Fat kid rules the world (3 page)

It seems like a fair question, but Curt hesitates, then starts obsessively eating all the saltines from the cracker basket.

“That’s a good question,” he says at last, tugging at a plastic packet. “And I can tell you the answer because I wouldn’t keep anything from my friend who just bought me lunch.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d asked a question one might not want to answer.

“Well, I didn’t mean—”

Curt holds up a hand. “No, it’s really very simple.” He takes a deep breath. Shifts position.

“You see, technically, and this is only in the technical sense, legal court orders and all, so, yes, technically I live with my father, but that’s hard to do, really, so I don’t. You know, mostly ’cause he’s kicked me out a couple times. And left. But that doesn’t mean it’s out
of the realm of possibility that I could be living with my father….” He pauses, thinks things over, reassesses. “And there are some aunts and uncles sometimes, too, but it’s safe to say without
exaggerating
that they don’t like me in the sense of the word ‘like’ that would imply you might be allowed to live with someone.”

Definitely confused. I try asking a clarifying question. “What about your mom?” I ask, to which Curt nods vigorously.

“Well, yeah, of course that’s where I live. Mostly.” Another pause. “Except she married this asshole who”—he coughs—“is a
wife beater hypocrite asshole
, so really it’s more like I
used
to live with her, but now not really some of the time.”

I find myself staring at his lips as if I’m deaf.

“So, where exactly does that mean you live?” I finally ask. Curt shrugs, as if it’s obvious.

“You know, all over. With my mom. In lobbies. Friends. Smack Metal Puppets.”

The last is the name of a local punk band in the Village. I have everything they’ve ever produced, from demos to handmade posters, hidden in my sock drawer. It’s hidden so Dayle can’t make fun of me for liking them. They are amazing musicians—ultrahip in an emaciated, alienated sort of way—but if Dayle thought I listened to them he’d be on my case. So, I’m a closeted fan.

“Smack Metal Puppets?” I say, hopefully.

Curt sits up. “Yeah. You like them? Ever gone to a show?”

I can’t help but stare, slack-jawed, before swallowing hard.

“No. I mean, yes. I like them, but I’ve never gone to a show.”

Curt is animated for a second, then leans back and closes his eyes.

“Man. Big T, you should go. Raw stuff.”

It’s at this precise moment that I decide to stay as long as Curt wants me to. He doesn’t know it, but he’s just uttered the one word,
the one letter, that will buy him whatever he wants for the rest of the day. Fat Kid just got a nickname.

Curt keeps talking, but the conversation is over. All I do is grin, hoping he’ll say it just one more time.

IT’S BEEN AN HOUR
and Curt still hasn’t said we can go. I’ve ordered two pieces of pie and eaten them both.
FAT KID EATS TWO PIECES OF PIE
.
Is this okay
? I wouldn’t have ordered them except Curt asked me to. He said I had to buy him some time. Made me feel like we were in a spy movie, waiting for something big to happen. Except nothing big happens. Curt goes to the men’s room and I’m left staring at two empty pie plates.

Curt gets up a third time, but I’m too embarrassed to order more pie. I settle for inconspicuously cleaning the plate, but the waitress slides in across from me just as I’m running my finger over the white plastic, scooping up the last of the cherry filling. I’m caught, red-handed, but it’s too late to abort the mission.

“Who’s your friend, sweetheart? Is he all right?”

God, she’s hot. I sit there with cherry pie filling on my right index finger, trying to decide if I should lick it off or pretend it’s not there. I compromise by wiping it on my napkin, hoping she won’t notice, then wonder if someone as disgusting as I am will ever—
ever
—see a woman naked.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. He’s all right,” I say at last. “He just … gets sick a lot. He’s got stomach problems and he doesn’t get to eat, so when he does eat he gets too excited and it makes him sick.”

“Does he need to see a doctor?” she asks. I can tell she wants to
offer him money. Maybe clean him up and take him there herself. She doesn’t know what to make of me, but she’s sympathetic because I’m with him.

“Naw,” I say, sounding like an expert. “He’s done that before. He just needs to eat better.”

She nods in agreement as the bathroom door at the end of the diner opens. She winks at me and slides out of the booth. I can feel the heat rising through my body as she leans in close.

