by Rob Rufus
He told me to come back in two weeks.
* * *
That process of elimination started right away.
Dad ripped out my bedroom carpet using a box-cutter and a flathead screwdriver. Nat agreed to move into the basement temporarily and let me sleep in his bedroom. Mom went out and got new sheets for his bed, just to be safe.
These changes didn’t produce any results. We couldn’t find any mold, dander, or decay—we couldn’t find anything suspicious at all. The symptoms continued.
A week passed.
I spent all seven nights awake, lying in my brother’s bed coughing and confused.
What is going on with me? I wondered. Am I going fucking crazy?
2
A few days later the pain started.
It came out of nowhere—just like the cough, just like Ali, just like all of it. There was no lead-up, no sense to it. I simply woke up one morning—the same way I did every morning—and felt a pain in the bottom of my neck.
It wasn’t pain like the cuts and bruises I got skating. It was a deep pain. It hurt all over my neck and shoulder, it hurt everywhere under my skin. It was inexplicable and constant—as if someone had slashed the nerve endings with a rusty ax while I was sleeping. This pain was all-encompassing.
I’d never felt anything like it. It was completely fucking brutal. I still had three days until my follow-up appointment—my parents told me to stay home.
That was fine. I didn’t want to be at school anymore. I didn’t want to move. The clouds in my mind had turned black again. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t reason—something inside of me had finally broken.
* * *
No one knew what to do. I looked fine; there were no bruises or injuries. I wasn’t sore to the touch. The pain was invisible.
Alone in my house, I started taking Advil by the handful. Taking and taking and taking those pills, sucking on the coating like it was candy. I drank the cough syrup freely now, eager for the codeine to make me numb.
None of it helped much, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’d lie in bed all day, trying to figure out what the hell I coulda done to hurt myself this bad—I couldn’t remember. The constant quality of the pain was making me feel crazy. My memory was as unclear as everything else. I couldn’t remember the past, and I didn’t have the energy to think of tomorrow.
All I could focus on was now, where I was living inside the pain.
I wanted to be alone. The pain and the cough, the sleepless nights—it was all too much. Anytime I talked to anyone—on the phone or in person—my fuse was nonexistent. I was miserable and made sure everyone knew it.
So I just stayed in bed, rolling over, whining (and finally—crying) while red sirens screamed their endless wampwampwamp in my brain.
Days, nights, and mornings—the pain was always with me. It pushed me past sleeplessness and into full-blown insomnia. In the lifeless house of night, pain distorted my every thought.
It was a lonely place to be.
There were no dreams and no nightmares. I would have welcomed nightmares, if they meant sleep. But all that came was time—endless hours of dark.
Some nights, I convinced myself that I was imagining everything—people did that, right? Convinced themselves that they were sick to the point their own bodies believed it? I started seriously considering the possibility that I was losing my mind.
Fear, paranoia, and resentment were part of my every thought. It was like a strange acid in my neck was seeping into my brain—it was the acid that kept me awake.
The entire world seemed asleep. My parents and my brother, my gang, my teachers, Ali and her shitty friends, Johnny Ramone, Britney Spears, George Bush—millions and trillions of assholes everywhere—and they could all sleep.
Everyone slept but me. I hated them for it—silently—as I lay there alone with my thoughts and my pain.
It was horrible company to keep.
3
I’d given up on doctors.
Fuck them—fucking quacks. Three months to get rid of a cough? That seemed like some pretty shitty medical care, even in West Virginia. If it wasn’t for the pain, I don’t think I would have bothered going to my next appointment. But it forced me—forget about the cough. Forget all of it. Just do something about this pain.
Nat offered to drive me to the hospital. I’d been so laid up, I don’t think he believed I could make it across town. But I said no—I was too miserable to accept any help.
I felt like they were just patronizing me—I was sure that no one really believed there was anything wrong with me. I’d convinced myself that they all thought I was a fake.
* * *
My faith in the hospital was nonexistent. Like I said, at this point I didn’t even pay attention to names of doctors or medications, I just went through the motions. When someone makes me feel better, I said to myself, I’ll waste time remembering names.
But then, there was Doctor . . .
Actually, screw him. I remember his name, but I won’t say it. He doesn’t deserve to have his name in a book, even one like mine. He doesn’t deserve a legacy, even if it’s that of a righteous prick.
So I’ll refer to him by a pseudonym, one that I find much more fitting: Dr. Adolf Fuckface.
Dr. Adolf Fuckface—forever an asshole. Thin, graying hair combed down on his smug rat face. Thin lips frozen in an eternally smug grin.
Dr. Fuckface. Probably a child molester and a wife beater, probably a Nazi sympathizer and a Scientologist. He is definitely a fucking Republican. I bet he even loves Clapton’s solo stuff.
Do you remember me, you worthless quack?
