How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets (28 page)

W
HEN EVAN CLIMBS out of the taxi in the parking lot, Lars howls like a banshee and rushes at him. He grabs Evan’s head with his hands, huge and clammy like slabs of beef, and plants a kiss firmly on Evan’s lips.

“You are the man.
You
are. Nobody else, baby. Just you.”

Lars is glowing with excitement, and he’s bigger than Evan remembered. Only away a week and Lars has grown a couple of inches. His stick-straight polar-bear hair is short and standing at weird angles. Definitely styled. His cheeks are red. He looks like he’s dropped a couple of pounds.

“Are you on a diet?” Evan asks.

“Yes. Absolutely. The camera adds ten pounds. I’ve been starving myself since last week. What do you think of my hair?”

“It’s nice.”

“My mom sent me to her hairdresser, some twinkle-toes at the Lake Forest Park Mall. But he knows how to use the gel, right?”

Lars smiles down at Evan.“You came, ” he says.

Evan smiles back. Yes, he did. He put everything aside, his foundering relationship with Mica, his floundering relationship with Dean. All aside for this. So he could stand in the barren parking lot of The Sound Factory at ten-thirty A. M. with Lars kissing him.

“Everyone’s inside, ” Lars says. “Let’s go.”

Inside they go. Evan has his guitar and amp for the beginning of the day’s events. The plan calls for them to play for an hour or so, for the benefit of a writer from
Entertainment Weekly
who’s up from L. A. to do an article on Peter Buck, but was willing to stop by as a special favor to Mel. Then they’ll junket together to a slate of meetings and introductions with key players in the Seattle record biz, then on to a photo shoot and the gig.

They quietly greet Sybil, who looks a little dazed to be behind the reception desk at such an early hour, but who manages to form a mousy smile at Evan as they pass. They march straight to Studio B, where Rod, Tony, Mel Kidd and a sweet little thing of a girl in a teeny, sheer dress await.

Mel, the precocious president of Template Records, is a slight man, with a full head of dark curly hair and perpetual razor stubble on his face. To call him a man might be a stretch. He isn’t
actually
a man—he’s only twenty-four—but he plays at being a man very well. And he certainly
looks
like a man when he wears his too-cool black suit and floppy collared shirt from agnès b. (sans tie) as he wields an awfully large expense account around the Seattle music scene wooing pre-emergent bands with tales of his prowess. He knew about the demise of Soundgarden before it demised. He knew about the death of Kurt Cobain before he died. He knew about the birth of Eddie Vedder before he was born. He’s a magus man. He’s the one who brought the myrrh. He’s the one who sold his watch, cut off his hair.

“Evbee!” he shouts enthusiastically. Evan winces. He’s only met Mel in passing twice, so he would hardly call them close, so what’s with the “Evbee?” Billy is the only one who ever calls Evan “Evbee.”

“Hi, Mel, ” Evan replies with a smile.“Good to see you again.”

“Lars told me you were holing up in Yakima. A little spiritual revitalizing. Honing your edge. Well, welcome back to civilization. How’s everything? How’s your son? How’s that girlfriend of yours? I bet she rocks your world, huh? What a body! I heard she’s forty-three.”

“She isn’t, ” Evan says.

“
I
heard she’s a lesbian, ” Lars adds with a phony grin.

“She isn’t, ” Evan grins back.

“I heard she’s fucking Keith Richards, ” Rod says.

Evan glares at him, not knowing how exactly to respond to that one.

“Evbee, this is Tumi, ” Mel says, indicating the waif of a girl in the corner.“From
Entertainment Weekly
.”

The girl steps forward.

“Nice to meet you, Evan, ” she purrs.

“Likewise, ” Evan replies.

“Delightful, ” Mel says with a wink at Evan.“Well, you people all have work to do, ” he announces. “I’ll be on my way for now. Remember, the van is picking you up in one hour to take you to lunch. Don’t be late. I’ll see you at the gig. Just leave your gear here, I’ll make sure it all arrives at the club and is set up for you.”

He pauses flamboyantly, as if he expects applause or a fanfare or something.

“I’ve done my job here, ” he adds, when he realizes he isn’t getting whatever it is he wants.“Now you people: make magic!”And he rushes out of the room.

There’s silence in his wake, then giggles.

“What a freak.” Rod laughs, shaking his head.

