Five Flavors of Dumb (10 page)

“If I spend much more time with your band, I may just check back into prison for a break!” he cried.

“That wouldn’t exactly help,” I pointed out.

“No, but then, what would? Don’t misunderstand me: I need the cash. But I’m still tempted to call the Battle of the Bands organizers and tell them to keep their money.”

I couldn’t exactly blame him, but flouncing around the room wasn’t achieving anything. “Sit down, Baz. Can’t you just pretend this isn’t about the money? It’s your chance to make them sound better.”

“And what about you? You’re a manager, or at least you claim to be. But you’ve suddenly got an extra member you don’t need, and the group’s sound has done a one-eighty. So what are you in this for, if it’s not the money?”

I sighed. “Okay, yeah, it’s about the money.”

He smacked his thigh. “
See?
”

“My parents raided my college fund to pay for my deaf sister to get a cochlear implant, and I thought maybe I could get Dumb some paid work.”

Even as I said it I realized how stupid it sounded, but Baz’s look of triumph disappeared immediately. He ran his hand along his ponytail, looked through the window into the studio, and rolled his eyes as Josh ogled Kallie from behind. “You seem like a honest person, Piper, and you know these kids better than me. So just tell me they’re worth the effort. Convince me this is a band worth fighting for.”

I watched Josh strutting, Ed practicing, Kallie hiding, Will spacing, and Tash gazing at Will, and realized that Baz was right. This wasn’t a group at all. There was no togetherness, no blending—just five separate flavors of an indigestible dish called Dumb.

Baz opened a magazine and sat down, propping his feet up like he was settling down for a restful afternoon. I didn’t even blame him. What else was he supposed to do? Dumb wasn’t his group, it was mine. Countless bands had come and gone in the time he’d been running his studio, most of them too insignificant to be mourned by anyone except the members themselves. And yet I already felt nostalgic as I peered through the glass and my eyes glazed over with tears. I wondered what might have been if they could only have put their egos aside and concentrated on the one thing that mattered most: playing music.

And that’s when the activity inside the studio stopped, and five pairs of eyes stared right back at me.

I walked through the door and stood before them, sighed deeply as I recalled the opportunity we’d thrown away. It was too wasteful, too frustrating to comprehend. And even though I knew I should apologize for contemplating quitting on them, I couldn’t do it. I was too angry. So angry I needed to hit something. Which is how my fist came to make contact with the cinder block wall.

“You idiots!” I screamed. “You’ve got free use of a studio, a professional mentor, and you still can’t even pretend to play together. Well, that’s about to change. You’re gonna work your butts off for the next hour, or I’m pulling the plug on everything: the MySpace page, the radio shows,
every
thing.” Josh raised his hand, but I shut him down. “Whatever the hell it is you think you’re about to say, Josh, forget it. Just shut up. Right now, all of you should be ashamed to be heard by anyone. Right now, I’m ashamed to be your manager.” No one moved a muscle. “Now, I’m going to beg Baz to give us one more hour. Just one hour. Unless you can make a song work by then, he’s done with you. And so am I.”

I turned on my heel and strode into the control room, where Baz greeted me with a subtle nod that assured me he approved of the plan. And for the next hour—while my knuckles bled and my hand throbbed—Dumb worked hard. My eyes told me that no single rendition was perfect, but after each one they compared notes, and listened as Baz offered suggestions.

When the session was over they looked exhausted, packing up their instruments in silence. One by one they filed past me without a word of support or dissent, and I realized that in forging a group from Dumb, I might have alienated myself. But then Ed shuffled by, and the grin he wore told me I’d done exactly what I needed to do.

In the far corner of the room, Baz ejected a CD and handed it over. “Here’s the best track—not perfect, but useable. If this is who Dumb is going to be, then send it out to radio stations, put it on your webpage. Start generating buzz. Get people listening.”

“Okay.”

