Fat kid rules the world Page 9

  “Did you see that? Piper was toast, man, toast!”

  “Shut the fuck up. I was not.”

  Leon laughs too loud. “He had you squealing, man. Squealing like a pig.”

  This starts a fight between the two of them that Curt watches with something resembling pride. The fight lasts all the way down in the elevator and spills out onto the street, escalating as it progresses. They move from accusations of cracking under pressure to some past grievance I can’t decipher. By the time we reach the car Leon has Piper in a chokehold and he’s getting ready to smash his head into a dilapidated Buick.

  “Guys, meet Big T,” Curt says suddenly. It’s an awkward moment for introductions but the two untangle themselves and Piper attempts to smooth his hair while Leon runs his fingers over his bald scalp. They’re both out of breath and look like they couldn’t care less about meeting me. We exchange awkward hellos, and I take a deep breath thinking, As the Fat Kid prepares to take his final walk to the gallows, he takes a last deep breath to sustain himself through the coming ordeal….

  We climb into the Buick and I just barely fit. Curt sits in the back with me, and his friends take over the front. They continue bickering as if we’re not there. I stare out the window wondering what it will be like when we arrive, thinking about what Curt said back at my house. This is an important event in the history of Rage/Tectonic.

  I glance over at Curt but he’s asleep, pressed against the car door with half his face smooshed against the window. One of his sneakers has fallen off and his T-shirt is balled up in one fist. It’s hard to imagine this as an important event in the history of anything.

  Come to think of it, I’d settle for absolute obscurity with no humiliation.

  39.

  BY THE TIME WE PULL UP in front of The Dump I’m feeling mildly ill. It’s a Saturday night and the Village is wired. It’s a late night festival of sirens and neon, a meeting place of hip skinny people. Curt wakes up, rubs his eyes, and seems pleased with his circumstances. He nods at each of us as if to say, Well then, here we are. I only wish I felt the same. It doesn’t seem possible that I exist in such a frenetic city.

  Piper attempts to parallel park in the only available spot half a block away, and I press my face against the window. From what I can see, The Dump doesn’t look at all like the place I had my drum lesson. I kept hoping it would be the same empty, dusty shack and we’d arrive to find only Ollie inside. Instead, the place is hopping. The line snakes around the corner of St. Marks and there are already three bouncers lingering outside. The blue neon beer lights are lit up and the color spills onto the sidewalk.

  Curt climbs out of the car, but I stay put.

  “Come on,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. It’s sticking up weird where he slept on it, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask.

  Curt surveys the crowd. He appears to give my question serious thought. At last, he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Most very sure.”

  I force myself out of the car like a death-row inmate forces himself out of his cell to make that final trip to the electric chair. The street is packed full of purple-haired people with safety-pinned lips. No-haired people with black leather jackets. Black-haired people with dog collars. I am most definitely out of place. The closeted fan that should’ve stayed in the closet. I want to go home, but it’s too late now.

  Piper hands me his car keys. “You’re the Party Master, T,” he says as if he’s known me his whole life. Leon nods in agreement.

  I have no idea what a Party Master does, but having a title makes me feel slightly better about the prospects of entering the building. At least I’ll have an official purpose. Something to justify my presence. I pocket the keys and try to decide how I’ll push my way through the crowd. The walk to the door is interminable. FAT KID WALKING.

  Curt pulls a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from under his T-shirt and takes a long swig before passing it to the rest of us. When it gets to me I take only a tiny sip, then stifle a gasp. My skin is about to corrode like one of those dead bodies in The Mummy. Curt laughs and I start to bristle, but it’s a light laugh, so I swallow and pretend to laugh, too. It occurs to me that, Dad or no Dad, this isn’t such a bad idea.

  I reach for the bottle to take a longer sip and Curt lets me keep it.

  “This doesn’t make you an alcoholic,” he says as if he can read my mind. “And I know your father said I was to be responsible, eh-hem, but I think, in this case, ‘responsible’ could be fairly interpreted, in an executive-decision sort of way, to mean in your best interest, in which case J.D., which would normally qualify as ‘drinking,’ would simply be a little something you need.”

