Fat kid rules the world (17 page)

“It’s just three songs,” he says. “No big deal. If we suck, we suck. That’s what you’ve got to tell yourself. We’re not doing it for them. We’re just, well, you know …
playing music.
”

I realize I’m supposed to get that by now, but I can’t even nod. Ollie stands behind Curt and surveys the scene.

“I don’t know, man,” he says. “He’s not looking so good….”

Curt shakes his head, quick and decisive. “No way. He’ll be fine. He’ll be great. T is the essence of punk rock, see, and once he gets out there he’s going to kick some serious skinny ass.” He smiles, and
picks up his guitar. “Yeah,” he says again, as if convincing himself. He looks over at me.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s get this show on the … uh … yeah. Let’s go.”

I stand behind a makeshift curtain waiting to be announced.
How absurd is that
? Me, waiting to be announced. Me, Troy, who has made a lifetime career of trying to disappear, am now standing behind a curtain waiting to be
ANNOUNCED
.

Curt leans toward me.

“Play
anything
,” he says. “Kill time until you’re ready.” He’s starting to get nervous. To doubt his judgment of me. I stare straight ahead.

I hear someone on the other side of the curtain say our name. They say it splashy-like. “
Rage/Tectonic
.” I’m in a dreamy state, contemplating the sound of the announcer’s voice.

Curt slides on stage and plays the opening chord then looks back at me, still stuck halfway behind the curtain. The crowd goes wild as Curt glares at my incapacitated form. They don’t know why, but they know he’s pissed. He plays the entire first song while I do nothing but watch. He plays it loud and mad and it sounds good.

I watch intently, thinking I should leave, but after the song ends, he stops and says, “I’ve got a drummer for this one.” He motions me out and I swear my limbs won’t move. They’re thick like Silly Putty. My nausea increases.

I waddle on stage and for the first time see the mass of faces below me. They’re everywhere, looking up expectantly, and I can tell they’re waiting for me to screw up. Waiting for the Fat Kid to look like a moron so they can laugh and laugh.

I take my place behind the drum set and my brain turns to helium. Everyone stares, waiting for me to pop.

Curt buys time by tuning his guitar. He looks back and talks low under his breath.

“Don’t bail on me,” he whispers. “I swear to the big fucking A, Troy. Don’t bail on me.”

I don’t respond. I’m staring into the audience, knowing I cannot lift my fat arms in front of all these perfect, competent, skinny people. I cannot pretend to be a rock star. My nauseous stomach lurches as if I’ve just crested the top of a mammoth roller coaster. I can taste the bile in my mouth and then …

I am Mount Vesuvius.

Everything I’ve eaten for a week erupts. Canned ravioli, leftover pizza, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, mashed potatoes, Twinkies, Sprite, pretzels, bean burritos … I am the mother of all volcanoes.

There is stunned silence. Absolute and total silence. There’s vomit everywhere, covering the stage like Pompeii. I wait for the laughter, and decide that when it comes I will literally die. I will stop my heart by sheer force of will.

Then I hear it. Someone
is
laughing. It’s Curt. He stares, wide-eyed, grinning like he’s just seen the best show on earth.

“Holy shit,” he says. He turns to the stunned crowd.

“How’s that for punk rock?” he asks them. He grins, then says it again louder with both middle fingers extended. “How’s that for fucking punk rock? Now that was a very new thing.” He screeches his guitar and the crowd goes nuts.

I SHOULD STAY. REALLY, I SHOULD.
Curt has just saved my life. For the second time. I should stay to clean up the drum set. I should stay to apologize to Ollie.

I don’t stay.

I make a stupid bow, playing along with Curt’s charade, then leave the stage in a haze, waddling back the way I came. I hear the crowd yelling, cheering, thrashing, leering … but I don’t see them. I don’t see Curt either, even though I hear him playing. I’m only conscious of walking, one foot in front of the other until I’m off, through the back room and out the exit. I don’t breathe until I’m outside.

I stand in the alleyway behind The Dump, right next to the Dumpster. It’s overflowing and smells like shit. I puke again onto the sidewalk, then wipe my mouth with my T-shirt. A rat crawls by and I shoo it away. Nearly makes me sick again, but this time I hold it in. I keep thinking,
This is the worst day of my life
. I try to remember every horrible day just to be sure, then I confirm it. Yes, short of the day my mother died, this is the worst day. It ranks number one uncontested on the humiliation list.