“Look, you’ve got one recording session left. Do us all a favor and wait a while before booking it, okay? There’s a whole world of rock music out there, and you should get acquainted with it. Get everyone up to speed. Learn new material. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

He held out his hand and I shook it gratefully, and as our eyes met I had the feeling I’d earned that most elusive prize—his respect.

“One more thing,” he said, letting go of my hand. “I know the sacrifices rock bands make for their image, but people are going to notice if one of the members isn’t even playing.”

I gasped. “What? Who?”

“That new girl. Tash told me you wanted her microphone turned off. . . . Didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer that question, because I didn’t have to. Baz shook his head sympathetically, but as I left the studio I knew that whatever respect I’d just won had already evaporated. Maybe it was deserved too, because instead of thinking about how I should bring Tash back in line, I spent the rest of the day wondering if I could just cover the whole thing up.

But when had things ever been that easy?

The following day I received an e-mail from Phil:

Everyone was gratifyingly enthusiastic about the news, even though they still thought soft rock completely sucked. Tash made sure her mom let her off work that Wednesday evening, and after reminding me that school nights are for homework, my mom gave the go-ahead too.

The euphoria even carried over to the extra rehearsal Dumb scheduled for Wednesday lunchtime. I told them Phil would just be playing their MP3 on air, but they didn’t seem to care. For thirty minutes I sat back and felt the glimmer of pride that historically precedes the most catastrophic falls.

 

Rain was misting in from the Puget Sound when we arrived outside the downtown studio of KSFT-FM; or rather, the stained concrete office building within which the studio was buried. Windows reflected amber streetlamps, but there were no signs of life inside. I pressed a buzzer marked KSFT-FM, and waited.

And waited.

When 7:50 came and went, I pressed the buzzer again.

And waited again.

I was practically shaking by the time Ed tapped my arm to let me know the door had clicked unlocked. It was 7:56, so we tumbled inside, partly because we were getting drenched—being true Seattleites, none of us had brought an umbrella—and partly because our interview was due to start in, oh . . . four minutes.

I scanned the not-to-scale map on the wall and hurried everyone toward the only elevator. It was 7:58 when we made it to the fourth floor.

“What kept you?” said the breathtakingly large man who met us as the doors opened. “Never mind that. I’m Phil, and you need to take the second door on the right and get settled in the booth at the far end of the studio. I need to pee.”

As we hurried into the studio I realized there was no way we’d all fit into the booth. There was barely room for three people, and Phil seemed to equate to three people all by himself.

“I’ll stay out here,” I said. “You guys cram in. Just do your best.”

Ed placed his hand gently on my arm. “Where’s the producer?”

I looked around but there was no one else in the room. I shrugged.

Just then Phil bumbled back in, scanning the room like he’d lost his keys. “Anyone seen an ugly kid with acne?” he asked.

“No,” I said sharply, wondering which of us he meant.

“Damn. He was here a moment ago.” He pulled a fistful of gummy bears from his pocket and jammed them into his mouth, and suddenly I had no hope of understanding him. “That’s . . . trouble . . . interns,” he mumbled. “When . . . no pay . . . disappear.” He gawked at me like I was supposed to respond, but at least it gave him time to swallow. “Forget it. So which one of you wrote to me?”

I raised my hand.

“Great.”

Phil wrapped an arm around me and led me over to a desk just outside the booth. The pit-stain in his T-shirt was delightfully visible across my shoulder. Through the large window I could see Josh surreptitiously pulling a microphone toward him, ensuring he’d have a starring role in tonight’s interview, but everyone else had their back to me.

Suddenly Phil was tapping me on the arm. “You deaf or something?” he chuckled.

I nodded, pulled back my hair so he’d see the hearing aids. Phil didn’t seem thrilled by this discovery.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “Look, here’s what’ll happen. You’ll hear us through the studio monitors. Whenever I say it’s time for a break, you press this.” He pointed to a button on which the words “OFF AIR” had been handwritten in thick black ink.

I took a deep breath. “I might not be able to hear you.”

“But you can hear me now.”

“It’s different.”

