Thunderbowl (5 page)

I stopped playing in the middle of the song and went backstage, disgusted.

Suzanne was waiting for me back there. We waited for the noise out front to die down. Only it didn't. I had a quick look out and saw that Al and Drek had waded in and were now part of the brawl. And somewhere out there in the battle were The Mongrel Dogs.

Suzanne suggested we get out of there before the cops came in the front door. I didn't have any better ideas. As the screams got louder, we slid out the stage door and got into her car.

Suzanne drove me to Al's apartment. I had nowhere else to go. We sat out on
the back steps and waited for him to show up. At last he came up the sidewalk, and Suzanne got up to go. She gave me a kiss on the forehead.

Al was laughing. “You should have seen what I did to Richie. He never knew what hit him.”

“Spare me the details, Al,” I said. His shirt was torn and he had dried blood at the corner of his mouth. “You mind if I crash here for the night?” I asked.

“No sweat, Germy.” He unlocked the door and let me into a living room that looked like a tornado had struck it. “Pull up a floor and go to sleep.”

The cops closed down The Dungeon for two weeks. Stewy was fuming, but he promised we would have the gig back when he reopened. When Drek asked him about the record company scout, Stewy looked blank. Then he said that the guy would probably come by when we were back playing. And then again, maybe not.

That's when things started to go wrong with the band. Maybe it was just me. I couldn't get used to being away from home. We'd practice a couple of hours a day, try out a few new tunes. But my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't feel the music, couldn't get that feeling back.

Now that I was free from hassling parents, I kept waiting for the excitement to begin. But it wasn't easy living with Al's stereo blasting twenty-four hours a day. Sleeping on the couch in Al's apartment wasn't much fun either. The apartment always smelled like a locker room. He was getting on my nerves, and without school or money, life was turning into a major drag. To top it off, I missed stuff from home that I had always taken for granted. Meals, for example. Peanut butter sandwiches were getting pretty boring. But with The Dungeon closed, none of us had any money coming in.

After a couple of days I phoned my parents and told them where I was staying.
Then I told them that I had quit school. But I didn't say anything about The Dungeon closing.

“We want you to come home, Jeremy,” my mother said. “Maybe we can come up with some kind of compromise.”

“I don't know. Give me some time to figure things out, Okay?” I said. I really wanted to just give in and go home. But I knew if I did that, Thunderbowl was done for and I would have to admit that they were right all along.

“Your dad can get you a job on the inventory counter at his work if you want,” my mom told me. “You can try it and see how it goes.”

“But I have a job,” I said. I meant The Dungeon, but right then I didn't even have that. I had nothing. The whole idea of rock-and-roll stardom was beginning to fade. I still wanted the music. I just didn't know if I wanted all the other hassles that went along with it.

Al and Drek were sure that the Dogs had started the fight at The Dungeon on purpose. They figured that it was the only way they could get the gig back—by making us look bad.

“How do you know?” I asked. It was Friday night after our first week off. We were trying to practice but getting nowhere.

“Logic,” Drek said.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “What proof do you have? I know they were heckling and being jerks.”

“You don't need proof with those Mongrel Dogs. They've been ticked off from the beginning because we took their gig away,” Drek answered.

Al picked up the newspaper from what passed for a coffee table. “Hey, guess who's playing the dance at the community center tonight?” he asked. He had a devilish gleam in his eyes.

Drek grabbed the paper from Al's hand. His eyes lit up. “Yeah. Right on. The Mongrel Dogs in person! Maybe we should go check it out.”

“Yeah, maybe we should. What do you say, Germ?” said Al.

“Why not?” Practice had been less than inspired. And I kind of wanted to hear what Richie was like as a guitar player. I'd only seen him at the Battle of the Bands, and I don't think he'd had a good night.

But I should have known what Al and Drek had in mind.

The community center was stuffed with high school kids. It felt really weird to be at a scene like this, around people my own age again.

The Mongrel Dogs were tuning up. You could hear them arguing and swearing at each other over their PA system. They seemed pretty crude.

