Fat kid rules the world Page 8

  MY BRIEF, IMAGINARY CAREER as a punk rock drummer is now officially over.

  The next day I arrive home with the front of my favorite T-shirt plastered to my chest. It’s stained with tomato sauce from when I was tripped at lunch. I landed in the exact center of my lunch tray and the entire cafeteria found it hysterical, so I had to concede there must have been humor in it. Dayle laughed the loudest and the longest, then spent the entire day avoiding me. I’m sure it wasn’t hard to do. I spent the morning sitting in the principal’s office at a primary school desk with my huge body smooshed into a space the size of carry-on luggage. Then I spent the afternoon in the school psychologist’s office, where we talked about forming goals and developing plans. Based on his advice I’ve come up with the following attainable actions:

  1. Forget about band entirely.

  This falls under the category of Being Realistic and Accepting Reality for What It Is. No more flights of fantasy and twisted, surreal escapist imaginings.

  2. Take down everything Curt put on my walls.

  This will, obviously, help me accomplish step number one. It falls under the category of Removing Stumbling Blocks. Must give self every chance for success.

  3. Eat many donuts.

  This falls under the category of Sheer Gluttony Designed to Provide Instant Short-Term Satisfaction.

  4. Sleep until dinner.

  See note for step number three.

  5. Shoot self.

  In the immortal wisdom of Psychology Today, no plan is complete if it doesn’t include “giving back.” Do something altruistic and you’ll feel 100 percent better about your life.

  There it is. FAT KID WITH A PLAN. Nothing like it.

  Except it doesn’t work.

  I arrive home and complete step number three, but that’s when my plan gets derailed. I walk into my bedroom and find Dad on the floor setting up a drum set. I can tell immediately this is going to make step number one very difficult.

  “Dad?” I say.

  My father tightens one pedal before standing up and wiping his hands on his pants.

  “Here it is,” he says, as if I’ve been expecting this. My jaw goes slack.

  “Dad?” I say again.

  He comes as close to smiling as I’ve seen in nine years. The corners of his mouth keep moving up before he presses them back down. He claps me on the shoulder.

  “No practicing after ten P.M. or before seven A.M. And I want you to learn how to take care of this set. These things aren’t cheap. I want it polished, tuned, and kept in good order.”

  My stomach churns and I can taste the donuts rising. There’s a moment of silence before I manage to croak, “I thought you didn’t want me to play the drums.” This seems like a problem, but my father just looks at me as if I’m missing the obvious.

  “Yes,” he says slowly. “But maybe I was wrong….”

  33.

  I NEED TO FIND CURT.

  I’ve been looking all week but he’s nowhere to be found. I’ve been to every subway station and diner, been to The Dump twice. Everyone seems to know Curt, but no one knows how to find Curt. I’m in a panic. Dad wants me to practice, so I keep playing the stuff I used to play in junior high. I practice the things Ollie taught me. I even put on a few CDs and try to play along, but I suck. Plus, I’m confused.

  Curt wants me to play because he wants a band. But maybe he doesn’t want me to play anymore because I told him I wouldn’t. Dayle doesn’t want me to play because I’m mortally embarrassing, and Dad does want me to play because … well, I don’t know why Dad wants me to play. He just does. It’s my new diet.

  I don’t want to play because I suck.

  But I want to find Curt so I can pretend to want to play.

  And I can’t find Curt.

  34.

  JUST WHEN I’VE GIVEN MYSELF over to despair, Curt finds me.

  It’s Saturday night and I’m in my room contemplating the horrible state of my life. I’m sitting at the drum set in my gym socks and Miami Beach T-shirt and I’ve got the sticks gripped tightly in my fleshy white fists. Only I’m not playing. I’m staring. I’m trying to decide how to tell Dad he needs to take the set back.

  That’s when the phone rings. I don’t even consider answering it because all phone calls are for Dayle, so when my father opens my door I’m caught off guard.

  “Troy, you have a phone call.”

  I stare, uncomprehending.

