I don’t care. I zone out and just watch them talk. It’s as intense as the academic discussions between Mom and her colleagues, only The Rat and these guys are no intellectuals. They are not trying to solve existential questions. They are not debating the meaning of life, or the origins of the universe.
They are talking about golf.
“Well, my slice was back in full force, so I couldn’t get a par to save my life,” someone says.
“Why don’t you just admit that you suck?”
They laugh.
“I just got this new sixty-degree wedge that I think should finally help my short game.”
“Have you played the Beverly Hills course?”
“No. We should go there.”
“I’m a member of that club, so I can get us a tee time.”
“Great, next Thursday.”
“I’m in,” The Rat says.
“Me, too,” someone else chimes in.
Unbelievable. The Rat plays golf? I try to picture it, but I just can’t.
“Rat,” I say. “Rat.”
“Oh, hey. Katy.” Like he’s suddenly remembering that I’m there. Clearly I should be wearing a T-shirt that says I’M WITH CLUELESS.
“See, your Pops doesn’t just play drums well,” one of the guys says. “He plays a mean game of golf, too.”
Everyone laughs.
It’s not that funny. Or, maybe the conversation is funny for aging punk rock people, but not for me. It’s boring. I can’t even follow the conversations they are having around me. I have no in. No common ground. There is no thread for me to hang on to, which makes me zone out. Instead, I make up conversations I’d be having with Leticia if she were here with me. We’d maybe talk about their clothes. Leticia is really into clothes.
I think they look normalish. Their jeans look expensive. Their shirts are pressed. Their shorts are stylish. And their sneakers are hip. Next to them, The Rat just looks like Pigpen. He looks wrinkled and faded and threadbare. They look money, and he looks poor.
“Man, what I wouldn’t give for one of your careers,” The Rat says.
Everybody laughs. Even The Rat is trying to pass it off as funny now, though it’s obvious he was being truthful.
“But Suck is legendary,” one of the guys says.
“Well, ‘legendary’ didn’t buy me a house,” The Rat says. “I’m still stuck in the Rat Hole at Grunge Estates.”
“Aw, Rat. We just had better bands,” one of them says jokingly.
“Bigger hits.”
“Better luck.”
“Sober sooner,” The Rat adds.
They all laugh again. They laugh easily. Move easily. I notice that out of the six of them, only two are drinking beer.
“We’d better go,” The Rat says. “See you guys at the Punk House.”
“Yeah,” one of them says. “I can’t wait to see Suck live again. You guys always put on the best shows.”
“Yeah, we destroyed,” The Rat says. “Literally.”
The Punk House looks relatively tame from the outside, but as I help carry The Rat’s drum kit inside, I almost throw up. The inside of the house is even worse than the Rat Hole.
The carpet is stained. Crusted, even — possibly with puke. There are bottles and cans and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. The pizza boxes on the table in the dining area are swarming with ants. The kitchen sink is filled with unwashed dishes. I don’t know where to look. So I look up.
There is mold on the ceiling.
“Oh my God. This is disgusting,” I say. I can’t help it. It’s too awful to keep to myself.
“Beware,” The Rat says. “Punk rock bachelors live here.”
“That’s what you are,” I say.
“I was never this bad.” He laughs. “Besides, you don’t need a penicillin shot after you go to the bathroom at my house.”
“I hope you’re kidding,” I say. I don’t want to have to hold my bladder all day.
“Of course I’m kidding,” The Rat says.
“I don’t even know where to put my feet,” I say. “I might break something. Or catch something.”
“Screw it. Step on anything,” The Rat says.
The Rat just walks over stuff, but I still can’t help it; I try to watch where my feet are going.
