Fat kid rules the world (16 page)

BOOK: Fat kid rules the world
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“I said that?” he asks. I nod in the affirmative and he sighs.

“Guess we’ll have to think of something.”

58.

THERE IS NO NEW THING.
There is only the same thing, which gets old very quickly. Practice. Practice, practice, and more practice. As the days progress, I have to mentally detach from everything I ever imagined about being in a band.

Fat Kid Dreams of Being in a Band:

When I imagined myself in a band, it was always fun. The word “band” conjured up hot chicks screaming for my jiggling body, fabulous
music played at top volume in huge arenas, and adoring fans throwing themselves off skyscraper amplifiers. I pictured myself in tailor-made 2XX leather pants and a black beret, dark glasses pulled down as I ooze out of the limo.

Reality:

Curt and I in my bedroom trying to scrub half a bottle of NyQuil out of my carpet before Dad gets home. I’ve got gas and Curt’s pissed because his guitar string broke, he lost his pick, and I won’t lend him ten dollars because I’ve already loaned him twenty this week. It’s only 8:30, but Dayle’s trying to “power sleep” in order to improve his football game, so every time we actually start to play something he throws his cleats against the wall. My fingers have blisters and my fat gets in the way when I try to play anything fast.

We’ve got two weeks before our first gig.

“Better double our practice time,” Curt says.

59.

FAT KID DIES OF EXHAUSTION.

I am caught in a warped PlayStation 2 game in which the object is to drive your obese drummer insane by using one or all of the following weapons available to you: lack of sleep, excessive motion, infrequent meals, constant nagging, or the Mother of All Weapons—the ray gun of mind-numbing terror.

The gig is this weekend and it is quite possible I may not survive to see it. We’ve not only doubled, but tripled our practice time, and
Curt is working me intensely on three songs—all ones he’s written. I can’t add anything to them, but I can
almost
do what he tells me. I can do everything
except
hit the drums hard enough. That’s our sticking point.

It’s Monday night and we’re on our fifth consecutive hour of practice with only a minuscule break for dinner. I am expiring while Curt stands in the center of my room with his arms crossed. For the fifth time today he’s seriously pissed.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yells.

“I was doing exactly what you told me to do,” I say, which elicits a snort of derision.

“Fuck that,” he answers. “You’re like some chick that’s afraid to make too much noise. You’re an anorexic chick letting her nail polish dry. You’re a goddamn anorexic cheerleader.”

I huff and my cheeks balloon.

“All right! I get the point, but I’m telling you I’m hitting as hard as I can. What do you want from me? The neighbors keep complaining and my father’s in the other—”

Curt cuts me off.

“Shit. Don’t blame this on your dad. He’s getting into our music. I can tell. He wouldn’t be letting me in here if he didn’t get off on it. You’re just acting like a pussy.”

Now he’s making me mad, so I toss my drumsticks on the floor. This pisses Curt off even more.

“See?” he says. “See? What the hell was that? If you were really mad you’d throw them against the wall. Shove them up my butt. Stick ’em up your nose. But
no
. You’ve got to toss them onto the carpet. What the fuck is that?!”

The color is rising in my cheeks but I don’t say anything. I’m thinking about rage. Huge tectonic plates grinding. Curt narrows his eyes. He walks slowly over to my drumsticks, picks one up, and very
deliberately breaks it over his knee. His eyes are locked on mine the whole time and I want to punch him, but I don’t.

“Fine,” I say. “Fuck you. Now see how we’ll fucking practice.” I cross my arms over my chest and for a long time neither of us says anything. Then Curt looks at me and shakes his head. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Go get some duct tape,” he says at last.

60.

THE CLOSER IT GETS
to the gig, the more I’m convinced I’ve made a mistake.
Another
Fat Kid–sized mistake.

It’s two days before the gig and I still can’t play the drums. Oh, I can play better than I could before. Five lessons with Ollie and marathon practice sessions have accomplished that much, but I’m still no punk rock drummer. All my illusions of concave grandeur are proving to be just that … illusions.

I stand in front of my mirror and stare at my reflection. My crew cut is still a crew cut even though I’m trying to grow it out. My T-shirt with the inane slogan still stretches thin across my continental stomach. My fat still drips over my waistband like an overflowing vat of lard. My face still sports sagging pockets of flesh and triple chins. My fat lips still pucker like the kid in the
Far Side
comic that’s always collecting bugs.