And then suddenly everyone is all over Evan. Rod and Tony giving Evan hugs, welcoming him back. Tumi hitting him up with a couple of quick questions. Lars smacking his drums as Evan tries to answer her, which, of course he can’t do very well because he can’t hear himself talk with the drums beating. Tumi is snapping pictures of the band—but concentrating on Evan, mostly—with a camera that’s so big it seems to swallow her face every time she puts it to her eye. And suddenly, before Evan is really ready, a jam starts, just like the old days, the early days of the band when they didn’t really know each other and they actually listened to what everyone else was playing. They just start up, which is maybe the most surprising thing to Evan. That Rod and Tony are making eye contact with Evan. That they
smile
at him. Which, he figures, has to be because Tumi is there, recording it all for posterity. You have to present a unified front to the media, after all.

And all of this sudden energy in the room, all of it, Lars throwing himself around behind the drums, Rod jumping up and down as he plays, and Tumi dancing to the music like some kind of eighteen-year-old groupie (she whirls and whirls and tosses her hair around her face and the guys wiggle their eyebrows at each other because when she whirls her short dress blows up and you can see her underwear), all of this instant energy makes Evan forget what’s been on his mind for the last sixty hours, since he threw Mica out, since he cast Dean overboard, that while he’s in Seattle to be with his band, he is really very much alone.

Evan forgets it all. How numb the drive was from Yakima; the sense of an ending without closure. How ugly he’d felt standing at the window in his apartment—his grandfather’s apartment—looking out at Lake Union as Dean had done not long before. How he had woken up Monday morning yearning to go sailing with Dean somewhere, exploring somewhere. How he wonders, every minute, where Dean is and what he’s doing and if he’s all right; fearful that today of all days, Dean may decide to go Rollerblading without his helmet, he may trip and fall, his head may kiss the corner of a curb, his life may be altered forever.

All that is forgotten.

As they pile into a ratty, blue passenger van, Tumi rubbing her naked thigh against Evan’s jeans and smiling at him slyly, as the van bursts up Airport Way toward town, toward the “M” Hotel and lunch with Sally Roebucks, publicist
extraordinaire
, as they adjourn their meeting with Sally to meet with Sam Max, the flashy video director who somehow hitched a ride on a rocket going straight to the stars and was completely hot and completely famous even though he had done little more than make a silly short film that Roman Polanski said was too daring to show in the United States and therefore had been shown absolutely everywhere in the United States. As they are photographed by Philip, the famous rock-and-roll photographer who spends much of the afternoon recreating images from the greatest album covers of his time, which he claims was the seventies, although he seems to be too old to be hip as recently as the seventies. (“A millennial version of
Abbey Road
.” “A millennial version of
Who’s Next.
”“A millennial version of . . .”)

As the day flashes by him. As the wheels of the van squeal around corners, zig and zag past Hondas and Suburus and Volkswagen Jettas, driven by bland people with beards and Patagonia shirts. As the Frappaccinos are guzzled, as a heavy buzz of sugar and fat and caffeine settle on the group. As people talk and point while Tumi snaps pictures, flashing away helplessly, trying somehow to alter nature’s giant flashbulb in the sky. As his dream of rock stardom sits in his lap like a warm orb, a big ball of heat, Tumi sticking her tongue in his ear while the fun-house faces of Lars and Tony and Rod grin at him and laugh and laugh.

“Hey!”

Evan looks up. He shakes off his daze.

“Want some chowder or something?”

What? Lars. They’re parked outside of Ivar’s on the waterfront.

“What time is it?” Evan asks.

“Seven. You okay?”

Okay? Sure. Fine.

“I must have fallen asleep, ” Evan says.

“Really? I told the guys you were meditating.”

“Where is everyone?”Evan asks, suddenly realizing the van is empty.

“We’re out on the dock getting some food before the gig. We’re over there. Want something?”

“Yeah, ” Evan mumbles, sitting up in his seat.

“I’ll get you something. Fried clams? Chowder? New England or Manhattan?”

Evan looks past Lars to the sky, a blue sheet, Seattle Blue. My kids would love a crayon that color, yes they would. Giant white gulls diving down, landing on the pilings, eating french fries. A sign: KEEP CLAM.

“Ev?”

“Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”

Lars shrugs and walks away.

Evan gathers himself together.

What happened? He’d fallen asleep? Or was it a seizure? Did he miss his big day because of a seizure? Not just one. Not a big one, anyway. A long string of little ones. Simple partials. A lot of ins and outs, snippets, a day of broken fragments that he doesn’t really remember. Just fuzziness. Images. Why can’t he remember?