  I take another sip. Amen to that, I think. Then I remind myself to breathe.

  40.

  WE WALK PAST EVERYONE who’s been standing on line for God knows how long and I can feel their eyes boring into me as we pass. I will myself to become small and compact, but it doesn’t work. I am huge and obese. The bouncer nods at Curt and lets us in with no cover fee. He gives me a look as we enter, but doesn’t ask for an ID.

  Inside, The Dump is transformed. There have got to be a hundred people packed together, pressed against the stage, and the music is playing so loud I can feel the bass in my stomach. The place reeks of smoke and a sweet smell that saturates the walls. I’m grateful for the warm distraction of the Jack Daniel’s in my stomach.

  I follow Curt until the crowd gets too thick, then pause wondering what to do. Curt turns around and waves me forward. “This way,” he yells. I hesitate, then push my way through the crowd.

  There’s only twenty feet between the bar and the door, but it’s slow going. Curt yells something else and I realize he wants me to be his linebacker. He squishes to one side so I can pass, and once I’m in front people get out of our way. I almost stop, stunned at this occurrence, but force my feet to keep moving. I glance back at Curt and he’s cheering.

  This time I do stop. What? I think. FAT KID SAVES THE DAY? You’ve got to be kidding…. I stop when we reach the stage door. It isn’t really a door. It’s actually a large swinging structure made of plywood with the words FUCK OFF spray-painted in red across the front. I’m sure this means me, so I don’t go any farther, but Curt jumps ahead and pushes it open. Piper and Leon follow, plowing over me. Piper grabs the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and smashes it on the floor. Every face looks up.

  “The band has arrived!” Piper yells. There’s a lot of hollering, smashing fists, burping…. Everything happens at once and my eyes don’t know where to look. They keep moving to Curt, getting distracted, then drifting back again.

  There’s something different about him here and I can’t decide what it is. He seems … calm. He nods at people as he passes and moves around like he’s at home. Everywhere he goes he becomes the hub. Conversations shift. People touch him without his seeming to notice. The guy on the floor looks up from tuning his guitar. The girls who have been draped over the ratty couches file away without being asked. It’s as if everyone knows the real talent has just walked in. The Curt I know, the one who’s always trying to get something or keep something, suddenly becomes the kid listening to Beatles records. It’s like watching layers of grime wash down a clean, white drain.

  Could I wash away like that? If I found the right place, the right thing, the right moment, could my layers of fat wash away like grime?

  Curt plants himself on the arm of the red plaid couch in the center of the room and nods at me, solemn-like.

  “Everybody,” he says. “T here’s my new drummer.”

  There’s a moment of relative quiet while everyone looks around the room as if there’s someone else Curt must be referring to. I look up, startled, and huff, waiting for the riotous laughter. It doesn’t come. Ollie nods at me from across the room where he’s applying spray paint to his Mohawk in front of an old, cracked mirror. Piper and Leon smash fists.

  “Awes
ome,” someone says. “Can he play?”

  I hold my breath.

  “Nope,” Curt answers. “Can’t play a thing.”

  There’s absolute silence as everyone processes this information. Finally, a small guy in the armchair nearest Curt laughs. He’s got green hair and a tattoo of a dollar sign with a slash through it. I recognize him immediately. Mike Harrington, lead singer.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Mike asks, glancing at me.

  Curt shakes his head, grins like a maniac, and coughs twice. Mike sits up.

  “Curt, that’s insane,” he says. “Even for you. You can’t pick a drummer who can’t play the drums.” I can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He glances at me apologetically, but I just shrug. Someone had to say it.

  Curt takes a battered joint out of his sneaker and lights it very carefully. He takes a long hit, then passes it over.

  “Why not?” he asks at last, breathing out a column of smoke. “What’s the most difficult part of finding a drummer?”

  No one answers, so Curt does.

  “Finding someone, some person, who isn’t a pretentious fuck and can hit hard.” He grins at me. “Troy’s it.”