  “You have a phone call,” he says again. He practically wraps my fingers around the cordless phone and I hold the receiver to my ear as if I’ve never used a phone before. I’m like one of those little kids who doesn’t know if a voice will really come out of the receiver.

  “Troy? Are you there? Fuck … I think … hold on, guys.” There’s a lot of noise in the background and I can’t tell if Curt is talking to me, or someone else. I know I should say something, but it seems impossible.

  “Hello?” I say at last. There’s an audible sigh of relief.

  “T, man. I heard you’ve been looking for me. I was, um, well, you know how it is sometimes when you’re somewhere else….”

  I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement, so I don’t know how to respond. There’s a loud pause in which the background noise sounds like a tornado tearing apart a small town, then Curt continues as if I’ve said something. He probably thinks I have.

  “Good. Good,” he says. “So, listen. You’ve got to come to this show. Smack Metal Puppets at The Dump. We’re going to swing by and get you.”

  I look at my father, who’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

  “A show?” I say. “When is it? I mean what night?”

  There’s a pause, then confusion.

  “What do you mean what night? Tonight. Now. It’s now. We’re coming to get you.”

  “It’s now?” I repeat. “You’re coming to get me?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “For a show?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah … Bring some cash. Okay, man? Okay?”

  I’m staring at my father, thinking about what Curt has just said, wondering what this means. I’m too stunned to say no. I don’t even ask him for more details. All I do is nod into the phone. It doesn’t matter because Curt’s saying something to someone else while at the same time trying to say something to me and it comes out as gibberish:

  “So, whatsa, hey, don’t, okay, be read—fuck that ma—shiii, okay, okay, didn’t I say—yeah, good, T, bye.”

  The phone clicks and I’m left holding the receiver, wondering if lightning can strike the same guy twice.

  35.

  “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

  My father’s growled question is not rhetorical. He expects an answer. An answer I can’t give. He hasn’t lost his composure yet, but I can see the color rising on the back of his neck. He paces as he speaks.

  “You agreed to go to a concert with Curt at ten o’clock on a Saturday night? You don’t know what time you’ll be home and you’re not sure who you’re going with? I’m standing right here and you didn’t ask me?”

  I nod stupidly.

  “You agreed to do this because …?”

  He’s waiting for me to fill in the blank but I only turn the thoughts over in my brain. Curt called. He doesn’t hate me. He asked me to a show. I have been asked to a show. On a Saturday night someone asked me to a show.

  “There’s no way you’re going. Call Curt back and tell him you’re not going.” I look at my father. I’m about to say that I don’t have Curt’s number when a single thought replaces all the others. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe FAT KID GETS PUMMELED BY MOB. Maybe that.

  My father is waiting for his answer. I swallow hard.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I can’t go. No way. I can’t go.”

  He can see the panic in my eyes. He stops pacing and shifts his weight from one leg to the other, the only sign that he’s agitated.

  “What do you mean you
can’t go?” he asks, as if he hasn’t been telling me the same thing ever since I hung up.

  I shake my head. “No way. I can’t. You said no. You’re saying no, right?”

  I’m almost begging him. I’ve suddenly realized with perfect clarity that there is no way I can go to a show with Curt MacCrae. I do not go to punk rock shows. I do not go out on Saturday nights to hang with large crowds of people. My mind begins to swirl out of control imagining all the embarrassing things I might do. I start to envision every inadvertently funny move I’d make. Would Curt be picking me up in a car? What if I can’t fit inside? Or have to cram myself in like a wadded-up ball of chewing gum? What if we get inside the building and it’s too crowded and people get angry because I’m in the way? They won’t be able to see. I’ll slam into everyone. I’ll sweat and make stupid noises and be too tired to stand all night. There’ll be no place to sit down, so I’ll collapse and everyone will think Curt is a loser for bringing me. I’ll be dressed all wrong in my stupid bland pants and everyone else will look cool, punk, retro … something.

  My father sits across from me on the bed. He’s shaking my shoulders, saying, “Troy, Troy. Get a hold of yourself.”