I step around loose garbage to reach the curb, then hail a cab. While I wait my eyes get all red and puffy. I ignore them, concentrating instead on the putrid taste in my mouth. I look down at my shirt to see if there are any stains. Of course there are. It figures. It just figures.

I shake my head and think,
Well, at least it must’ve been funny
. I’m sure it was funny for someone. It was funny for Curt, right? Curt laughed right away. The audience laughed once he did.

He saved my ass, there’s no denying that, but I hate that he laughed. Why did he think it was funny? It wasn’t. It wasn’t fucking funny.

A cab pulls up, and I rub my eyes, then turn to stare at The Dump one last time before climbing inside.

I TELL DAD I’M SICK
and he lets me stay home from school for three days. Curt calls fifteen times, but I ignore his calls. Ollie calls twice, but I won’t talk to him either. Instead, I eat.

In seventy-two hours I eat an entire Entenmann’s cherry cheese danish, one whole lasagna, five corn muffins, three cans of Chunky soup, two bags of Doritos, one can of Pringles, a package of Oreos, six bagels with cream cheese and jelly, eight fried eggs, a box of Wheat Thins, leftover turkey and stuffing, three-quarters of a meatloaf, and three cans of SpaghettiOs. I eat everything in the cupboard but refuse to leave the house to buy more. I imagine myself stepping onto the curb in front of our apartment and everyone in Manhattan doubling over in laughter, or vomiting when they see me.

I tell myself I’m doing the world a favor by staying inside.

FAT KID MARTYR
.

I don’t practice the drums the entire time. I sit in my room and stare at my drum set, but absolutely do not pick up the sticks. Dad asks what’s wrong, but I won’t tell him. Would you admit to your father that you threw up on stage at a place called The Dump? I don’t think so. Dayle doesn’t even ask. He assumes I’ve screwed up, but I don’t care. He’s right, so I just think,
Fuck him. That’s how it’s going to be. End of story
.

Except for Curt.

Or maybe I should say
except for Ollie
. It’s Ollie who gets my attention.

Thursday afternoon I’m watching television when the phone rings. I’ve been avoiding the phone all week, but I figure at this point I’m safe. I’m reaching for the scrap paper to take a message for Dayle when I hear the voice on the other end. It’s Ollie.

“Hello?”

I pause. Part of me, the same part that turns purple and starts huffing with embarrassment, wants to hang up immediately. But another part is curious, so I clutch the phone tightly.

“Hello,” I say. There’s a sigh of relief on the other end.

“T, is that you? I’ve been trying to reach you all week, man. I kept getting your kid brother and he told me he was giving you my messages but …”

He pauses, waiting for me to make some excuse about not getting them. I don’t.

“Well, anyway,” he says, “I was hoping you’d come back for a few more lessons. I could use the money.”

FAT KID CHARITY
. I see
right
through him.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I don’t think so. I’m not really cut out to be …” I choke on the words and Ollie jumps in before I can say anything else.

“Listen,” he says, “I know you’re embarrassed about the gig, but you shouldn’t be. You’re a fucking legend now, man. I’ve been trying to get through to tell you. Everyone thinks it was a stunt and a goddamn cool one at that. People ask about you. They talk about the great vomit incident.” He laughs. “It’s not as big a deal as you think.”

I put down the bag of Doritos and turn off the television, conscious that my body is suddenly alert. I want to believe him, but I threw up all over the freaking stage. It doesn’t get worse than that.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I really can’t.”

There’s a long pause. I think he’s going to hang up, but he doesn’t and when he talks again he almost sounds angry.

“Fine,” he says, “but if you’re not going to come back for you, then at least do it for Curt. He thinks you hate him because you won’t return his phone calls. He knows you’re home because he’s been sleeping in the park beside your apartment building.”

I choke. “What?” There’s a clicking sound on the other end and I imagine Ollie’s huge skull ring clicking against the receiver.

“Yeah, well, don’t tell him I told you, but he has been. Curt has a hard time when people bail, you know. I keep telling him you’re just embarrassed, maybe you need some time to get over this, but he’s not doing so good….” He pauses, then speaks carefully. “Now, I’m not telling you what to do, but if I were you I’d get my
ass
up and find him. I think he’s moved to one of the subway stations now….” He pauses again, waiting for my response.