He starts to climb out of the van, but he can’t manage to get himself out. He sees Lars with a tray of food. Lars points at Evan, then at the food, then at a table where everyone sits. Evan sinks back in his seat. Where is Mica? Where is Dean? He sinks lower and he feels reality settle on him like a crushing weight, pinning him to the upholstery. His day. His dream. What he had wanted. None of it is his. It isn’t his because he has no one to give it to.

Because nobody knows. Because he hasn’t told anyone.

Because he is so tired of it. Because he is just too tired of it to go on.

T
HEY WANDER TOGETHER into General Tso’s, the hip Capitol Hill nightclub, feeling somehow more powerful when taken as a group, as a band, as the Next Big Thing. Evan is feeling better, and the sudden camaraderie is nice to have. Rod seems to have embraced Evan. Maybe only temporarily, but it’s a start. Tony is relaxed. Lars is nothing short of joyous at the events of the day and of his rosy future. Tumi is the lone dissenter, feeling disappointed at Evan’s lack of response to her advances; upon entering General Tso’s, she quickly excuses herself and begins prowling for her friends, many of whom are in attendance, or so she boasts.

They work their way backstage, down a hallway, and to a large, dim green room that smells of yeasty beer. Everything is there, just as Mel promised. All the accoutrements of fame. Chubby men in black jeans and T-shirts to help them with their gear. Slender girls in tight black pants and tank tops to provide them with bottled water. Trays of cold cuts. Bottles of vodka. Other musicians in various stages of readiness.

A muscular guy with a gray crewcut and reading glasses approaches them, looking at his clipboard.

“You The Lost?” he asks.

“The
Last
, ”Tony corrects.

“Right. You’ve got twenty to set up your shit, so you’d better bust a nut.”

“Is Mel here?” Lars asks.

Clipboard Guy peers over his glasses.

“Who the fuck is Mel? This is my fucking backstage. Your shit’s already out there. You’ve got twenty.”

He turns and walks away.

Lars, Tony, and Rod shrug at each other and head to the stage. Evan follows and looks out toward the audience. The room is filling steadily; it’s a large space and it holds a lot of people. Evan tries to ignore them as he sets up his effects pedals; the sound guy mikes his amp, Evan takes his guitar out of its case, slips the strap over his head, tunes, and he’s done. Ready to rock. Lars is working fast, and he’s got two guys helping him with his drums. Tony and Rod are wound up tight and burning their energy, fiddling with crap. And Evan doesn’t want to be near any of them.

He goes back to the green room and notices a roadie in one corner smoking a joint. He goes over and bums a hit. Then another.

“Big crowd out there, ” Evan observes.

“No shit.”

“I don’t even know who we’re opening for, ” Evan says.

“Foo Fighters, ” the roadie says.

“Seriously?”

“There’s Dave, right over there.”

He points with his chin. Sure enough, Dave Grohl is standing by the buffet table, eating a melon ball.

“
Ev
.”

Evan looks around. His brother, Charlie, walks up. What a surprise.

“Hey, Chuck. We’re about to go on. Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah.”

Charlie’s eyes are bloodshot. He seems upset.

“You okay?” Evan asks.

Charlie covers his mouth with his hand and breathes in. Then he quickly slaps his cheek several times.

“Yeah, ” he says with forced enthusiasm.“Great!”

“What’s up, Chuck?”

“Nothing. When are you going on?”

“In a minute. Are you drunk?”

“Drunk?” Aha. He’s been caught.“Maybe a little.”

“You don’t get drunk, Chuck. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We’ll talk about it later. You have a show.”

Charlie looks around nervously. There are maybe fifty people backstage, tons of sound equipment, cables everywhere. A girl in a tank top walks by, Evan catches her eye.

“How long until The Last?” he asks her.

She looks at her watch and shrugs.“Now, ” she says.

“I’ve gotta go in a minute, ” Evan says to Charlie. “Is something wrong?”

“I got fired, ” Charlie says.

“Oh, shit. When?”

“Four hours ago.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I told you, I was up for review. I mean, I’ve been there for seven years. They were supposed to offer me partner, right? So I finally get called in and they tell me they can’t afford to make me a partner even though I deserve it, and rather than make me hang around for a couple more years, they want to let me go find my place with another firm.”

