Rock Star (4 page)
I look through the window to see if that mom and her crying kid are still around. No sign of them. At that moment, sunlight shining through the window lights up my hands. Just my hands. I figure, for some crazy reason, that this is a good sign.
Saturday morning. The weekend’s finally here. I love sleeping in, especially on Saturdays. Sometimes the sun comes through the window and warms up my legs under the covers. I like to pretend I’m on that tropical island and doze off for another hour or two.
Then I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s 10:47 am. Wow. Some sleep. Still, instead of getting up, I yank the covers over my head. I start thinking about Jennifer.
I imagine that we’re married, you know, husband and wife. We live in a white house with a white fence. Even our car is white. And there’s these yellow daffodils planted all around the house. It’s sort of like a cartoon, really, or one of those movies where everything is kind of fake on purpose. Like that neighborhood in
Edward
Scissorhands
, where all the lawns are cut just right and the houses are bright colors.
“Duncan!” my dad yells. “Duncan! Come on down. Get some breakfast.”
Breakfast? Dad never makes breakfast. Mom used to do that. Now we usually get our own stuff. Half the time I don’t even eat breakfast.
I sniff. Pancakes. Pancakes and sausages. Unbelievable.
I’m just wearing a T-shirt and underwear. Briefs, not boxers. I can’t believe people who wear boxers. Me, I need the support. When I walk in the kitchen, guess what? There’s Terry, standing over the stove, cooking up pancakes and sausages. Holy crap.
“Hey, buster,” she says. “Nice pajamas.”
Dammit. Why doesn’t Dad tell me his girlfriend’s sleeping over? I mean, I guess she was. She’s making breakfast, after all.
I run my hand through my hair and don’t say anything. Instead, I just sit down at the breakfast table, kind of slumped down. I pick up a fork and just stare at it. If Terry wants to check me out in my underwear, she can be my guest.
Terry looks at me, looks like she’s going to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, she hands me a plate of sausages and pancakes. They look pretty good, I have to admit. But am I going to give her the satisfaction of eating them? Nope. Who does Terry think she is, my mom?
Terry goes out of the room. Then I hear it. That song again, “Green Onions.” The organ sounds so cool, so grindy, so…you know. Greasy, I guess. Greasier than these sausages, which I’m starting to eat by now. I’m listening to this song so hard, I forget to be mad at Terry anymore.
She sits across from me at the table, not saying anything. Terry looks ready to smile, but like she’s trying to hold it in or something.
“Man…,” I say, my mouth full of sausages and pancake. “I love that song!” But it comes out like “Mo.. Isa orf ack long.” Because of the sausages and all.
Terry laughs. She’s got a pretty good laugh. It sounds kind of cackly and crackly. But in a good way, not a Wicked Witch of the West way.
“I bought you an album. It’s called the
Best of Classic Soul
. Here.”
She hands over the CD case. There’s “Green Onions” by Booker T. and the MG’s. Lots of different guys. Ray Charles singing “What I Say.” “Hold On” by Sam and Dave.
The next song comes on. It’s a lady singing, “What you want…baby, I got. What you need…you know I got it. All I’m asking…is for a little respect.” It sounds cool. She’s got a great, bigbeltin’ voice. No nonsense, no foolin’ around. And those rhythms, they’re so great. I start to tap the tabletop with my hand. Can’t help it.
“That’s Aretha Franklin,” Terry says. “Wonderful singer. The best. Queen of Soul.”
Dad comes in. He’s smiling and looks happy.
“Hi, you two. What’s up?”
“We’re just listening to the album,” says Terry.
“Really,” says Dad. “You like it, Duncan?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s okay, I guess.”
I kind of hate it when grown-ups ask you if you like something. If they ask that, they
want
you to like it. You sort of have no choice. It makes me feel like saying I hate whatever it is. Don’t ask me why. But it does.
Still, it was cool of Terry to buy me that album. After breakfast, I go to my room to practice Primal Thunk’s songs some more. After that, I have to get through the huge list of jobs Dad’s left for me. All written on a piece of notepad, just like Mom used to. Like mowing the lawn and helping him fix part of the backyard balcony that’s rotted away. There’s also cleaning up my room, which, I admit, really needs it. For starters, I found three dried-up apple cores under the bed. Not to mention an old cheese sandwich that was partly green. Gross.
