Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Thursday, May 17th, 2012

  5:54 pm

  Three days have passed since the meeting with Rider Life, though time has done nothing to ease the burning within me. Every time I think about McCreary sitting behind his desk, his condescending manner, the words he said, it sends me into a fit of anger that takes everything I have to keep inside.

  It is that anger that fuels me now as I pace back and forth across the floor of my bedroom. My footfalls are heavy, closer to stomping than walking. The computer chair quivers each time I pass, vibrations going through the room.

  A few weeks ago, my mother would have already called up three times to ask if everything was alright, warning me that I was shaking the whole house. Given the tepid state of our relationship these days, there hasn’t been a word said and probably won’t be. At some point, I should attempt to apologize or at least explain things, but the mood I’m in definitely won’t allow for that right now.

  Would for certain end up making things worse.

  “I’m telling you,” I say, speaking through gritted teeth, “the way that smug prick looked at us, the way he acted.”

  My hands curl into fists as I walk, swinging by my sides.

  On the bed, Quasi has resumed his favorite pose, sprawled onto one haunch. Beside him is another sack from Bob’s, a collection of chicken tenders and onion rings inside. It is a paltry offering compared to usual, but pilfering dinner for my freeloading friend wasn’t real high on my priority list as I left.

  “Guy was a dick,” Quasi agrees, taking down half an onion ring with a crunch.

  He chews loudly, the batter crackling between his teeth, crumbs flying everywhere.

  “Still, would have at least been nice to hear what their offer was.”

  He pushes the last sentence out there nice and subtle, and I know he is trying to make a point without being confrontational.

  Still, I’m in no mood for passive aggression.

  “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I snap. “We were just supposed to sit there and let him drag us through the mud? Listen as he took pop shots at us all morning and then asked for our help?”

  The words come out rapid fire, laced with vitriol. He stares at me just a moment before raising his hands, greasy palms facing out.

  “Easy, man. I agree he was dick. I’m just saying, a little money for our effort would have been nice.”

  The scowl remains on my face a moment as I stare at him before the tension breaks and the animosity fades. I blink a couple of times and shake my head, beginning to pace again.

  “Yeah, I know. My bad. That asshole just has me really rattled.”

  He grunts something indecipherable, going back to work on the onion rings.

  For a moment, the sounds in the room are heavy footfalls and hungry munching. It becomes a sort of lopsided rhythm, both of us retreating to what helps us think the best.

  “You know, ever since Monday I’ve been thinking about this whole thing,” Quasi says, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but he kind of raised a good point.”

  The statement stops me where I stand, my eyes narrowing.

  “Not the part about us being middle-class posers,” he adds quickly, clearly looking to diffuse any situation, “but it does bring in the question of where this is all going.”

  The look remains on my face as I fold my arms across my chest and peer down at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “I just mean,” he says, for the first time since arriving ignoring the food before him, “we’re creating this enormous online following. What’s it building toward?”

  It isn’t at all what I was expecting him to say. I had been so intent that he was about to side with McCreary, to call us frauds as well, that I had been ready to fly across the room at him. Instead I am left pondering his statement, which isn’t entirely wrong.

  “The reason for all of this,” I say, channeling the thought that I’ve kept coming back to all week now, “was so that we could gain life experiences. So James Buchanan, so Abe Fullman, so Chaz D, could become legitimate. Right now, based on what we heard Monday, we aren’t there yet.”

  Quasi sits and stares at me, saying nothing. The look on his face gives the impression he already is uncertain where this might be headed, though he waves me forward just the same.

  “You’re wanting to capitalize on this following, which I agree with,” I say, “but in order for us to do that, we have to be taken seriously. We can’t just be a couple of guys out playing for the camera.”

  “Yeah,” Quasi says, holding his free hand up in front of him.

  He brings his thumb and forefinger together, using them to begin ticking off points.

  “But you’ve already tried smoking cigarillos and weed, drinking everything ever made, playing with guns. You’re fast running out of free space on your arms.

  “How much further can we push this?”

  My eyes bulge at the question, exasperation and indignation both surging to my temples.

  “I mean, what,” he continues, “maybe get on a motorcycle? Harder drugs? What else is there? What could possibly prove any more than we already have?”

  “First McCreary, now you?!” I spit, my fists rising to either side of my head.

  Once again I begin stomping across the room, elongated steps that cover the entire space in just a few paces.

  “What do you mean, what else is there?” I ask, my words hot and seething.

  Between each one, I smack my knuckles against my skull, the sound reverberating through my ears.

  “Do you not believe in this? Do you not believe anything we’ve been doing here?”

  “I do,” Quasi says. “I mean, I did, but at this point I’m not even sure what it is we’re going for anymore.”

  “Legitimacy! Respect!”

  “But for what? We’ve got hundreds of thousands of fans. We’ve got enough life experience to write tons of books. James Buchanan is complete.”

  “James Buchanan is dead!” I yell, saliva sliding over my bottom lip and falling to the floor.