  I can’t force enough air into my lungs.

  “What was I thinking?” I breathe at last. It comes out as a choked whisper and my father leans back and sighs. It’s a resigned sigh, as if he’s thinking about everything he had to do in the military and how easy it was compared to raising me. If I weren’t so wrapped up in myself I’d feel sorry for him.

  “Troy,” he says at last. “Troy …” There’s something in his voice that makes me look at him. My father the security expert with his crew cut and bodybuilder arms. My father with the lines etched into his face. He looks old.

  “Troy, you can go to a concert,” he says, whispering. “You can do this. You know Curt. You’re a smart kid. If there’s a problem you’ll call me.”

  I shake my head.

  “No, Dad. You don’t understand. You can’t understand. What if …?” My voice chokes and I have to stop. I refuse to cry in front of my father. Refuse.

  Dad shakes his head. He refuses to allow me to cry in front of him. “Get up,” he says. “Get dressed.”

  “Dad … I …”

  “I’ll call you when your friends arrive.”

  My father walks out and I think, Friends? Not friends. Friend. Maybe. Suddenly, I’m not so sure about Curt. This could be a huge setup after all. The mother of all practical jokes orchestrated for the benefit of the entire school. Like the time someone stole my clothes after gym. It was right before the school assembly and I had to hide in the locker room the entire period listening to the roar on the bleachers outside, praying no one would come in. What if this is the same thing, only worse?

  I can’t get dressed. I sit on the floor in my T-shirt, sweatpants, and socks and can’t move. My muscles have atrophied.

  Dayle walks by twice, then stops and stands in my doorway, studying my walls. He keeps looking at the mural Curt made out of the food wrappers. It’s the first time he’s let on that he noticed and I wish I could enjoy this small crumb of attention. But I can’t. The mural is a distant blur out of the corner of one panicked eye.

  Dayle shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Dad says you’re going to a show at The Dump.” He doesn’t exactly sound impressed, but he doesn’t sound scornful either. “Brandon’s heard of The Dump. Heard of your friend, too. He says it’s pretty intense there.”

  He throws this out like an offering, but I can’t breathe.

  “You’re really going to go?” he asks when I don’t respond.

  God, I want to say yes. I want to nod with confidence, but I shake my head no. Dayle makes that noise he makes when he thinks I’m not worthy of actual words. The one where he breathes out through his nose like a horse.

  Damn it, I think. I’m bigger than you. I’m older than you. You could show a little …

  But I can’t speak and Dayle turns around and walks out.

  36.

  I HEAR THE BUZZER RING TWICE, but I just sit there.

  In the living room the door to our apartment is opening and I hear the sound of muffled voices. Only my father’s voice is clear and distinct. He’s giving orders to whoever just arrived.

  “You, go in. You two. Stay where you are.”

  I almost laugh because it’s kind of funny, the idea of Dad treating Curt and his friends like new recruits, but I’m too busy worrying about what Curt will say when I tell him I’m not going to the show. I can hear his footsteps coming down the hall, shuffling randomly as if he’s not picking up his feet.

  My bedroom door opens and a single bedraggled sneaker steps inside. The sneaker pauses, then allows the rest of the body to follow. Once inside, Curt looks around as if he’s never been here before. He nods at the drum set, then at me. He looks tired, but otherwise the same. I was expecting some classic punk getup but he looks like he always looks, just dirtier. He’s got on the same ripped jeans and my dad’s Marines T-shirt. The T-shirt looks like crap now and I’m surprised Dad didn’t make him take it off—out of respect.

  Neither of us says a word.

  “So, are you ready?” Curt asks at last.

  “Nooo,” I say very slowly.

  “Nothing to wear?” he asks.

  I pause. “Mmm. Something like that.” Curt scratches his chest, then scrunches his nose, thinks, sticks his hands deep in his pockets.

  “I can see the problem,” he admits as if he’s just completed a complex mathematical formula. He approaches my closet. My T-shirts are hung in a neatly pressed line and Curt looks at all of them twice.