We exit with the drum kit to the huge backyard. On a makeshift stage, there is an all-girl band playing surf music. The freaky slides and sounds complement the visual assault I’m experiencing. American flags hang everywhere, but the colors people wear are not confined to a patriotic red, white, and blue, and the colors are not just on their clothes. Everyone’s hair is dyed in a rainbow of shades, and they all have tattoos, tattoos, TATTOOS! I suspect that The Rat is the oldest person here because they all look like teenagers, but when I get a closer look, I realize that almost everyone here is old. Everyone got older but forgot to grow up.
The scene is completely surreal, like a Dali painting or something. I imagine this is what tripping feels like.
I’m not freaked out by the amount of inked skin or the colors in people’s hair or the clothes that they wear. Montréal is one of the most tattooed cities in North America. I just haven’t seen so many people like The Rat all crowded together into one place. I’ve never been surrounded by so many people not like me.
I’m the odd girl out.
The Rat just kind of leaves me to my own devices as he checks in with people and says his hellos. I don’t see how I can fit in here. I can’t fit in here. I make my escape and find myself blissfully alone by the guacamole. But not for long.
“So, you’re Katy,” one guy says, rounding up a plate of chips at the other end of the table. “I’m Sam.”
For a punk rock legend, he’s quiet. Uncrazy. Unlike the guy in the Mohawk in the photo that I know by heart. Unlike the Suck poster I saw at The Rat’s house, where he is scary sweat and blood and holding his guitar like a weapon. Unlike the screaming face on that reissued CD. Sam Suck has shaggy brown hair peppered with gray that falls long onto his shoulders. His eyes are pale icy blue, one of his teeth is kind of grayish, and the lines on his face are deep, like scars. His eyebrows are bushy and meet in the middle. He doesn’t look punk to me. He just looks like just another old guy.
He sticks his hand out. He’s the only one who’s offered me his hand.
I take it. We shake.
He nods.
“You look like your mom,” he says.
I know I don’t look anything like my mom. I never have. My skin isn’t olive; it’s pale. My hair isn’t blond and curly; it’s flat and dark and useless, the kind that only looks good in a ponytail. I got my hair from The Rat, even though now he shaves his head because he’s going bald. I have a plain face. Normal. Uninteresting. Average. Unremarkable. My mom’s features are startling. They are wide and almost too large for her face. Her ears stick out. Her nose is bent. Her teeth are crooked. Even with her mainstream look she can never hide her unusual features, so I know he is lying when he says I look like her.
The way he looks at me makes me want to be honest. His ice-blue eyes don’t take any bullshit. So I speak. I say it. I call him on it. I tell him what’s what.
“I don’t look like my mom at all.”
“You do,” he says. “It’s those eyes. Different color. Same eyes.”
No one has ever said that to me before. My mom may have goofy features, but she has the kind of eyes that you want focused on you because they really seem to see things.
I want her eyes on me now. I want her looking at me now, not Sam Suck.
“How’s she doing?” he asks, smoothing out the potentially awkward moment.
“She’s in Peru, studying the Incas.” I won’t choke up in front of a stranger. I won’t.
“She cleaned up good,” Sam says. He nods in approval.
“I see you’ve met Sam,” The Rat says, joining us with a beer in one hand and a plate of food in the other. I’m actually kind of hungry and glad that The Rat has brought me a
burger. I am about to reach for the plate when he sets down his beer and takes a bite of the burger. I see. It’s his plate. He didn’t get me anything to eat at all.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” I say.
“Nothing like a near-beer on a hot summer day,” he says.
The Rat and Sam laugh, like it’s a private joke. They clink near-beer bottles.
A girl with stringy thin dyed-black hair, black jeans, and a black T-shirt that says BUST on it comes up to Sam. She hands him a bunch of colorful little plastic triangles.
“Dad, here are your picks,” she says.
I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Her voice is impossibly high, like a cartoon, like she’s been sucking on helium or like there is not enough room in her throat. I almost think her voice is a joke, except for the dirty look she gives me, which tells me she gets that reaction all the time.
“Lake, this is Katy, Rat’s kid. She’s staying here for a couple of weeks,” Sam says.