“Tell him he can eat here anytime,” she whispers, her hot breath on my neck. She walks away and I can’t take my eyes off her. That’s more attention than I’ve received from a female in my entire adolescence. I want to stay for the rest of the day, but Curt comes back and announces he’s ready to leave. He’s more subdued than he was on the way in, doesn’t run around me in a circle as I pay the bill, but once we’re outside in the glaring sunshine he sort of half jogs, half skips beside me. I’m mortified.
SKINNY KID SKIPS BESIDE HUGE FAT KID
.

Then I have to laugh. It comes out as a huff, then a chortle choked between my fat lips. Then I’m laughing so hard I don’t give a damn. Curt’s laughing, too, and I think for a minute, he understands.

SO, NOW I’M STANDING ON
the curb at Bleecker and Broadway trying to hail a cab. Five empty ones have passed and it’s starting to annoy me. I’ve never enjoyed hailing cabs—something about raising my huge fleshy arm like a target, then stepping toward traffic—and most of them don’t stop for me anyway.
Why stop for the Fat Kid when there’s a skinny person one block over
? Usually I make
Dad do it, or take the subway, but at this point the thought of walking even one extra block is too much. I expect Curt to take the hint and leave, but he doesn’t.

“So, uh … I gotta go,” I say at last.

A yellow cab is finally maneuvering through traffic, cutting off a half dozen other cars in order to reach me. I can already see the driver—a Chinese guy—debating his decision.
What does he see? Huge freak with cab fare
? Curt pretends he doesn’t hear me.

“What’s your instrument?” he asks as if we have all the time in the world. I suppose in Curt’s universe everyone naturally plays an instrument. I glance at the cabdriver and he glares, so I answer quickly.

“Drums. Junior high.”

Curt nods appreciatively. “That is most excellent because the very thing …” His voice is lost in the drone of traffic as I shuffle forward. I have to walk around the cab because Curt is leaning against the door on the passenger side. Typical New York, everyone pretends they can’t see me waddling into traffic. As soon as I attempt to open the door there’s an explosion of car horns culminating in a bagel truck slamming on its brakes and the driver giving me the finger. I look over at Curt to see if he’s noticed, but he’s oblivious. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face is contorted, and he’s playing air drums. Based on my minuscule confession, he’s now demonstrating his all-time favorite drum solo.

“A
bam, bam, braaat, braaat, bam, bam, bam, braaat, braaat, bam, bam, braaat, braaat, bam
… and then this sweet bass line jumps in and it’s
weeeehhh
…” Curt makes a high-pitched scream right there in the street and everyone who’s been staring at us looks away. Desperate, I fling open the cab door and slide in quick as I can, hoping Curt’s scream will mask my departure. Then I realize he’s climbing in the other side.

“What are you doing?” I ask, but Curt pretends he doesn’t hear.
I know he heard me because he raises the volume on his music monologue. I have to lean forward and shout to be heard by the driver as I yell my address.

Curt talks the whole ride home. He talks about chord progressions, then guitars. He names all the makes and models, then rates them. Then he lists them again in order of his rating. Then he changes the list and recites the
revised version
twice as if cementing it. He does the same thing, for my benefit I presume, with drum sets. Then he starts on bands.

It’s only a few blocks, but by the time the cab pulls up to my apartment building I think I might strangle him. Not only is he driving me insane but his stench is making me nauseated. I’ve tried to roll down the window without being too obvious, but when the cab stops, I bolt. I waddle over to pay the driver and Curt stands on the curb with his hands dug deep in his pockets. I hope he won’t notice as I take out my hidden ten-dollar bill, the one I told him I didn’t have, but he just stares at the pavement as the cabdriver grabs the money and steps hard on the gas.

I move onto the sidewalk and Curt and I stand there watching our cab disappear into the sea of cars making their way up and down Houston. The moment already makes the Awkward Hall of Fame, but as per my life, it has to get worse. Just when I’m thinking I’ve made a huge mistake letting this skinny kid follow me home, I see my little brother rounding the corner. Dayle’s holding a basketball, dripping sweat, and it’s obvious he’s been shooting hoops at Roosevelt Park while he waited to find out if I’d killed myself.