“Oh, shit. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m totally overextended on the house; the contractor started working on the basement last week and the sprinkler guy just finished and I owe him money, and Allison is on some kick to get all the lead paint removed from the windowsills, which costs a fortune. I put down a fucking grand on a car that’s coming next month but I won’t be able to afford it, and now I get shitcanned with nothing but a three-month package and a To-Whom-It-May-Concern, Charlie-is-a-Nice-Guy letter. I’m fucked, Ev. I’m totally fucked.”

“Jeez, Chuck, I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to tell you before you went on—”

“No. That’s okay.”

“I didn’t want to bring you down.”

“I can handle it, Chuck. It’s only money, after all. It’s not like Eric is really sick or something. It’s just money.”

“Yeah, ” Charlie agrees, seeing the light. “You’re right. It’s just money. But if we have to sell the house, Allison will kill me.”

“You could always move in with Mom and Dad.”

“Promise me you’ll slit my throat if that happens.”

They laugh.

“Hey, I got an offer on Grandpa’s apartment, ” Evan says.“If you need some cash quick, I can help out.”

“You’re selling your apartment?” Charlie asks.“Why?”

“A lot of reasons, ” he says with a shrug. “I was thinking about Grandpa a while ago. The way he died. You know.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, ” Evan says, struggling with his thoughts. “The way he predicted his death.”

He looks to Charlie for confirmation, for recognition. There is none.

“The week before he died, ” Evan explains, “he asked me if he had anything I wanted. Like he knew he was going to die.”

Charlie squints at Evan and shakes his head. The girl walks by again. “I think your band is looking for you, ” she says.

“What’s so surprising about that?” Charlie asks.

“He
knew
he was going to die, ” Evan says again.

“Right.”

“Right, ” Evan repeats.“There’s something weird about it, almost magical. How did he
know
?”

“Well, ”Charlie says, slightly baffled, “you knew he had cancer, right?”

“What?” Evan is stopped dead. Stunned.“He had cancer?”

“The doctor told him he’d have to start chemo or he’d be dead in six months. So Grandpa called Dad, he told Dad it was time, Dad understood and prescribed him the medication, Grandpa took it. He died.”

“He fell and hit his head, ” Evan says.

“Right, ” Charlie agrees, “
after
he took the pills. It was actually good that he fell and hit his head. Everyone thought he died because of a stroke or something. No one would have thought Dad had given him pills to do it. You know who signed the death certificate, don’t you? Dad did.”

Evan feels suddenly removed from anything familiar. Like he’s been lifted out of his body, pulled into the air by some tractor beam. Like he’s hanging above the earth. He looks around. Lars, Rod, and Tony are on the steps that lead up to the stage. Lars beckons him. Evan holds up one finger. The show is about to begin.

“You okay?” Charlie asks.

No. Nothing is what it seems. That’s not okay.

“I’m fine. I just have to go.”

He isn’t angry. He isn’t even surprised. Grandpa committed suicide. It makes sense. Knowing Grandpa, it makes perfect sense. But why didn’t he tell Evan? Why didn’t anyone tell Evan? Charlie knew everything, but no one told Evan.

Evan starts toward the stage, then stops; he starts again.

“You’re acting a little strange, ” Charlie says. “Are you having a seizure?”

“A seizure?” Evan asks, confused.“No.”

“An aura?”

An aura? Evan stares at Charlie. Charlie. Mr. Know-it-all. Grandpa committed suicide. Like everyone knew. Right. An aura.

“No, no aura, ” Evan says. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Evan wanders off toward the men’s room. Lars rushes up behind him.

“We’re on, ” he says.“Come on, Ev!”

“I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right there.”

“Hold it in, Evbee, it’s only a thirty-minute set. Hold it in. Come on.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He goes into the restroom, turns on the faucet, splashes water on his face.

Grandpa committed suicide. How odd. How interesting. Utterly fascinating. More proof that Evan has been treated like an invalid his entire life. Since the accident. No one has trusted him, no one has confided in him. He’s been labeled as damaged. By his own parents. By his brother. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re just the egg in the carton that looks okay from the top, but when you lift it you see that it’s broken. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.

“You okay?”

It’s Charlie. He’s followed.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Evan stops. He glares at Charlie.

“What is it, Chuck? You want me not to be fine?”

“No. I’m just concerned.”

“Really?”

“Are you okay?”

