Fat kid rules the world Page 16

  “I talked to his mom,” he offers. He glances at Curt to make sure he’s not awake. I start to feel hopeful because Curt always talks about his mom as if she’s the decent one. Maybe when she hears he’s in the hospital she’ll kick the asshole out and let Curt back in.

  “Yeah?” I say. “When’s she coming?”

  Dad’s silent for a long time. His face is as still and solemn as granite. “She’s not,” he says at last.

  I’m confused, thinking he must mean she’s not coming right away. I fill in the words he forgot to say. Then it hits me.

  “She’s not coming?” I repeat. I picture the woman I saw entering the apartment building—the one with the tired eyes and splattered uniform. “What do you mean she’s not coming? Did you speak to her? Not the ass—not his stepfather, but her? Did you tell her he’s in the freaking hospital?”

  Dad looks at me and it’s one of the many occasions when I wish I knew what he was thinking. He looks the way he looked right after my mother died, when there was something he wanted to say, but couldn’t say it. He coughs.

  “Yes, I told her,” he says. He studies Curt’s monitors as if he’s making sure nothing’s changed. “I spoke to her directly and she’s not coming.”

  I sit down in the chair opposite my father. I plunk down all three hundred pounds of me as if I’m made of cement. The chair groans, but I don’t think about it. I just stare ahead as if someone died. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, I tell myself. I bet Curt would pretend it wasn’t a big deal. But for some reason that doesn’t make me feel better. It is a big deal.

  “How can a mother refuse to visit her kid in the hospital? What if he died?! I bet she’d be sorry then….”

  I don’t mean to, but my voice rises and I pound my fist into the bed. Curt doesn’t move, but his heart monitor beeps faster. Dad glances at it, then reaches over and puts his large leathery fist on top of mine. I draw in a quick breath and Dad lets go of my hand. He starts talking the way he used to talk after the funeral. Slow, steady, calm.

  “Sometimes,” he says, “people give up on each other. They don’t mean to, but things happen….”

  There’s a long silence.

  “In the military,” Dad starts again, “we teach our boys to go the distance. Just like I tried to teach you and Dayle. A soldier never gives up until they’ve reached their objective. Perseverance.” Dad pauses. “But in wartime,” he says, “it’s easy to remember because there’s a war to be fought and you have to fight it. You give it one hundred percent because your life depends on it. In civilian life it’s not that easy and sometimes people give up too soon. It doesn’t mean they stop loving each other, but maybe they stop trying so hard and let things slide when they ought to hang on tight. Maybe they don’t tunnel through the mud because they think they don’t have to, or they get tired….”

  My father is tunneling through the mud. I close my eyes.

  “Dad,” I say, “she shouldn’t have given up on him. Curt’s a great guitarist. He’s funny and he tries really hard to make people like him, and he taught me about other people and eating, and about seeing stuff that’s hidden….” I pause and think very carefully about what I’m about to say.

  “You never gave up on us like that,” I say. “You didn’t give up on Mom, and you’ve never given up on me. You haven’t given up on Curt and he’s not even your kid. It’s not your fault I got fat. I know that, Dad.”

  For the first time I name what’s unspoken between us, and Dad has to fight hard to keep his stoic expression. He looks away, but at the same time reaches out and takes my hand, this time with no pretense.

  We sit there for a long time. The shades in the room are drawn and it’s dim, shadowed. Noises from the hallway drift inside, but Dad and I are silent together. When he finally stands up, I wish he wouldn’t go.

  “I’ll be back this evening,” Dad says. “The nurses will be around in the afternoon, and Curt will probably wake up for a while. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  Dad hands me some money.

  “Get yourself some lunch and call me if anything changes.” He pauses at the door.

  “And Troy?” he says. I turn around.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Proud.”

  82.

  CURT WAKES UP A LITTLE after lunchtime. He’s groggy and asks for my dad. When I tell him Dad went home he asks for chocolate pudding. He’s barely awake and he can’t sit up; he’s on a diet of ice chips, but he’s convinced he could eat chocolate pudding if someone just gave it to him.