But suddenly Richie held up two fists and they stopped arguing. As he brought his arms down, he hammered a chord on his guitar.

The Mongrel Dogs started playing music. It was louder than any band I ever heard. Louder than Thunderbowl. They came on like a hurricane, and the sound was almost enough to knock you over. At first it just sounded like noise. Angry noise.

But kids were dancing. I kept watching Richie as he slammed away at his poor
battered guitar. Very slowly the music moved from raunch to rock. I could actually hear someone singing. There was a backbeat and even a tune to it.

The more I listened, the more I liked it. The crowd was hooting and hollering. They loved it—and I could see why. The Mongrel Dogs had turned all their nastiness into some very fine music.

Not all of Thunderbowl was in agreement with this opinion.

“Listen to that garbage,” Al said.

“I think I'm going to puke,” Drek said, pretending to heave his guts.

Al pulled us to the back of the hall and into the men's room. The music was still so loud he had to shout.

“I say we get back at them for closing down The Dungeon.”

“We don't know they started the fight,” I reminded him. “And even if they did, this could make things worse. Just forget it.”

“Forget it? Are you crazy?” Drek said.
“Richie tried to get you canned, Germ, remember? We owe him something.”

Drek started cracking his knuckles.

“Listen,” Al said in a sort of whispered shout. “I have a plan.”

I tried to talk them out of it, but it didn't do any good.

When The Mongrel Dogs took their break, we waited until we were sure they were outside, having a smoke. Then, in a flash, we jumped up on the stage.

I felt really strange picking up Richie's guitar and flicking on his amp. I kept asking myself, “What am I doing this for?”

Al sat down at the drums, turned on the microphone. Drek picked up the bass and thumped out a few low mean notes. “We thought you guys might want to hear some real music,” Al told the audience.

Al launched into the beat for “I'm Alive.” Drek was piecing together a bass riff. My fingers felt like they were frozen. The audience looked puzzled. A few people clapped. But as soon as I saw
The Mongrel Dogs appear at the back door, I wished I had never shown up.

The Dogs were outraged. I watched Richie, Ike and Louie walking through the dancing kids toward us. They were boiling. Behind me, I heard Al give out a maniac laugh. Drek just kept on playing like nothing was about to happen.

I tried to think of an easy way out of this. Nothing was coming but bad news.

So I just stopped playing in the middle of the song.

“Jeremy, you chicken…” Al growled at me through clenched teeth. He was still playing. Then Drek stopped.

I offered Richie back his guitar. Maybe I had chickened out. Or maybe I had realized all along that we were being jerks.

Richie grabbed the neck of his guitar and swung it hard at me like it was a battle-ax. I dodged out of the way just in time and watched it smash into his amplifier. The sound was like an explosion. The guitar busted in half.

Louie had jumped on top of Drek and was trying to choke him. Al had already put a hold on Ike and had him nearly down to the floor. It was getting very ugly.

Several men from the community center started yelling at us. Soon they grabbed us and threw us out into the street.

“If any of you ever show up back here again, we'll have you arrested,” one of them said. We had wrecked the dance and we had ruined the gig for The Mongrel Dogs.

But the war was not over. Richie was ready to come at me. His fingers were curled up into claws. There was hate written all over his face.

Al and Drek and the two Dogs were already bashing away at each other again. Some kids had come out to watch and were egging them on.

And I was mad too. But you know, I was angrier at myself than at anyone else. How did I let myself get into this?

“Let's call a truce,” I said to Richie.

“Sure,” he snarled. “Right after I ruin your face.”

I tried to reason with him. “Look, there's no point to this.”

“So what?” He swung a lethal fist toward my Adam's apple.

“We shouldn't have messed around with your equipment,” I admitted.

“That's right, and now you're going to pay!” Richie threw himself in a headlong dive for my gut. He wanted to bring me down where he could do some real damage.

He charged so fast and so mean that I wasn't about to stand up to him. Instead I dodged out of the way. He lost his balance and fell headfirst into the street.

