Fat kid rules the world (12 page)

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.

“Awesome,” 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
.

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.

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 mouth 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.

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….

I imagine this is what it would feel like to try the best drug ever invented. My head’s spinning, my guts are pounding, my body is soaked. I’m thinking,
It doesn’t get any better than this. Nothing is better than this
.

Until they introduce Curt.

He comes on after the first break. It’s been over an hour of relentless, in-your-face songs and the audience is fatigued. People stand breathless during the break, arms limp, eyes glazed. The crowd mills aimlessly, semistoned, and I wonder how the Puppets will bring them back to life.

What I don’t realize is, they won’t. Curt will.

When the lights go off again there’s a swell of anticipation. I’m
exhausted, but the people beside me are watching, waiting. They know what’s coming….

Mike climbs back on stage and grabs the microphone in both hands. He holds it close to his mouth, breathes heavily, staring at us, knowing what we want.

“You all know what’s next,” he growls. The crowd roars.

“You all
know
what’s next,” he repeats. He smashes the microphone onto the floor and the sound system screeches. He yells in his true, raw voice.

“Curt MacCrae.”

The lights go black and the sound of Curt’s guitar wails over the audience. He plays a chord that sounds like the scream of someone being murdered, then the lights are back, blazing red, and Curt is center stage. I’m fully expecting his arrival, expecting what I heard at the subway, or at his house, but when the sound hits, my arms fall slack.

Curt isn’t Curt anymore. He moves with energy, plays with abandon. He’s everywhere and nowhere. He plays like he’s pissed at the world, but grins the whole time. Makes me feel like a starving man given a burger, then prime rib. The band joins in, but Curt plays circles around them. He’s two steps ahead, pushing, augmenting, twisting the music into something else.

There’s something almost frightening about it. He doesn’t look up between songs, and he throws his body around—crashes to the ground when he sings, “
Frustration is my only friend
,” leaps into the air at the first hint of manic lyrics, lies to us, pleads with us, tells us the truth. He smashes into the drum set, plays on the floor, cuts himself on the microphone stand, and bleeds all over the stage. The crowd can’t take their eyes off him.

His guitar progressions make me itch because they’re too fast, too loud, too constant. My brain can’t keep up. His voice is deep and
raw. It’s the exact opposite of everything he’s playing, cool to the guitar’s hot. First he’s angry, ranting into the microphone, then just when you’re surging with adrenaline his voice cracks and he lets you see what’s behind the anger.

The crowd responds. The energy’s the same, but the mood moves from manic to primed. The surges become deep, forward grooves rather than short, spastic thrashing and the fists linger a second longer before they pull back. Chaos turns to intent and by his third song Curt could lead us anywhere.
Anywhere
.

And the thing is, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t give a fuck. He’s into his music and nothing else. There’s no agenda. No moral to the story. No call to arms. Curt’s the same skinny, blond guy without a wardrobe, but he’s singing his guts out about life.
Life
. Smack Metal Puppets sing about rage, but Curt sings about the look on a rich man’s face when he hands you money. The Puppets sing about fear, but Curt sings about waking up nowhere, when it’s dark out and you’ve got no fucking clue where you are. And the whole time he’s singing the guitar is saying everything Curt won’t. It’s so clear I almost hear it in English.