I can tell, they don’t have anything to do with punk rock. Or fat kids. Or desperate homeless musicians. They look like a couple from a magazine. The woman’s wearing a short, pressed black skirt and high heels. She has long legs and she’s wearing black stockings with a seam down the back. Her blond hair is cut like a Vogue model and I think she’s hot. I wonder if that’s what I’m supposed to see. Is this another elaborate plot to make me horny then promise me the world?

  The man leans forward and laughs. He is what the magazines would refer to as “chiseled.” He’s got brown hair, cut close, and he’s wearing a brown leather jacket—the kind with a belt that ties at the waist. When he laughs, his cheekbones move just like they’re supposed to. His cheeks don’t puff because they’re nonexistent. They’re sculpted lines rather than balloons. I hate him. If Curt thinks watching two perfect, skinny people eat is going to change my mind about being his drummer he’s crazier than I thought.

  “Curt,” I say, “this is ridiculous. I’m sick of watching these people. They’re perfect, all right? Is that what you want me to see?” Despite the waitress, I want to pay the bill and get out of there.

  Curt shakes his head. “You’re not watching them,” he says. “You’re watching you. If you’d watch them you’d see it.” He takes out a handful of pills and lines them up behind his napkin. There are red, yellow, green, and blue ones. A regular rainbow of pharmaceuticals. He catches me staring and makes an exasperated head motion toward the couple.

  Their food arrived fifteen minutes ago, but they’re not nearly done eating. I wish they’d hurry up. The woman only has an omelet with some kind of vegetable in it and the man ordered the pasta. They’re talking a lot and they both eat slow and sexy like people on television. The woman sits on a barstool with her legs crossed and takes one bite every two minutes. She chews carefully, as if she doesn’t want anyone to see her swallow. The man does the same thing, only worse. He stops altogether for long periods of time and says things that make the woman tilt her head back and laugh.

  I roll my eyes. They’re both super skinny, so in my opinion they should just eat and be done with it. What the hell do they have to worry about?

  “Fucking twigs from hell,” I say, just to be contrary. And it’s sort of true because they’re pretty dull to watch. All they do is take turns tossing their heads back ceremoniously.

  Curt nods and takes a bottle of NyQuil from a fold inside his shirt. He drinks about a third of it, and I glance over at him.

  “Is that such a good—?”

  “Are you watching?!” Curt interrupts. “You’re not going to see anything if you don’t watch. Watch how they fucking eat. Think how you feel when you eat like that.”

  Well, that’s easy, I think. I don’t ever eat like that, except when I’m in public and I’m nervous about people watching me. Like when we went to Dad’s retirement dinner…. I pause.

  The woman pushes the remains of her omelet around her plate, and the man takes a forkful of pasta. I’ve watched them take a hundred bites already, but this time I notice the way the woman glances at the cook, at her reflection in the window, at the door…. I notice the fact that the man still has his jacket tied even though they’ve been sitting there for half an hour. I notice the small run starting just above the heel of the woman’s shoe.

  I look at Curt, but he has his head down on the booth, so I narrow my eyes and keep watching.

  Then I see it.

  I see it out of the corner of my eye as the man moves his fork toward his mouth. He’s talking to the woman and he looks like the same pompous asshole I’ve been watching for the last hour. Truly. Then he moves the fork and a piece of pasta falls off. It hits his lip and smears cheese down his perfect, clefted chin. He tries to act cool, but for a split second, like a flash of light, I see what he’s hiding.

  Curt looks up with his chin still on the table. He’s watching me watch them. “You saw it, didn’t you?” he breathes.

  I shake my head. “No. I didn’t see anything really….” I squint.

  The woman puts a small amount of egg on her fork, then lifts it tentatively. She’s trying to act beautiful, in control. She moves her body sideways, then opens her mouth….

  “See?” Curt asks, drowsy. “You see it?”

  I stare, fascinated. Maybe, after all, I do.

  Curt nods in answer to the question I haven’t asked.


  “Finally,” he says. “Do you get it now?”

  I nod very slowly. The woman takes another bite, and I don’t think about her legs anymore. I just watch for the flash. I don’t think I will, but I see it again. One minute she looks confident, perfect, the next I see something else. I cringe.

  I try watching the man instead, but that’s worse. I realize for the first time that he’s trying really hard.

  Curt watches me watch them.

  “I knew you’d see it,” he says. “Okay, now stop looking.”

  71.

  I FEEL LIKE I’VE JUST SEEN someone murdered. Or maybe I’ve found salvation. I don’t know which.

  Curt sneezes again and blows his nose loudly. His eyes are cloudy and he leans back in the booth as if it’s propping him up. I give a small, involuntary shake.

  “Curt,” I say, very solemn, “what has this got to do with me being your drummer?”

  I should be able to make this connection; in fact, I think I already have made the connection, but I need to hear him say it. Curt closes his eyes. He’s silent, and for a moment I’ve lost him. Then he sniffs. He tries to sit up. Looks at me.

  “That moment …,” he says at last. His voice is mellow and gravelly. It trails off, then starts again.

  “That moment when you see through the bullshit?” he says a moment later. “That’s what punk music is all about. That’s what anything great is all about. We’re all just stuffing our faces, no matter what we look like, and people need to figure that out. When you can play that moment, you’ve got it.”

  He’s just revealed the secret truth of Curt MacCrae. Maybe something larger than that. If I were Curt, I would weep. I would press my skinny cheek against the cool table and let the tears roll into my soup.

  I huff three times, rapid and loud.

  “And me?” I choke.

  Curt smiles. He leans down and presses his skinny cheek onto the cool table.

  “You live that moment,” he says.

  72.