“Fourteen more days. Then I go home to Montréal,” I say. Just to be clear that I’m not sticking around.
Lake looks me over. I can tell she doesn’t approve of my khaki shorts and pale pink T-shirt. I know I don’t fit in. She doesn’t have to remind me.
“Hi,” she says.
Then The Rat and Sam Suck exchange knowing looks. Lake rolls her eyes like we’re all stupid.
I know what’s coming. We’re going to be forced on each other. I don’t want to have to be The Rat’s sidekick all day. Lake will have to do.
“Lake,” The Rat says. “Remember our agreement?”
She sighs.
“Come on,” Lake says in her squeaky voice. She jerks her head toward the party, indicating for me to follow. I do. I’d rather go than stay.
“Have fun, Katy,” The Rat says. “But not too much fun. You know, be cool, but not too cool.”
Could I be more humiliated?
I have to walk fast to keep up with Lake because she’s already split. Mom says when you’re in a new environment, ask questions. So I do. I ask. But getting answers from Lake is like pulling teeth.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” she says.
“What grade are you in?” I ask.
“Junior.”
“Oh, I’m going to be in Secondary Four,” I say.
“What?”
“Secondary Four,” I say. “It’s like grade ten in American high school.”
“Listen,” she says, tugging on her ear.
“To what?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes and gestures toward the band taking the stage.
“No talking while there is rocking,” she says.
Here we go again. The band starts and it is too loud. I put my fingers in my ears.
“I think you are right: ils sont trop loud to talk,” I say, yelling Franglais above the music.
Lake laughs at me, almost doing a spit take with her soda.
“You speak French? Won’t do you any good here. You gotta learn to habla español.”
We stop talking because at this point the music gets out of control and no one can talk. I try covering my ears even more as the volume seems to go from a level eight to a level twelve. After a few minutes, Lake taps me on the shoulder and hands me a little plastic package with two foamy pieces inside.
“Here,” she yells. “Don’t leave home without them.”
“What are they?” I ask.
“Ear condoms,” Lake says.
I open up the package and shove the little foamy plugs in my ears. Looking around, I notice that everyone has them stuck in their ears and that there are bowls of earplugs and real condoms scattered around the party. The little signs above the bowls say: BE SAFE! PLAY SAFE! ROCK SAFE!
When the band stops playing, everyone hoots and hollers.
Lake points to my ears, and I pull the earplugs out.
“So what’s your deal?” she says. Is she just making conversation until the next band takes the stage? Or is she really interested in me?
I shrug. My ears are still ringing. I bet I get tinnitus.
In my head, I tell her I have a lot of friends in Montréal and she doesn’t have to babysit me. I don’t mind being alone for two more weeks. I like being alone. In my head, I tell her I am technically going to be a year behind her, but the education system is better in Canada than in the United States, so I’m probably more advanced than she is. I tell her that I walk everywhere in Montréal. And I like it. I tell her she smells like BO. I tell her that I think I see lice in her hair.
But in reality, I keep my mouth shut. I shrug for a second time. I put the earplugs back in my ears. It drowns out the babble babble babble of the party.
Lake doesn’t care. I can tell by the way her body is turned away from me. The time for talking is now over. A new band has taken the stage. She is at complete attention. She is transfixed by the music. She is devouring the stage with her eyes. It’s not like we’re together; it’s more like we’re just standing next to each other. It’s merely out of convenience or proximity.
She’s clapping. I can’t believe she actually wants to be here. She wants to mingle with these kinds of adultescents. She wants to be listening to this stuff, this noise. It’s not anything I have ever heard on the radio. It’s not easy to listen to. It’s scary. I like music to be in the background. Not in my face.
I do not want to be here. I don’t bother looking around for The Rat, because I don’t want to be with him either. I just can’t wait for this day to be over. I pretend the noise and the crazy adults and the stupid American barbecue food aren’t here. I pretend I’m not here.