There’s a Primal Thunk practice at 4:00
PM
today. I’m going to wear my new clothes. My rocker duds. Jennifer helped me pick them out at Mayfair Mall. Actually, it’s just one thing—a jean jacket. It’s a pre-faded one that looks cool, not fake or acid wash or anything. It looked like it needed something, so we bought a Metallica patch at the mall and Jennifer sewed it on.
At 3:55
PM
I’m walking up the drive to the band house. The lawn hasn’t been mowed in a long time. There are dandelions growing everywhere, and part of an old picket fence is rotting in the middle of the yard. I’m still not sure whose house it is. I figured Grant lives here, but who knows.
Grant’s still the only guy in the band who’s friendly to me, although he’s actually not all that nice. Not to anyone, really. While I’m plugging in, the drummer stares at me the whole time.
“Hey, look! Duncan’s wearing a new widdle jacket,” he says. The other guys barely even look up.
“Nice jacket, kid. Metallica. How cool. Do you even know who Metallica is?” says the drummer.
There’s a dipping feeling in my stomach. I always get nervous if someone’s putting me down in front of other people. Don’t say anything, I tell myself. Just ignore it.
“Hey, idiot. You hear me? Are you deaf or what?” says the drummer.
Jesus. I freeze up. What’s with this guy, anyway? I hate this.
“Hey, Larry. Shut up. Don’t be a jerk,” says Grant.
Larry shuts up, but he doesn’t look happy. Grant’s the leader in this group. Even though I’m freaked out by the weird vibe, I’m happy that Grant stands up for me. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy.
Unbelievably, the practice goes really, really well. Larry may hate me, but we’re clicking in pretty great as a rhythm section. The bass and the drums sort of lock in, like a unit. It’s so loud though. I’d really like to wear earplugs, but when I try using some for the second practice, the guys all say I’m a wuss. Too bad they are those bright red industrial ones. Maybe they wouldn’t notice otherwise.
After a couple of hours, we hang it up.
“Listen, you guys,” says Grant. “I got us a gig. It’s a house party, over in Tillicum. It’s next Saturday. You guys good for that?”
“Right on. Nice work, Grant,” says the drummer.
Man, I’m excited. This’ll be my first gig with a real live rock band. And it should be a cool party too, I bet. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been to too many parties. Except for ones with Jason and the guys. And they’re not even real parties. There’s no girls, for starters. And we mostly play stupid board games—like Risk—or watch dumb comedy movies. No liquor or anything.
As I put my bass into the case, it comes to me. I can ask Jennifer to the party. That’ll be cool. Really, really cool. Man, things are going good after all.
Grant and I walk out together to the sidewalk. He tells me my bass playing is improving and not to worry about the drummer being a dick and all. I’m feeling good, like I really fit in for a change. A car horn honks. I look up and see Jason and his mom in her Range Rover.
“Hey, buddy. Warp drive, warp drive!” says Jason. He’s smiling and all hyper and everything. “You dudes need a ride?”
Jason’s wearing a Bart Simpson T-shirt. He actually looks a little like Bart—same sticking-up hairdo, same goofy smile.
“You know this doof?” says Grant. Loudly. He sounds like Larry the drummer.
“Uh…no. I mean. Not really. Some kid from school. He follows me around, like,” I say. Softly, so that Jason won’t hear.
I’m not even looking at Jason and his mom. Jason calls out again, but I can’t really make it out. Grant and I keep walking toward my bus stop. Then I hear the Range Rover drive away.
Grant’s talking about a new metal band I should really check out. He wants to burn me a copy of their
CD
. But I don’t really take it in. My ears are hot. I wish Grant would stop talking. When the bus finally comes, I’m glad. I sit in the back with my bass leaning in the corner. All those good feelings from rehearsal— hearing about the party gig and Grant sticking up for me—have disappeared. I feel kind of sick.
As soon as I get home, I phone Jason.
“Hey, bud,” I say when he answers. There’s just silence on his end. But Jason’s there. I can tell from his breathing.
“Hey…Sorry about not talking to you on the street earlier on. Grant and I were discussing some, like, band business. I only saw it was you and your mom after you left.”
Jason sighs. “How could you tell it was me and Mom if we’d already left?”
That’s Jason for you. Mr. Logical. He’s like Spock sometimes. Usually this pisses me off, but this time I’m just glad he’s talking.