In the past two weeks I’ve morphed from Rocky to roadkill. I’m repulsive and no matter how much I try to fool myself, people
will
laugh. They will hold their stomachs and piss their pants. They’ll point and when I try to get off stage they’ll trip me and laugh some
more. They’ll call me “fatty” and “lard ass” and “blubber.” I’ll think,
You unoriginal mental midgets with brains the size of rabbit shit
, but I won’t say that. I’ll wait for Curt to defend me, but in the end, he’ll side with the skinny people because he’s king of their world. He’ll say,
Why couldn’t you just keep up? For God’s sake, how hard is that
?!

61.

THE DAY OF THE GIG
I start to feel sick. It comes on as nausea first thing Saturday morning and soon morphs into full-scale plague-ridden disease.

I climb out of bed and feel my way blindly to the kitchen. My father is standing at the sink in his boxer shorts, sipping a cup of coffee. The smell makes my stomach turn. He glances at me, oblivious, then returns his attention to the window.

“So, Curt tells me you have your first gig tonight,” he says casually. He says it the way the man in the Folgers commercial says, “Folgers is a real bargain and tastes great, too.” Dad never says anything casually.

I’m reaching for the saltines, but stop with my arm extended.
Please, God, no
, I think.
Do not let my father go to the gig
.

Dayle comes in from the living room tossing a tennis ball up and down. He’s dressed in his football jersey and blue jeans and looks like he’s ready to win the Super Bowl while I’m ready to heave into one.

“Yeah, Curt told us about the gig,” he says, joining the conversation without an invite. “He said you’re going to rock. He said you’re awesome, Troy. Can you believe that? Curt told me you can really play the drums and he said we should come tonight….”

I can’t take it anymore. I bolt from the room and lock myself in the bathroom. About a minute later I hear Dad’s voice outside the door.

“Troy?”

I don’t answer.

“Troy?” he says again. “Are you okay?”

The question is absurd. Am I okay? Have I been okay for the last nine years? Does it seem “okay” that I am locked in the bathroom?

“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause and I wonder if he’s gone away.

“Curt said you might be a little nervous,” he says at last.

I’m starting to wonder when Curt did all this talking. It occurs to me that, despite everything, it may not be worth it to have such an annoying friend. Why couldn’t I have found a nice, normal friend? One who collected rocks and enjoyed perusing the
TV Guide?
Of course, if I’m honest, Curt found me, but that’s beside the point….

“I’m not nervous, Dad,” I say. It’s a total lie, yes, but how do you admit you’re debilitated by fear to a man who has crawled through jungles on his stomach carrying a knife in his teeth? “I’m fine,” I say again.

I hear Dad move. I hear the sound of his huge body slumping against the bathroom door and picture him in his boxer shorts and undershirt sitting on the floor, trying hard to think of anything to say to his disappointment of an eldest son. I wait for the textbook sermon on fortitude.

There’s a long silence.

“Troy?” Dad says at last. “I’m proud of all the hard work you and Curt have put into this. You kids have worked diligently and that’s to be commended.”

I’m sitting on the toilet with my head in my hands, but I look up slowly.

“Dad?” I whisper. My voice breaks.

I move to the door and open it an inch, but he’s gone. I stand there anyway, a half-dressed Fat Kid blinking back tears in an empty hallway.

62.

BY MIDAFTERNOON I’M FEELING
slightly better. Curt arrives and we run through our entire set, just like we usually do, but it’s like pulling teeth. I can’t keep the beat and Curt seems distracted. He yawns and hops and retunes his guitar. We struggle through an hour of practice before he flops backward onto my mattress. He crosses his legs and his toes stick out of the holes in his socks. I set down my drumsticks and move over to my dresser. I dig around until I find him some decent socks, then toss them across the room.

“Your feet smell,” I say. Curt grins. He puts them on and pulls them up over his pant legs halfway to his waist. It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in weeks. Maybe it’s because we’re practicing all the time, but he seems thinner and dirtier and more serious than he used to.

“You think I’m ready?” I ask. I pray he says yes, but Curt’s face goes all slack and dumb like it does when he wants to lie. He makes an exaggerated show of thinking.