  “Damn,” he whispers when I tell him they’re all out. “What are the chances?”

  He tries to fall back asleep, but shifts uncomfortably. His blankets twist into spirals and his eyes stay half shut. He moans only when the nurse comes in … says his chest hurts, his back hurts, everything hurts…. She falls for it every time. She gives him more pain medication, and he drifts in and out, talking when I least expect it.

  “Don’t forget about the gig,” he says after waking up in a panic. Once he says, “Ten dollars. That’s just ten dollars. A bargain for what you’re getting.”

  Listening to him makes me wonder if this will end up as one of his songs. If it does I bet it will be a song about rage, bedpans, and a thousand distorted nurse faces. I bet it will be about feeling tired and sick and not getting chocolate pudding when it’s the one thing in the world you truly want.

  83.

  BY TUESDAY AFTERNOON Curt’s doing better. I visit after school and find him sitting up in bed watching Love Boat reruns. There’s a pile of used tissues making a pyramid on the floor beside him, and an empty food tray lies abandoned nearby. An alarm is going off down the hall and the room smells like piss. The guy in the next bed rasps every time he breathes. It’s putrid.

  Curt grins, oblivious, and points to the television.

  “I lub de Love Boadt,” he says. “Whad a show. Gopher’s de besdt.” He blows his nose loudly “I’ve been wadtching the besdt shows all day. Love Boadt, Gilligan’s Island, Three’s Company.” He’s blissfully happy. And nasal.

  I sit down in the blue plastic chair and try to remember what he looked like on stage, but can’t conjure that image in relation to this person in the hospital gown. Not because he’s sick, but because he’s so happy.

  “How you doing?” I ask.

  Curt nods appreciatively “T,” he says, “this is the besdt place I’ve ever been.” He rubs his eyes. “Look …” He presses a button and after a minute a nurse comes in.

  “Hi,” he says. She shakes her head.

  “Curt, what have we told you about the buzzer?”

  “You wanna meedt my friend T?” he asks.

  The nurse smiles. She’s petite with cherry-red hair and perfect, round breasts.

  “Hi, T,” she says, then gives Curt a mock glare. “Rest,” she orders.

  Curt smiles, satisfied. He leans back and puts his hands behind his head like one of those rich men in the movies. Nods at me knowingly.

  “They’re here all the time, you know,” he tells me. “All you’ve got to do is push the button.”

  84.

  TWO DAYS LATER Curt’s trying to sleep, sweating like he’s in a sauna. The television’s off, but he still looks happy. He grins when he sees me and motions toward the chair beside his bed. I flop down next to him.

  “Know what I like about this place?” he asks without preamble. I shake my head, and Curt’s eyes dart around the room.

  “There are so many people around,” he says. “There’s this guy”—he jerks his head at the guy in the next bed—“and the nurses and doctors. Ollie came to visit me and he said Piper’s coming tomorrow. Maybe Mike … and your dad’s here a lot. Oh, wait …” He gets excited and tries to sit up, but doesn’t. “I’ve got great news. We’ve got another gig. This Saturday.”

  He waits for my reaction, but I hesitate.

  “You think you’ll be out of here by Saturday?” I ask. Curt doesn’t miss a beat.

&nb
sp; “Are you fucking insane? Of course I won’t be out of here by Saturday. I have pneumonia.” He drags the word out like he’s talking to a kid. “But,” he says, “we can’t let a little thing like me being hospitalized stand in the way of our second big debut. We’re gonna kick ass. Oh,” he adds, “and I’ve invited all the nurses.”

  “Curt,” I say, “I think maybe we should wait until you’re better. I mean, it won’t be that long before you’re out and then we’ll set up a show….”

  Curt scoffs.

  “It will be a long time,” he says, “because I’m sick and they have to let me stay until I get better.” He tries to punch me in the arm but can’t reach. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ve got all the nervous stuff behind you now. Or maybe you could do it again and it could be your trademark.” He thinks about this idea and I can tell he’s liking it. I would object, but the nurse comes in to take his temperature.