  He opens my dresser drawer and starts digging through my underwear.

  “Wha …?” I start, but Curt finds what he’s looking for.

  “Put this on.”

  He’s pulled out one of my plain white undershirts, and I take it from him, wadding it up in my sweating palms.

  “Curt, I don’t think I can—”

  “Shut up,” Curt says. “The guys are waiting.”

  I pull on the undershirt as Curt grabs my scissors off the desk. He looks at my pajama pants—huge black sweats—and without asking cuts them off at the calf. I don’t say a word, but some of my terror falls away with the material.

  Curt takes out my huge marker and starts writing something on the back of my undershirt. I’m dying to know what it is—terrified that it reads DORK.

  When he’s done Curt pushes me toward the mirror.

  “Check it out,” he says. I turn until I can see the reflection of my back. He’s drawn a giant letter T in 3-D block with the stem of the T making a knife. It’s quick, but it’s good.

  “All right then,” he says. There’s another long pause. “So, you’re still in the band, right?” he asks, as if this is totally related to my outfit. I study my reflection in the mirror.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. I mean, I never really … well, I was just hungry, see….”

  Curt grins and bounces once. He tries to turn the bounce into a casual stance, one arm propped on top of my dresser, but it doesn’t quite work. His arm pushes my lamp off the edge and he has to scramble to pick it up. He grabs it quickly, then sets it down again, relieved.

  “I thought so,” he says, glancing at the door. He grins again. “Well, then,” he adds. “This is an important event in the history of Rage/Tectonic, so let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”

  37.

  I FOLLOW CURT INTO the living room and we both stop short because my father has Curt’s friends backed against the front door. I recognize both of them, and the idea that my father is now interrogating two members of Smack Metal Puppets is almost more than I can take. Curt doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are huge and he inches forward until he’s standing right beside my father, just behind his left elbow. His head moves back and forth as he watches every move Dad makes.

  Curt’s friends are spilling their guts.

  “It’s o
n St. Marks right near the Orco Hotel. I don’t remember the cross street. I swear, I don’t remember or I’d tell you. But it’s on St. Marks. I know that much. I’m sure it’s on St. Marks….”

  Dad is writing everything down on a pad of paper. Piper, the guy who’s providing the information, looks like a punk version of Curt. He’s small and wiry with a semihomeless look to him, but his hair’s dyed black and he’s got three huge tattoos. He’s wearing studded bracelets with a Buzzcocks T-shirt. The other guy, Leon, is tall, skinny, and awkward-looking with no hair and huge features, like a distorted giant ostrich. Both of them could not look more relieved to see Curt, but Curt is no help. He stands next to my dad, grinning like a geek.

  Dad notices him, pauses, then glances at me. If he has an opinion about my new look he doesn’t reveal it. Dayle doesn’t reveal his opinion either. He’s sitting in the living room trying to look like he’s not watching us. But his eyes betray him. They shift back and forth between me, Curt, and Curt’s friends. I almost think Dayle looks nervous, as if he’s hoping Curt won’t notice him, but he doesn’t need to worry. Curt can’t stop watching Dad.

  Dad takes a step back and lets his gaze linger on each one of us.

  “If I hear …,” he starts, then stops and scratches his chin.

  “If you do anything …” He points his finger accusingly at Curt’s friends, then puts it away. Finally, he turns to Curt.

  “No drugs,” he says. He leans in menacingly until his face is very close to Curt’s. “No drugs. No drinking. I’m holding you responsible, son. Do you understand that?”

  It’s meant to be a threat, but Curt swells with bliss. He looks the way I looked when Curt first called me T. My father waits for a response, then finally gives up and turns to me instead.

  “Troy,” he says solemnly, “have a good time at the concert.”

  38.

  THE MOMENT THE DOOR SHUTS, I panic.

  I wait for someone to say, “Who the hell is this loser?” but no one does. Leon makes a clumsy leap to touch the ceiling of the hallway and Piper makes a face.