Phil’s shoulders slumped. I got the feeling he was a man who was used to receiving bad news.

“Okay, look, when I raise my right hand”—he raised it helpfully to show me which one that was—“you press the ON AIR button. When I raise my left”—the other arm popped up—“press the OFF AIR button. Got it?”

I nodded, resisted the temptation to point out that deafness hadn’t yet compromised my ability to tell right from left, but thanks anyway. Besides, Phil was already barreling into the booth, evicting Josh from the office chair and exiling him to one of the off-balance stools on the other side. The office chair dipped about six inches when Phil sat down.

I swung around as I felt the floor vibrate. Ed had stamped his foot to get my attention. “I can do this if you’re not comfortable,” he said.

“No way.” I pointed into the booth. “You need to be in there.”

“You sure?” He squeezed my arm, just once, firm and comforting. I could feel the warmth of his hand through my sweater.

I swallowed hard. “Absolutely,” I lied.

Ed nodded and turned away while I examined the place where his hand had been. Seconds later, I glanced up to see Phil waving his right arm frantically.

I launched myself at the ON AIR button, and immediately Phil began rambling into his microphone. Then he paused and pressed a button in front of him, and the studio was filled with fuzz and static that resembled Dumb’s recording of “Loving Every Part of You.”

Behind the glass, Phil glared at me.“Pay attention,” he mouthed, all super-slow and super-large and super-duper-patronizing.
Schmuck.

I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself this interview wasn’t just a gargantuan mistake. It would’ve helped if I could have seen the band, but they all had their backs to me. I tried to read their body language, but they were all sitting bolt upright, which either meant (a) they had good posture, or (b) they were petrified.

When the static fizzled out, Phil leaned forward and resumed his monologue. I could even hear his voice, but the studio monitor inflected everything with a buzzing that obscured the words. It was a full minute before he smiled at Kallie to indicate she could reply, but I couldn’t see her lips. She began to hunch her shoulders too, a far cry from her customary breezy movements. I wished I knew what she was saying. I felt so helpless and inadequate, just watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, like that gave me any clue at all. But then I noticed Phil, beaming at her every word. Maybe Kallie had a talent for talking about soft rock after all.

Phil launched into another extended question, then stared at Kallie expectantly. She seemed more relaxed this time. I leaned back and forced myself to breathe normally again.

I was still focused on my breathing when I noticed Phil waving his left hand energetically. I pounced on the OFF AIR button and tried to remain stoic as he rolled his eyes.

Three minutes later I was directed to put them back ON AIR, and this time I never took my eyes off Phil. No matter what, I didn’t want to miss another cue.

Phil’s questions kept coming, and Kallie’s answers seemed to delight him. He laughed with childlike innocence, waggled his finger, clapped appreciatively, then licked his lips and drank from a cracked mug like a man dying of thirst. When he thunked it down on the desk before him, he turned bright red, and it dawned on me that he was acting the way Josh did around Kallie. In fact, he seemed to have regressed about thirty years, practically leering at her.

Oh God. Phil was coming on to Kallie.

I checked the other band members and quickly worked out that Phil’s crush on Kallie was the least of my worries. Josh had shifted his chair so that it touched Kallie’s, and his arm rubbed hers in a proprietary “she’s taken, dude” way that made me want to retch. Meanwhile, Tash had fully turned her chair ninety degrees, to get a better view of the girl she evidently planned to dismember later that evening. I glanced at my watch and willed the remaining few minutes to pass without violence.

As soon as Phil signaled for me to take them OFF AIR, I gladly obliged, then pushed open the door to the booth and began ushering Dumb’s members away. Phil’s eyes remained locked on Kallie’s butt as she exited the room, her face caught somewhere between surprise at all the attention she’d received and fear at the vague premonition she was about to suffer a Tash takedown.

“That Kallie is a stunner, huh?” sighed Phil, as soon as we were alone.

I tried not to gag. “She’s seventeen.”

“That’s okay,” he laughed, scratching his belly. “I can wait a year.”