  Sweat dots my forehead as I stand at the foot of the bed and stare down at him, every nerve ending in my body on fire.

  “Don’t you get that? Don’t you see? This isn’t about James Buchanan anymore, this is about Chaz D. This is about you and I being the people we always should have been.”

  The look on his face is one of shock and horror, staring up at me. He doesn’t dare say a word as he looks on, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

  “And if assholes like Vance McCreary still can’t see that, then it’s time we make them.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Saturday, May 19th, 2012

  3:44 pm

  The buzzing of the tattoo gun is a sound I barely even notice anymore. It is as imperceptible as an insect, droning on into oblivion.

  With my right arm cocked behind my neck, my left is extended straight down, palm side up. Hunched over it is Pauley, a pair of latex gloves on his hands as he works.

  “I’m telling you, lose much more weight and this skin isn’t going to be fit to use.”

  I nod as if I agree with his assessment and will adjust accordingly, though we both know that’s a lie. Since we first met, I’ve shed away thirty pounds of baby fat and intend to peel away another twenty before I’m done.

  Two forty looks like the kind of weight a well-fed kid from a pampered upbringing would have. One ninety seems more in line with the striated, cagey look envisioned for Chaz D.

  “How’s it looking?” I ask, my attention aimed upward at the collage of posters on the ceiling above me.

  Despite the enormous amount of time I have spent in this very position, I still can’t bring myself to watch the work being done.

  Don’t ask me why that is.

  “Awesome,” Pauley says, his stock response every time I ask.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Very,” Rae confirms, walking over and sliding a hand along the back of Pauley
’s neck.

  It stays there a moment as she inspects his work before tracing around to his chest and kissing the top of his head.

  “My baby does good work.”

  “That he does,” I agree, rolling my head to the right to see Quasi perched on the second tattoo chair, his camera in front of him.

  “How about you? What do you think?”

  It is the first time in a long time I’ve bothered to engage him directly, most often acting like I don’t know the camera is rolling. Truth is, there isn’t a second my non-altered mind isn’t aware of it, to the point I’ve found myself starting to look for it in real life.

  Nothing worse than delivering a witty one-liner to Pamela and having nobody there to commemorate it.

  “Are you sure you want to go clear to the wrist?” Quasi asks, shifting his head to the side.

  The corners of his mouth are turned down in a frown, his disapproval plain. Rolling my eyes, I let the motion pull my head back up to face the ceiling, a long sigh sliding from my nose.

  “Nobody ever talks about a half sleeve,” I say. “If you’re not willing to get the full thing, what’s the point in getting a tattoo?”

  “Here, here,” Pauley echoes, looking over his shoulder as the bell on the front door opens.

  Through it walks a pair of young girls in short dresses, each looking like they’re already five shots into the start of a long night.

  A sly grin crosses his features as he glances to me, nodding his head in approval. Behind him, Rae leaves to greet their newest customers, two more in what has been a steadily growing line the past couple of months.

  “So this guy McScrewy really got your shorts in a bunch, huh?” Pauley asks, his voice just a half-decibel higher to account for the gun in his hand.

  “McCreary,” I correct. “It wasn’t just what he said but the way he said it. Felt like we were kids being scolded or something.”

  “To hell with him,” Pauley says, wiping away an ink smear before starting anew. “He doesn’t know us, doesn’t know what we’re about.”

  “No,” I agree, staring straight up.

  My gaze shifts to a faded poster of Jenny McCarthy from her Playboy days, the edges ragged and torn. It stays there until my eyes start to blur over, the image becoming one muted blob of pale skin and white lace.

  “But he’s about to.”

  Pauley says nothing, continuing to work, as I blink back into focus. Ms. McCarthy returns to form as I look over at the camera parked nearby.

  “Quasi, zoom in a little bit,” I say. “I have an announcement to make and I want to make sure we get this.”

  To my left, I can sense Pauley pausing to look up at me, the needle leaving my skin.

  On the right, Quasi sits up a little straighter, adjusting the camera before him. Once he is ready, he gives me a nod, the look on his face relaying he is petrified of whatever may come from my mouth next.

  I don’t intend to disappoint.

  “Yo, yo, everybody this is your main man Chaz D,” I say, “hanging out and getting some top-notch work done here with my boy Pauley Z.”

  As we’ve done so many times before, at the mention of his name we both bump fists, neither one looking up from our respective tasks.

  “I’m coming to you all today with a very special announcement.”

  I pause a moment, trying my best to look serious for the camera.

  “Recently, our little enterprise here was approached about the prospect of corporate sponsorship. Some little pissant startup company thought they could jump on Chaz D’s coattails and use our street cred to gain some for themselves.”

  I hear a low groan of disapproval from Pauley beside me, but continue anyway. In the background, all other sound has died away, Rae no doubt using the moment to secure the two new customers.

  “As you all know, Chaz D is no sellout and he told them to take a hike.”