  The nurse is a young guy, probably in his twenties, and he’s wearing green scrubs like the people on television. He reads the thermometer, throws away the plastic covering, and frowns.

  “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “We’ve already put you on new meds …” Curt nods gravely as the nurse hands him a small paper cup with his pain pills in it. Curt swallows them, or at least I think he does. As soon as the nurse leaves he rolls the pills out from under his tongue and spits them out. He reaches over to the houseplant on his bed stand and casually buries them beneath the dirt. Then he unhooks his IV and squeezes out some of his antibiotic. He rehooks the IV, all the while continuing our discussion as if nothing unusual is happening.

  “So, Saturday night I’ll sneak out, which won’t be a big deal because I’ve been figuring out their shifts and so long as Mr. Death Rattle over there doesn’t decide to kick off, I can make it….”

  I stare with my mouth open. “What are you doing?!” I finally demand, wondering if I really saw him do what I think I saw him do. My cheeks puff and I’m sure I look like someone just got murdered. Curt stops. He gives me an innocent look, which turns into a glare when I don’t respond appropriately.

  “Relax,” he says, nodding at the television. “Don’t freak out. There’s plenty left. Plenty.”

  “And the pills?”

  He scratches his head. “Those are for later, when I can’t get them all the time. This place is loaded. I’m just saving a few of my own and borrowing some, uh … eh-hem.”

  My eyes bug out and I stare at the plant, wondering how many pills—and whose pills—he’s buried underneath the red blossoms. I want to tell him he’s insane, but I don’t.

  “So,” I ask, “how long do you think you’ll be sick? What’ll you do when you get better?”

  Curt scrunches his nose. Sneezes. He ignores my first question entirely and answers the second.

  “Form a band. With you. Whaddaya think?”

  I try to laugh, but it comes out as a cross between a snort and a huff.

  “No,” I say, “I’m serious. Where will you go? Where were you sleeping before you got sick? After I blew the gig?”

  Curt freezes. His eyes narrow and his jaw sets tight.

  “What’s up with you?” he asks. He’s looking at me like I’m fat and I start to hyperventilate, then remind myself this is serious.

  “Nothing’s up,” I say. “I just wondered, you know, you’ve got those bruises and—”

  Curt lets out a loud laugh. Too loud.

  “What are you, the CIA, or something? You think you’ve got to know everything about my life?”

  Curt laughs again, but he doesn’t really think it’s funny. Then he snaps.

  “Well, fuck off.”

  He’s never told me to fuck off before. Even when he was pissed during practice he never meant it. But this time I think he means it. I can tell by the set of his eyes. I have two options. I can ignore everything about his life he doesn’t want me to see or I can fuck off. Simple as that.

  One month ago it would’ve been simple, but now I’m not so sure.

  85.

  I SIT IN THE LOBBY for a long time weighing my options. I ought to go home, but I’m restless and my brain is spinning, so I call Ollie instead. I tell myself I just want to pound something, pick up the sticks and beat the crap out of the drum set, but as soon as I arrive at The Dump I know that’s not why I’m here.

  I’ve got to make a choice, but before I do I have to know what I’m choosing between. I’ve never once sat on this stage and played the way I think I can play. In fact, I haven’t even been back since the eruption. I expect everything to look different. Humiliating. But it doesn’t.

  I walk in and the place is almost empty. Someone’s setting up the bar and Ollie’s on stage setting up the drums. He asks about Curt, but I don’t feel like talking about Curt, so all I do is grunt. Ollie doesn’t push me. He turns up the music as loud as it will go, grabs one set of sticks, and throws me the other.

  I climb onto the stage and take the empty place behind the set. It feels good—the way I wanted it to feel. A release. The bass pounds, womp, womp, deep in my gut, and the smack of the sticks feels sweet against the skins. Ollie uses everything in sight as his set and makes sounds I never dreamed of. I love listening to him, and at first I let him lead, but then I think, Fuck that. I’m remembering what Curt said about great drummers adding to the conversation. Now I’ve finally got something to say. I’m furious and I let myself play that way. I’m a distorted grotesque parody of a teenager who never saw anything beyond himself, and I decide to play like one. I think about everything that’s happened in the last nine years, about Dad and Dayle, and Curt’s stupid, self-destructive ultimatum. I play until I’m dripping sweat and my arms ache, but I don’t stop.