“Well, umm, in some facets I suppose, yes, but in other ways kind of no,” he says. He studies the wall. “You’re technically really good. I mean, really … but maybe you’re missing some minuscule thing. I don’t know this for sure, but maybe you’re not
listening
to the
music.” He taps his fingers rapidly and wipes his nose on my bedspread.

I want to tell him that he makes it pretty hard to listen sometimes, but I don’t. I can feel the acid churning in my stomach.

“You think so?” I ask. “I mean, I’m trying to listen….”

Curt shrugs, adjusts his socks, and looks away.

“Maybe you’re too self-conscious sometimes.” He frowns. “Maybe you’re thinking about yourself instead of the song … possibly.” He pauses and shoots a glance at me. I can tell he’s trying hard to make me see something, but I just can’t get it.

“Drumming’s about how you relate to the music,” Curt says. His face morphs from dumb to intent, the way it always does when he starts talking about music. He stares up at my ceiling. “Anyone can play a beat,” he says, “but the great drummers listen to the sounds around them, then add their own part in the conversation. They
influence
it. Know what I mean? You can’t think about yourself when you play, even if you’re thinking bad things, because, well, that’s still thinking…. See?”

For the first time ever I feel myself shrink. I clutch the drumsticks until my fists turn white and Curt screws up his face until he looks like a ferret again. He shifts uncomfortably and studies the wall.

“You’ll do fine tonight,” he says. “Really. You’ll do great, but I’m just saying that maybe you’re missing the point. That’s all I’m saying. I’m just suggesting you play the music, not the drums. That’s all.”

It’s a good speech and I want to respond. I really do. But I’m busy morphing from obese guru of self-consciousness to tiny speck of worthless foam.

63.

TWO HOURS BEFORE THE GIG:

I can’t stop thinking about what Curt said. He’s gone on an errand, something very important that came up just after he told me I suck. We’ve agreed to meet at the club, and he’s given me the complete lowdown on the gig.
Theoretically
, it’s doable. If I weren’t such a loser.

We’re to play three songs as the opening act for the Stoned Rollers. We’ll open with “Lonely,” then move on to “Fucking a Cat” and “NyQuil.” If I feel confident I’m to add something to the conversation. If I feel panicky I can fake it by simply playing a steady back-beat while Curt does the rest.

I’ll be faking it. The weatherman predicts a zero percent chance of confidence today. It’s hateful with a chance of suicide.

64.

ONE HOUR BEFORE THE GIG:

Dad dropped me off just moments ago, promising on my mother’s grave not to show up with Dayle. I considered trying to climb in the trunk while he was pulling away, but it was locked, so now I’m sitting backstage at The Dump surrounded by people, staring at the wall. I can’t think. I can’t remember my name or how old I am. I can’t remember how I ever allowed myself to get to this point—forced into making an ass out of myself in front of a potentially violent crowd.
How exactly did this happen
? Even for me it’s mind-boggling.

People stop trying to talk to me and I concentrate solely on
breathing. I hear the crowd out front and my breath becomes ragged. The Stoned Rollers aren’t as popular as Smack Metal Puppets and Curt comes by repeatedly to tell me that there’s no one here. It’s
freaking empty
, he says. But I know better. I hear them waiting.

After a while, Curt sits beside me and smokes pot. I have a feeling he’s doing it on purpose so I will accidentally inhale his smoke. He removes three unidentified pills from a prescription bottle, swallows them with beer, then drums his finger in wild time to something inside his head.

Ollie comes backstage to see if I’m okay.

“You look a little pale,” he comments, but I don’t respond.

A girl I don’t know sits on my lap and I hardly notice. She says, “Everyone’s nervous their first time” in a sexy voice, but instead of making me hot it makes me want to puke.

Curt watches me and shakes his head.

“Shit,” he says. I can see the caption above his head.
SKINNY KID MAKES BIG FUCKING MISTAKE
.

The noise outside increases in volume and the lights dim. The dreadlocked woman sticks her head in.

“Time,” she says.

My stomach churns. Curt stands up and shakes his body like a boxer getting ready for a fight. He hops in place, spins in a half circle. His eyes look glazed, and he shrugs unnecessarily.

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