  A look of derision crosses my face as I say this, as if the mere thought is absurd. The move looks natural as I employ it, though it took over a half hour in front of the mirror this morning to rehearse everything the way I wanted it.

  “As you might also guess, these guys didn’t take too well to it, started questioning us and everything we’re doing down here. They even went as far as to say that we were nothing but a bunch of high-class posers.”

  I laugh for a moment before drawing my features taut, looking in grim seriousness at the camera.

  “I sure as hell have never had a silver spoon in my life. You ever used one, Pauley?”

  “Nope,” he replies on cue, not once stopping his work.

  “But since this guy seems to want something special, Chaz D will be giving it to him.”

  Only now do I allow a small smile, letting everyone see how much I enjoy the plan I’ve concocted.

  “As summer is right around the corner, I am here to announce to you that this Fourth of July your boy Chaz D will be doing a little something special.

  “For the first time ever, I will be targeting all those haters out there, all those people who think we’re a joke, by doing something so daring we’d have to be the real deal to even consider it.”

  I pause one last time, staring directly into the camera as the smile grows a bit larger.

  “And we’ll be doing it live.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “So, um, were you going to talk to me about this?” Quasi asks, splitting his attention between me and the road.

  Overhead, the sun has blinked out for the day, the ambient glow of Nashville casting light into the late spring sky. The air is cooling down, though I keep the window open anyway.

  The four drinks in my stomach slosh slightly as we drive along, the bottom half of my left arm tingling beneath the clean white bandage encasing it.

  “Sorry, Mother,” I reply, rolling my head against the seatback to look at him, “didn’t realize I needed your permission to do something.”

  I can see frustration pass over his face, though it lasts only a moment. He presses his lips together, pausing before saying, “I’m not saying permission. I’m just saying...”

  “What? What are you just saying?” I ask.

  Fueled by the alcohol within me, the question comes out a bit sharper than intended, though the inquiry remains valid.

  “Live events take planning,” he says. “They aren’t like these videos where we control everything, edit out all the downtime.”

  “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to make sure there isn’t any downtime, won’t we?” I snap.

  Once, twice, he opens his mouth to respond, not finding the words. He looks at me a moment, about to respond, before shaking his head and turning back to face forward.

  “What?” I ask.

  Ever since Monday, animosity has been lurking just beneath my surface. Seeing the look on his face, the way he is acting, I can tell there is more he wants to add. Just knowing that after all this time he still can’t find the words to say anything somehow pisses me off even more.

  “What?” I ask again, my voice louder. “Say whatever it is you’re thinking over there.”

  Both his hands grow a little tighter on the steering wheel, his knuckles showing white beneath the skin.

  “Out with it already!”

  “What are you even planning?” he asks, his voice much lower than anticipated.

  The simple delivery, the non-confrontational question, both give me pause. Some small bit of the anger within drifts away, a tipsy smile crossing my face.

  “About damn time you got around to asking, I was starting to be insulted.”

  “Yeah?” he asks, traces of curiosity, even excitement on his face, in his tone.

  “Damn right,” I reply, rolling my head to stare through the open window.

  Outside, a string of fast food restaurants and branches of local suburban banks fly by, most of their windows darkened for the night. The smile remains as I think of what I’ve concocted, the perfect plan to solidify the mystique of Chaz D.<
br />
  To prove people like Vance McCreary wrong once and for all.

  “How many views did our last video get?” I ask, starting on the periphery, wanting to slowly pull Quasi to his destination.

  “Umm,” he says, bending down to check the traffic light before making a left-hand turn, “as of this morning, three hundred thousand.”

  Just hearing it out loud makes me smile a little larger.

  “Twitter followers?”

  “Coming up on one hundred thousand.”

  “Facebook?”

  “About half that.”

  I pause for just a moment, letting Quasi ponder what he has just told me. A few months ago, we were just a pair of random guys who were losing our heads over a couple hundred viewings. Someone posting a comment almost made us wet our pants. Now we had a legion of fans, people willing to say publicly that they supported us.

  “And what do those people want to see from Chaz D?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Quasi says, giving his head a shake. “Maybe a look behind the curtain? See the guy behind the web videos?”

  The answer is so absurd, so asinine, that it brings a sneer to my face, drawing my head up from the chair.

  “Are you serious? You think anybody-“

  “I don’t know,” Quasi inserts, both hands spreading wide atop the wheel. “We’ve already done most everything we legally can.”

  “Exactly!” I reply, the rant I had all cued up and ready to unleash disappearing as he stumbles onto the right words.

  A smile returns to my face as I look over to him, waiting for him to put it together.

  “What? Do something illegal?” he asks, twisting his head to look at me, ignoring the road ahead.

  “Exactly,” I repeat, leaning towards him a few inches. “What better way to prove ourselves, to solidify that Chaz D is for real, than by breaking the law?”

  The car eases to a stop as a light blazes red in front of us, the brakes moaning in protest. Dropping a hand into the space between us, Quasi jerks back the emergency brake, turning to face me full.