I am far away. I am back home. I am in Montréal. I am at the piscine. I am eating poutine. I am at the dépanneur with Leticia buying an ice-cream sandwich. We’re going to go hang out at Parc Lafontaine.
But I can’t focus on it. I can’t. I can’t conjure up the image to teleport me there. It’s too loud. Everything here is too loud. Even with the earplugs.
I try to zone out again, between bands. I float away in the pocket of silence until I am shaken out of my reverie by a sonic boom. At least that’s what I think it is. I let out a yelp.
Lake laughs at me again.
“Relax,” Lake says. “It’s just feedback from one of the amps.”
She likes that I don’t know anything. Thinking I’m stupid probably makes her feel good about herself. She climbs up on a plastic chair so that she can see better. She puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles like a trucker.
Suck is the band now taking the stage. Everyone at the party starts to stumble closer. They all want to see. Mob mentality makes me want to see, too. I climb up on a chair next to Lake.
The Rat takes his place and sits behind his drum kit, shirtless. Sam quietly stands at the microphone as the entire party becomes still. He just stands there with intention. I lean forward. I almost tip off the chair. No one dares to breathe.
Suddenly, The Rat breaks the spell, clicking the drumsticks over his head. He screams, “ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!”
And then he crashes his sticks on the drums. Smashes them. They explode. Like they are bombs. Sam Suck is no longer the quiet gentleman that I met by the guacamole. He is screaming. He is all noise and insanity. He is all jumping and falling and throwing and attacking the air with his body. He is all danger and pain.
I’ve got a knot in my stomach.
I don’t know what’s going to happen.
I’m afraid.
The people in front of the makeshift stage are dancing wildly. Their bodies smash into each other. They push and claw. They use each other to gain energy and force. The music is coaxing the crazy out of them. I don’t like it.
Now I shrink back from the noise. I can’t even look at The Rat. He has an evil look on his face. An evil grin. This is not the same person that picked me up from the airport. This is a real rat. A no-good carrier of the plague. Only The Rat’s plague is music. Angry, angry music. Po
unding on those drums. Punishing those skins. Torturing us all.
This sounds nothing like the album I heard at home. It’s worse.
Sam Suck grabs at the microphone. He attacks it with his words.
“When I stand at attention
I’m really asking questions
Like what the hell is up with you?
Your red?
Your white?
Your fucking blue?
And when I go to cast my vote
I’m unimpressed with your one note,
People spitting back what you quote.
I won’t learn your words by rote.”
By the end of the set, The Rat is sweaty. No. Sweaty is too polite a word. He’s a pig. He’s a sweaty pig, dripping rivers from his body as he gets up and throws his sticks into the audience. And Sam Suck’s knuckles are bleeding; his hair is soaking wet and sticking to his face grotesquely, like long tentacles or snakes. The Rat pushes over his drum kit and it falls into a heap on the ground. Then he tackles Sam Suck. They roll around on the stage, laughing and groping each other, fake fighting, fake fucking. Everyone else is laughing and goading them on.
Sam Suck gets up off the floor. He spits on the side of the stage. He picks up the microphone.
Then he speaks.
“My name is Sam Suck. And I have something to say. I stand for all that is true. I vow to be myself at all times. Speak out when I can. Not be afraid of the repercussions of having a voice that might not be in accordance with the mainstream. I vow to think for myself. I vow to make sure that I am always asking questions. I will go my own way. I am unique. And I swear you are, too. So stand up and be heard. Stand up unafraid. We’re going to think out, speak out, act out for social change. Do not be afraid to declare yourself a punk. Everyone who is a thinking, feeling, questioning person who stands up for truth is a punk. I salute you.”
Then he flips everyone his middle finger with one hand and pushes over the microphone with the other, and the crowd goes wild. They are pumping their fists in the air. They start screaming. Like a chant. Like an anthem.
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