“Ollie,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

I HAVE A GOOD IDEA
which subway station Curt will be in. I make my way to Second Avenue and start scouring the place. Filth-stained underground pit that it is, I don’t see how anyone could sleep here. Ever.

I look gingerly, not wanting to touch anything, and I’m being so careful that I trip over Curt before I notice he’s there. Suddenly, I’m falling forward and down, belly first onto the food-stained, spit-splattered concrete. My body becomes a wave tank of flesh, rippling back and forth until I skid to a stop. My chin is bleeding and a small crowd stares in morbid fascination.
INSTANT FAT KID FETISH
.

Curt wakes up pissed. He sits up, frantic, then glares at me from his position on the floor.

“What the hell did you do that for?!” he asks. “Can’t you tell when a person is sleeping? You don’t wake a guy up like that.” His brow furrows accusingly.

I’m trying to get up, but can’t get my balance. I’m on my knees in
a patch of gum, feeling the blood trickle down my chin. The woman nearest me opens her mouth then closes it again and again, like a fish.

“Sorry … sorry … sorry,” I say to the crowd, then wonder what the hell I’m sorry for. No one else has blood trickling down their chin.

“Sorry,” I say again, this time to Curt. For the first time he seems to focus.

“What are you doing down there?” he asks.

I’m halfway up, so I shrug.

Curt runs his fingers through his hair and says, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here because you
so
fucking owe me dinner.”

WE’RE AT THE DINER
and Curt is slumped against the
PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
sign. He looks terrible. Worse than I’ve ever seen him, and he won’t talk to me, just pops his dirty feet out of his sneakers then slides them back in again. He sneezes, closes his eyes, and makes a strange noise through his nose. Everyone looks over.

“How you been?” I ask when the silence stretches too long. “I mean … since the gig?” It’s a stupid thing to say. Anyone with eyes can tell how Curt is. He’s got dark lines permanently etched into his face, a bruise on his left temple. His hair’s so dirty it looks brown.

Curt grins.

“Good,” he says, quickly. “Really good. I’ve been writing new stuff. You know, for when we practice again. I figured you’d come
back. I figured it….” His voice trails off and he picks at the chipped plastic on the sign. I open my mouth to say something, but that’s when our waitress comes up. It’s the same waitress we had the first time and she looks sexy.

“Look who’s back,” she says, smiling. She takes a longer look at us and her smile fades.

“Aren’t you two a pair,” she comments. I think she means fat and skinny, then realize she means bleeding and filthy. She’s staring at my chin, and at Curt.

“Over here,” she says, nodding at our table. She puts one hand on her hip and I watch her wrists turn out. My body reacts against my will and I have to slide quickly into the booth.

Curt sneezes and wipes his nose with his sleeve. He puts his head down.

“Don’t feel good,” he mutters, then closes his eyes.

“Sorry,” I say, but it’s not what he wants to hear. His head snaps back up.

“Don’t be fucking sorry,” he says. “Why are you apologizing for my snot?” He picks up the menu and pretends to read it, then slides it to the front of the table and sinks down low.

“I’m fine,” he says, “and if you hadn’t woken me up I’d feel better now.”

I nod, but I can’t stop staring.

“Sorry,” I say again without thinking. I cringe and Curt glares.

“Forget it,” he says. “I’m not speaking to you anymore.”

It sounds final, but two minutes later he asks, “How much money you got? And
then
I’m not speaking to you.”

I reach into my pocket to pull out a twenty.

Nothing but lint.

I reach in again, stretching out the fabric of my tan pants as I raid my empty pockets. I know I had a twenty. I know I did.

“It must’ve fallen out when I tripped,” I mutter.

Curt frowns, surprisingly unfazed. He reaches into his own pocket and takes out a twenty.

“Fine, be that way,” he says. “Now you owe me twice….”

I STARE AT THE TWENTY,
then back at Curt. He ignores me and changes the subject.

“Why’d you bail?” he asks, staring at the saltshaker.

The question is unprompted. I squint at Curt, and he drums his fork on the table, but won’t look me in the eyes. He asks the question casual-like, as if it’s just any old question, but there’s an edge to it. I almost say I’m sorry, but catch myself in time.