  I want to play forever.

  Ollie and I bounce off each other’s rhythms, and once when I look up I see the bartender nodding, slapping the counter with his spill rag. I think, This is what it’s all about. More than anything, I want this feeling to last. I want a shot at being on stage, not in the crowd but on stage, saying everything that’s in my distorted, fat brain. I want every one of my twisted ideas exposed for the world to see. The thought that I might never get that chance makes my stomach turn. It’s like I’ve been in prison my whole life and the day I’m set free they close the world.

  We play for over an hour before the music breaks and when I finally set down the drumsticks I’m breathing hard, but it still kills me to stop. I keep thinking, This is the last time you’ll sit here. That bartender is the only person who will ever hear you play like this, on stage, unfettered. I tell myself it doesn’t have to work this way. I can choose not to confront Curt and go on stage Saturday night while I’ve still got the guts. Curt will sneak out of the hospital just like he said and we’ll play our gig. Maybe someone would sign us, and then Curt could get better….

  But deep down I know that’s not what will happen. Weatherman says optimism is unlikely—there’s only a five percent chance of happy endings. No one would sign us, Curt wouldn’t get better, and the thought of sitting on stage without him is worse than not sitting on stage at all.

  I swing my legs over the throne and wipe my palms on my pants.

  “Thanks for letting me play,” I tell Ollie. That’s when I notice him grinning. He’s watching me, twirling a drumstick between his fingers.

  “You know,” he tells me, “that set was freakin’ awesome. You keep this up and Rage/Tectonic will be huge. You’ll be huge.” He pauses. “No pun intended.”

  It’s a cool compliment, but I only smile weakly.

  “Of course, you’ll have to get Curt out of the goddamn hospital,” he continues, “and convince him you’re not going to bail again, but that shouldn’t be hard. Once he sees you play like this … man, T. You’ll have the world on a platter.”

  I stop midstride. The World On A Platter. It’s an odd thing to say to a fat kid, but now that he’s said it I wonder if he’s right. What if I could have everything I want? Order everything on the menu
for a change? I want to play the drums. I’m positive about that. But I also want a friend. A healthy one. I’m positive about that, too. I look up.

  “You know something, Ollie?” I say. “I think you might be on to something.”

  86.

  I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT all night, and I think I’ve got one shot at making things right.

  Saturday morning I take the long walk to Curt’s room, hoping I can pull this off. I find him eating hospital macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding and he’s really happy about it in a tired sort of way. Every time he opens his mouth it’s like I’m looking at a gaping chasm of tired happiness and I have to turn my eyes. I stare at the pictures on the walls instead. Sierra desert. Still life of a mango.

  “You cool?” he asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m cool.”

  “Good,” Curt says as if it’s settled, “because this is going to work out perfect. This gig’s bigger than the last one. Full set. We’ll play the three songs we’ve practiced, that way the crowd will be primed and if the other ones aren’t as good we can cruise on adrenaline. I’ve been taking my medication all day and I feel most excellent.”

  He stops. “You know,” he ponders, “there may be reps in the audience tonight. If there are we’ll know it. You can always tell because they’re just a little too straight. And old. Man, they’re almost always old.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t he picks up where he left off.

  “So we’ll play the gig, then I’ll sneak back here and pretend like nothing’s happened. I’ll act like I was taking a walk or something. I love taking walks around this place. You get to wear your pajamas all day. Walk around bare ass and no one cares. Sweet.”

  I still haven’t said anything. I’m picturing Curt, half his ass hanging out, picking the locks on all the hospital medicine cabinets, making absurd deals with shifty orderlies, maybe sneaking into rooms and liberating old people of their narcotics … Curt’s oblivious. He takes another bite of chocolate pudding and toys with the remote control. All the seventies reruns flash by like a retrospecial on fast-forward. I take a deep breath.