“Yeah. Hey, I’m sorry.”
“You and this band. You’ve changed, you know that? Like you’re too cool now to hang around with me and the guys. You remember the guys? Your friends?”
Jason sounds really mad. I’ve never heard him like this before.
“You and that stupid jean jacket. You look like a real jerk. A real poser, you know,” he says.
This actually makes me mad. I really hate it when people criticize the way I look or the way I act. I can feel myself getting choked. I’m about to let Jason have it. Then I remember ignoring him on the street. He’s my best friend. Maybe I am a jerk.
“Jason, I’m sorry. I guess I did see you on the street. I didn’t know how to act. But anyway. Hey, do you want to come to a party?”
Silence on the line. Then Jason says, suspiciously, “What party?”
I tell him about the party in Tillicum, and how the band’s going to play and how I’m going to invite Jennifer. And that he can come too. After a while, Jason warms up and he gets all excited—he’s back to being the old Jason. That’s what I like about him. He never holds a grudge for very long. Not like me. When I get mad, it can last for a long time.
Then Dad phones to say he and Terry are going to have dinner out, and for me to fix my own. This kind of burns me, but then I remember acting like a jerk to Jason. For some reason that makes me feel better. My emotions are on a teeter totter. I microwave a
TV
dinner—frozen lasagna. And then I snag one of Dad’s beers out of the fridge.
He’s gonna kill me later, but hey… it’s been a rough day, right? Right.
Sundays are usually boring for me. The dull day of the weekend. Saturdays mean shopping or hanging out or maybe going to a movie. Sundays are like a flat tire. Homework. Mope around. Dad says it’s just me. It’s more about my mental attitude. But I still think Sundays are pretty lame.
But this Sunday’s different. It’s the day Terry said she’s taking me to meet her brother. The guy who plays the organ. Who was in a professional band. Terry did say that he was kind of strange. Maybe he’s a weirdo. But still, I’m excited.
Terry picks me up in the afternoon. Her car’s a beater—a 1984 Toyota with shiny gray duct tape to keep the back taillight from falling off. Dad would never let that happen to his car. But then, he’s got a brand new BMW. So it’s not like the taillight’s going to fall off or anything.
On the way over, Terry talks about her brother, Houston. She tells me stories about when they were little kids. He was a real joker, sounds like. One time he invited her up into his tree house and then nailed the door shut. Terry was stuck in the tree house yelling for hours. When he finally pried open the door, she was crying. It sounds pretty mean. But I’ve never had a sister or a brother. Maybe that’s normal. And she’s laughing when she tells the story.
When we pull up to Houston’s house, my heart sinks. It’s an old one that at one time was probably really nice. Like back in 1900 or something. There’s a big front porch with fancy columns. But the whole thing is sagging in the middle. So is the roof. And the paint’s peeling off.
The grass is three feet high, which makes me wonder if maybe musicians just aren’t good with gardening. And there’s a rusted baby buggy in the middle of the lawn. Weird. If this was my house, I’d get rid of the buggy, for starters.
The door’s got a big metal knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Terry knocks—
whack, whack, whack
—and then she knocks again. Still no answer. She walks over to a window, looks in, bobbing her head around, trying to see in. Terry looks at me and makes a face as if to say, “What the heck?” Then she knocks again.
Finally the door creaks open. The guy who opens it is wearing a stained white underwear shirt. You know, the type they call a “wife-beater”? He’s in sweatpants. His hair is long and tousled and gray. He has a five-day growth of beard. And he looks a lot like Terry. That is, if Terry were a guy and hadn’t taken a shower in two years.
“Hey, man,” he says, rubbing his scrubby jaw. “What’s up?”
“Houston. Houston, this is Duncan. You know, the young man I told you about? The musician. I said we were going to come this afternoon. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“Forget?” Houston sticks his hand down the waistband of his sweats and readjusts something. “Naw. I knew you guys were comin’. I just…ah. Well, come on in.”
It’s dark and just plain strange in Houston’s living room. He pulls back the ratty curtains, letting a little light on the situation. Holy cow! I mean, I’m not the neatest guy in the world. But this place is a total dump. Magazines and newspapers strewn all over the place. Beer cans on the coffee table. Piles of empty pizza and KFC boxes. The place is dusty and full of mothballs. Really dirty. It smells like dead mice.