He swaggers forward, with attitude, moving the way you’re supposed to move when you live on the Lower East Side—the way I can never move. I think,
He fits here
. Unlike me, Dayle belongs in Manhattan. He’s good-looking, athletic, and he can fit in anywhere. Take Dayle to the Upper West Side and he’d be dating a stockbroker’s daughter. Take him to the Village and he’d be playing football with
the college kids at NYU. Me? I can live in the same neighborhood my whole life and still stand out like a sore thumb.

I watch him approach, wishing just once he’d trip and fall flat on his face. I’m dreading the moment he realizes Curt’s with me, and sure enough the first words out of his mouth make me cringe.

“You have
got
to be kidding.”

Dayle takes one look at Curt and knows I’ve done the wrong thing. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and Dayle wishes I’d taken the one that ended in front of the train. He won’t even look at me. He’s not only disappointed, he’s angry. He glares at Curt as if he’s already intuited Curt’s role in thwarting my attempt.

“Who is
this
loser?” he asks.

Curt breathes out slow.

“Ah,” he says, like a guru on a mountaintop, “the rude, twirpy one.”

Dayle sneers and I give him my “big brother look.” The look hasn’t worked for years—not since Dayle turned seven and started beating me in sports—but I always try it anyway.
Got to make the attempt, right
? That’s what I think, but then I decide I’m kidding myself.
If I were Dayle, would I listen to me
?

He redirects the sneer from Curt to me.

“Now what have you done?” he mutters under his breath, managing to sound pissed and offended all at once. Ever since Mom died Dayle’s been convinced I’m plotting to irreversibly humiliate him.

I clear my throat.

“Well …”

That’s when my father comes out of our apartment building. We don’t live in a big building, it’s a shabby five-story walk-up, but Dad still stops to lock the security door just in case someone decides to break in while his back is turned. He strides over and plants himself in front of me.

There are now only two options as I see them. Curt can leave or Curt can leave. Elvis or no Elvis, the time has come. I wait for Curt to make his exit, but he doesn’t move. My father gives him a single disdainful glance before focusing on me. Priorities. As usual, he radiates quiet disappointment. He’s a neon sign advertising the Blue Light Special:
Disappointed Dysfunctional Parent Disappointed Dysfunctional Parent
. I’m sure Curt can see it flashing.
Couldn’t anyone
?

“Where have you been?” he demands. The question is barked at top volume, and from the corner of my eye I see Curt nod in appreciation. My Dad is an ex-Marine and he has terrific lung capacity. Dayle smirks and opens his mouth to say something rude, but Curt interrupts.

“Band practice,” he says before anyone can answer. We turn as one and Curt nods, encouraged by our undivided attention. “Yup,” he says, “band practice.” I gape and he amends his statement.

“I mean, really just band formation, mental thought, planning today, but soon-to-be band practice of the most intense kind.”

No one can translate what’s just been said. I glance at Dad and his face is screwed up like a raisin. My dad is big, like me, but all muscle. Six foot, five inches of tall, lean Marine. Since he retired he does freelance security for rich people uptown who want their own personal commando. Dad fits the part. Like me, he keeps a crew cut, but his cheeks aren’t fat and he never huffs. He is not, under any circumstances, funny.

“We’re called Rage, or Tectonic, or Rage/Tectonic,” Curt continues. “Sort of a punk rock, Clash sort of thing.” He’s making it up as he goes along, but liking what he comes up with. The hint of a smile plays at his lips. My father turns to me.

“Troy? Who is this?”

For a moment, the entire absurd day flashes through my brain
and I know the only truthful answer is “I don’t know.” Then I think of every other pathetic day I’ve spent for the past seventeen years, and decide, just once, I’d like to pretend I’m in a rock band.

“Dad,” I say, “this is Curt MacCrae.”

A burst of laughter explodes across the street, and one of our neighbors yells something in Spanish. I swear they’re laughing at me. I picture the scene as everyone else must see it. Huge whale of an unsplattered Fat Kid, emaciated piece of dirty blond twine, repressed bewildered military machine, and Dayle. Three freaks and a normal kid standing on the sidewalk.

My brother looks like he wants to sink into the concrete. I almost feel sorry for him, and I wish he might find the whole thing funny. I mean, it is funny,
isn’t it
? But I can tell he doesn’t think so.

I shift position and my thighs rub together. No one says a word, and in the absence of a response, my mouth gets diarrhea.