  Mike laughs like he doesn’t believe him. “Except for the minor detail of actually playing the drums,” he says. “When are you going to play your first gig, 3004?”

  Curt takes the joint back. “Chill,” he growls.

  The two of them stare at each other and for a long time neither one speaks. The rest of us shift nervously and I feel like I should be saying something to defend myself, but can’t decide who I want to win the argument. Finally, Mike takes a long drag and shakes his head.

  “Fucking psychotic control freak.”

  Curt grins. He sits down on the floor, picks up the guitar lying next to him, and starts playing quietly. He now has everyone’s attention.

  “Never fear,” he says. “T is going to be the biggest … eh-hem … thing to hit The Dump since Smack Metal Puppets. Trust me on this one. He’s got mass appeal.”

  In all my life I’ve never heard it put quite that way.

  41.

  FAT KID PROVERB # 52: Never miss an opportunity to dissect a compliment.

  Unpretentious. Hmmm. That would be a good thing, right? That would imply that I was something other than just a massive freak. That would imply something positive about my character. Something positive in a lacking sense, of course, but positive nonetheless. Unpretentious. A person lacking pretense. That’s good, right?

  I cannot wrap my mind around this new development. Despite all appearances to the contrary, Curt might actually have reasons for wanting me in his band that don’t relate to food and shelter. I drum my fingers nervously.

  The room has quieted down and half the people who were filling it have left to find their spots out front. Curt’s warming up in one corner and Piper’s trying to color in his tattoo with a girl’s fuchsia lipstick. Ollie finishes spraying his Mohawk and moves over to where I sit. He looks tentative, as if he’s waiting for me to explode into a million scraps of fat.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I nod. “Hey.”

  “So, everything’s back on track, eh?”

  I flush, but Ollie doesn’t seem to be making fun of me. He glances around the room. “Ever been to a show?” he asks. I cringe because I was hoping no one would ask. I consider lying, but figure I’ve done enough of that already.

  “Uh … no.”

  Ollie whistles low.

  “Never been to a show either?” He shakes his head and glances at Curt. “Well, then,” he says, “prepare to be blown away.”

  I think he means it metaphorically, but the next minute the room literally begins to vibrate. I feel the energy drift in from outside and it feels like a tornado just before it touches down.

  A small woman with dreadlocks pokes her head in.

  “Five,” she says.

  The energy in the room shifts. Piper and Leon strap on their guitars. Ollie makes a fist and yells. The crowd outside starts screaming obscenities and I think there’s going to be a riot. Mike ducks out the back door, the girls come back inside, and Curt disappears, all in a matter of minutes.

  I’d get up and go out front, but I need an invitation. It’s as if the moment Curt left the room I ceased to be invited. The band jokes and tunes the guitars, oblivious to my predicament, and for the first time I wish I were really with them. I tell myself to join the crowd, but my butt becomes a two-ton weight no human power can lift. I’m anchored to my chair. I can’t move until someone says the magic words.

  Finally, Ollie turns to me and grins. He polishes his skull ring and adjusts his piercings.

  “Better find your way down front, stage right,” he says. “This is going to be a kick-ass show.”

  With those magic words the bewitched whale, who is really a punk rock drummer cursed by the wicked sorcerer of Hostess, triumphantly lifts his butt from the chair. He battles his way across the room, and at last makes it to the door. He flings it open and …

  I take a deep breath. I’m standing at the top of the small flight of stairs that lead backstage, a full two feet above the swarming crowd. The club is sweltering and immediately I start to sweat. My back becomes Niagara Falls and I can feel my underarms radiating. I’m descending into a pit of body heat and volume. The noise is intense; voices mixed with grating static from the amps, shifting bodies, and sirens outside. I look back as the FUCK OFF plywood door swings shut above me. There’s no turning back now.

  When I finally stop I’m two feet from the stage, lost in a horde of awkward freaks. There’s a guy with kinky orange hair standing beside me. He’s screaming, “Come on, motherfuckers,” over and over again even though there’s no one on stage yet. I can’t tell if he’s high, but his eyes are huge and shining.