Evan shakes his head in disbelief.

“No, Chuck, I’m not okay. I have epilepsy.”

“Are you having a seizure?”

“No.”

“Are you having an aura?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Charlie asks, as if this were the limit of his ability to comprehend wrongness. A seizure or an aura. Everything else is okay.

“I have epilepsy, ” Evan says.

“Are you having a seizure?” Charlie asks again.

“No.”

“I don’t understand, ” Charlie says, genuinely confused.

“I have epilepsy.”

“I know.”

“I know you know, ” Evan says. “I have it because of you.”

Charlie stops. Cocks his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I took your dare.”

“My dare?”

“Your dare, ” Evan says. “I ran out into the street.”

“That wasn’t
my
dare, ” Charlie says.“That was
your
dare.”

Evan. Stunned again.
Whose
dare? His own brother, a Stepford. They’re all Stepfords. They should just change their names and get it over with.

“No, Chuck, it was yours, ” Evan says.

Charlie scratches his head.

“No, ” he says.

“I remember it vividly, Chuck. I do.”

“You remember it wrong, ” Charlie says.

Evan wants to lash out. He wants to strike his brother, bash him. But he doesn’t act on his impulse. This is nothing to him. Evan knows the truth. He knows how it happened. Although, if Charlie remembers it some other way, at least that would explain why he never went to their parents to tell them what really happened.

And does it really matter, anyway? For his entire life, it’s mattered. All the hatred. All the resentment. But who really cares? Who cares why Evan has epilepsy? Who cares who took the dare for whom? That’s beside the point, isn’t it? The fact remains the same. Evan has epilepsy. It’s time to stop assessing blame. All this time he’s been waiting for something from Charlie, an apology or a thank-you or something, anything. But he will never get it. Does that mean what he did for his brother was any less significant? No. He did it out of love. He did it to protect his little brother. He made a sacrifice for Charlie, and that sacrifice was its own reward.

“Chuck, ” Evan says, grabbing Charlie behind his neck in some kind of Sicilian grasp of friendship and brotherhood.“Chuck, I am your brother, and I will protect you.”

Charlie looks confused.

“I am your brother, and I will protect you, ” Evan repeats.

That’s how it happened. One cold, wet November evening. Dusk settling on the road. The smell of fireplaces. The smell of stew. One more dare and it would be over. Charlie had the last dare. One more dare and we could go home.

“I am your brother, and I will protect you, ” Evan says again.

But Charlie cried. Charlie cried, so Evan stood up for him, that’s what he did. He didn’t want his little brother to get kicked in the shins by Penny and her tap shoes. He didn’t want Charlie to cry. So Evan stood up for him.

“I am your brother . . .”

Evan took the dare. It was raining. The road was wet. He hadn’t factored in the wet roads. He didn’t think about the extra distance needed to stop on a wet road.

“. . . and I will protect you.”

When the car hit him, he was so surprised. Like it was a strange, surprise gift.
Thump.
And the funny thing. None of it hurt. Not the car hitting him, not his landing on the road. None of it hurt. Even seizures don’t really hurt. It’s not the seizure that hurts. It’s after the seizure that hurts. When you wake up. That’s when you feel bruised and broken. That’s when you feel most alone. When you feel like no one is there for you. Not even your parents, who are standing at the foot of your bed watching you like you’re some kind of a freak. They aren’t really there. They can’t really help you.

“Evbee.”

Standing in the doorway is Mel.

“On stage,
now!
”

Evan leaves Charlie—who is thoroughly a wreck, as if Evan has cast some kind of magic spell on him—and follows Mel toward the stage. He hears music. It sounds like The Last.

“They’ve started?”

“Yes, Evbee. And, for the record, you’re every bit as good as Billy and Mica say you are, but Eddie Van Halen you ain’t. If you pull a stunt like this again, I’m dropping the band. Now get your ass on stage and play.”

Evan bounds up the stage, plugs in his guitar. The song is halfway done. How long was he in the bathroom with Charlie? Tony makes a gesture of relief toward him. Evan waits . . . waits . . . waits . . . and when his cue comes, he rips into his guitar with so much force that all the people in the club are blown backwards at least a foot, their eyes forced wide, their mouths agape, they are compelled to listen because there is no way to avoid it. They are convinced by Evan and his guitar to believe—with more faith than they thought they had in their souls—that The Last has arrived, and that The Last will never open for another band again.