A car was coming, and the driver slammed on his brakes. The tires screeched as the wheels locked. Richie was right in its path.

I made a lunge to grab him, but instead ran smack into the side of the car. I bounced back to the curb and fell in a heap. The car
had stopped. I stood up and looked down at Richie. He was rolling over on his side, his head down under the front license plate. The wheels had come so close to running him over.

Slowly, Richie got to his feet. I saw the fear, the terror in his face.

The driver, a fat man maybe fifty years old, got out and started screaming, “Oh my God! Are you all right?”

Richie was speechless. He shuffled over to the curb and just sat there with his head hung down between his knees.

Al and Drek walked over to me. Their clothes were torn and Drek's glasses were busted.

“I'm quitting,” I said. I couldn't take any more of this. I'd just have to learn to live without music.

Richie had the dry heaves. Ike and Louie were trying to calm him down. The driver of the car had gone into hysterics. “The guy just threw himself under my wheels. What was I supposed to do?”

“You can't quit, Germ,” Al said. “Not because of them.” He pointed at The Mongrel Dogs.

“It's not because of them. It's what's happening to me,” I told him.

I went home that night and told my parents what had happened. Nobody gave me a lecture.

“What are you going to do now?” my father asked.

“I'm going to figure something out,” I said.

“Can we help?” my mother asked.

“I don't think so. But thanks.” It felt good to be home again.

In the morning I phoned Stewy and told him that Thunderbowl needed to meet with him. I said it was urgent. Stewy sounded annoyed, but that was nothing new. I got Al on the line next and told him to get Drek. I wanted them to meet me at The Dungeon in an hour.

Then came the hard part. I had to convince Richie to bring himself and the other Dogs back to The Dungeon.

“Are you out of your mind?” he said on the phone. “You nearly got me killed last night.”

“Come on,” I said. “Just be there.” Then I hung up.

I was sitting on the back steps of The Dungeon when Al and Drek showed up. Richie's pickup pulled in right behind them. You could feel the tension building as everyone got out on the sidewalk.

I didn't give anyone a chance to say a word. “I want to make a deal,” I said to Richie. He had a cigarette drooping from
the corner of his mouth. I noticed the chain he was wearing for a belt.

“We don't make deals,” Louie answered for him.

“What kind of deal?” Richie asked.

“I want The Dogs to share the gig with Thunderbowl when The Dungeon reopens. Two nights a week for you. Two nights for us.”

Al grabbed my arm and started to twist. “You've lost your marbles, Germ-brain. We don't make deals with them.”

“Then you won't have me on guitar, man. This is the only way I keep playing,” I said, loud enough for The Mongrel Dogs to hear.

Al and Drek looked stunned. They waited for me to say something else, but I just kept my mouth shut and let the words sink in.

“We've gotta talk,” Drek said, grabbing my other arm and leading me toward the van.

“No,” I insisted. “There's nothing to talk about.” I pulled away from him and
walked over to Richie. “What do you say, Richie?”

“What are we supposed to do in return?” he asked, grinding his cigarette out with his boot.

“Nothing,” I told him. “Just play music.”

Stewy appeared just then. He looked like he thought he had stumbled into an alligator pit. He couldn't figure out why the alligators weren't fighting. He looked warily around. “What's going on?” he asked.

I explained the arrangement. I told him that everyone had agreed to it. No one said otherwise.

Stewy looked off down the alley at some overflowing trashcans, like he was studying garbage. Then he turned to me. “I like it,” he said. “Thunderbowl and Mongrel Dogs, together under one roof. If you can keep from fighting each other, it just might draw some more people. You're on.”

So it's Friday night and Thunderbowl is tuned up and about to begin. But tonight we're not playing The Dungeon. We're playing (can you believe it?) a high school dance. At my high school. And I'm loving every minute of it.

School, in the daytime, is still your basic pain. But when has it been otherwise? I phoned Langford and asked
him what I had to do to drop back into school.