  Someone rubs against me and I puff. The guy to my right spills his beer and it splashes onto my leg. We look up at the same time, eyes wide, and he mouths something over the noise. I nod even though I don’t know what he said, but I get the distinct impression that he’s afraid of me. I stand up, confused. PUNK REBEL AFRAID OF HYPERVENTILATING FAT KID. Now that’s funny. I’d laugh if I weren’t scared shitless.

  I glance around the room, searching for the exit. I’ve never been so claustrophobic in my life. Get me out of here, I think. Get me out. Get me out. The energy is too much. I’m about to turn and push my way out when the stage lights go off and sound pulses out of the amps. The room goes pitch-black and it’s so loud I can scream at the top of my lungs and not hear myself. That’s exactly what everyone is doing. The mass becomes one, yelling with one voice, beckoning the band on stage. They lift their fists in the air, pressing forward like a tidal wave, and I’m caught in the swell, crashing forward, about to drown.

  42.

  THE FIRST SOUNDS ARE THE DRUMS. They break like thunder, unexpected, and the backbeat is set, manic and wild. I feel the smack of the drumsticks in the pit of my stomach as they snap against the skin. The crowd begins to pulse. The lights come up red as fire and the stage is hell. I look at it and sweat. The sweat drips down my cheeks, into my mouth. It stings my eyes.

  I squint upward at the black silhouettes glaring down at me. I stare at them, trying to connect them in my brain to anyone I know. But I can’t. They aren’t those people anymore. They aren’t even human. Ollie? I think. Piper? The sound is so loud I can’t hear myself think. The drums go on forever, torturing us with the prelude. They toy with the crowd, saying “fuck you” before the music’s even started.

  Then the lights go up and Mike leers over us. He doesn’t say anything, just starts singing. Screaming really. His voice is a wailing falsetto, and he lets the sounds grate like a challenge. The guitars take up the call. Piper’s on bass and Leon’s the lead and they dip in with the refrain, pushing their lines until Mike’s ready to add words to the milieu. All my attention is up front and I’m straining forward waiting for the words to come.

  Mike opens his mout
h and Piper leaps into the air as if he’s been shot, almost falls backward, but pulls upright at the last moment. He doesn’t care. He thrashes like a small demon while Leon strides across the stage to loom over him. They make two opposite, unnatural curves. Mike finally releases the verse, letting it crash over the audience.

  Born in the U.S.A., ain’t got fucking much to say, don’t we all want it that way?

  It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. The band raises the challenge and the mass of bodies gives its answer through the smashing of fists, faces, arms, and legs. People are hitting me from all sides, careening into me, then crashing off again, but I just stand there. It hurts, but in a good way. The kind of way that makes you pissed at the world. Makes you think you could turn around and smash them back. I start to move, ever so slightly, then harder, wilder.

  The movement answers the song. I’m watching Mike’s face as he sings and he’s really asking the question. Ain’t got fucking much to say, don’t we all want it that way?

  I pound my fist into the air and holler until I think someone can hear me.

  43.

  I AM A PARTICIPANT.

  With one gesture I’ve moved from the world of imagination to the world of funky sweat stench and ear-ringing volume. The guitars screech, the sound shakes the club, and the best part is, no one’s looking at me. I’m six-foot-one, three hundred pounds, and no one is looking at me. I’m one of the many. In fact, I’m more than that. I’m one of the few. I’m the one who knows the band.

  I thrash forward, staking my ground, letting the body heat soak into my skin. For once I enjoy sweating. I lap it up. My sweat is the salt water left over from the tidal wave. I’m short of breath from yelling so loud. Each song builds on the first, never letting the energy subside. The second song is about sex and I feel my head ready to explode. A woman in black leather winks at me across the room and suddenly I’m a fucking sex god. My body swells until I fill the room. I’m not fat. I’m enormous. I look out over the crowd and think for the first time, I could be bigger. I could be even bigger….