Fat kid rules the world (11 page)

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.

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.”

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 on 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.”

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.

“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.

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.

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.”