I seriously doubt it.
Because I vividly recall how he looked at me as soon as he entered that exam room. I was hunched over on the table, with my bleached spikes facing the door—a sweaty, pale boy in big smudged glasses, wearing a Black Flag T-shirt and ripped jeans.
Dr. Fuckface looked up from his clipboard as I croaked a hello. He regarded me with the kind of look you might give a public restroom—disgusted, irritated, and then dismissive.
I began at the beginning.
I started reliving my symptoms, going all the way back before the cough. He didn’t ask any questions or make any notes; he didn’t refer to my chart at all. He just leaned against the wall and looked at me. He had dismissed me the second he saw me.
But if he thought I was some loser freak—so what? I still needed help.
So I kept going. For once I was speaking candidly about the pain, the insomnia, and how hard it was for me to breathe. I asked him if he could do that chest X-ray. I asked him to do any tests he could—do all the tests! Do everything!
I was desperate. Can’t you see the pain I am in? I wondered, rubbing my neck and shoulder. Can’t you help me?
When I had finished, Dr. Fuckface just stood there, rubbing his chin.
“What is this look you’re going for here, Robert?”
“What?”
“That T-shirt you have on. That hair—I mean, why would you do that to your hair? How old are you? My God, kids today look like circus clowns.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Uh, okay? Not sure what my shirt has to do with the pain in my neck. I’ve been coming here for so long, and nothing has helped. They were supposed to do X-rays, and haven’t, and I’m still sick.”
He waved his hand insistently. “You don’t need an X-ray. If you did, don’t you think we would have done one by now? What you need to do is take the medication your previous doctor prescribed. Then come see us again if—”
“I DID TAKE THE MEDICINE! I took all the medicine; I tried everything they told me to try! Nothing helped! Please do the X-rays. Change my medication. Do something. I can’t sleep. I can barely breathe.”
I was panting now, and the air in the room
seemed thick. Then, softly, I told him something I hadn’t told anyone.
“I’m scared, man. I’m freaking out—please do something.”
He cleared his throat.
“As I was saying before your tantrum, if you take the previously prescribed medication—as directed—I am confident the cough will subside.”
“What about the pain?” I pleaded. “This weird pain in my neck—nothing makes it go away! It isn’t normal.”
Dr. Fuckface shook his head. “May I be frank, Robert?”
I was done. I just looked at the floor. I was done.
“I think what you need to do is start acting like a man. No medication or X-ray is going to help with that. I mean, listen, I have pain too—right here, in my knee, an old tennis injury—but do you know what I do? Do you know what you need to do? DEAL WITH IT. You are behaving like a little girl. You need to deal with it, Robert.”
I sat there shaking. I hung my head when he left the room. I never saw him again. I never got a chance to tell him just how wrong he was. I just sat there, feeling like a complete nothing.
* * *
I wasn’t thinking, I was just driving. I was scared—once I’d said it out loud, I couldn’t deny it anymore.
I was fucking scared.
It wasn’t until I passed the cemetery that I realized I was driving toward Ali’s house. The two of us had barely talked lately, because I’d been so miserable to be around. Our last conversation had ended with her hanging up on me. Whenever I spoke, the poison inside of me seemed to come out.
I really had the feeling I was going down, man. I knew I should turn my car around. Only a coward would pull a poor girl onto a sinking ship. Only the most selfish prick would even consider it—but in the end, I just couldn’t help myself.
* * *
I stood outside of her house. I banged on the door, yelling her name to the window above like an imitation Marlon Brando.
Ali finally answered the door. I saw her eyes widen.
“Shit, Rob, are you okay?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
She didn’t answer me.
“I’m fine, I guess. I don’t know anymore,” I mumbled. I didn’t realize that I was crying.
Ali wrapped her arm around my back and slowly walked me inside.
* * *
Our hearts beat beside each other on top of her unmade bed. She lay behind me, one arm around my chest and one on my neck as I spoke. It all poured out, between sobs and coughs—I told her about the pain and sleepless nights. I told her that I was scared I might be going crazy. I told her I was losing my grip.
I went on and on, until there were no words left. I had no more excuses, apologies, or concessions left to give. I was empty now.
Ali rubbed my neck. Her breasts pressed against my back, rocking in and out with her breath. Her body pushed against mine—leading it—until my shallow breaths flowed in tune with her own.
She told me it was okay. That everything was going to be okay.
And for the first time in a long time, I slept.
EIGHT
The Days Just Get Away from You
1
A few days after my visit with Dr. Fuckface, the pain stopped. It simply disappeared, as mysteriously as it had arrived.
My other symptoms lingered, but the pain—that horrible pain—was gone. I started leaving the house again. I started feeling like myself again.
None of it made sense.
Had I imagined it? Was it just growing pains? Lovesickness?
Ridiculous theories like this were discussed openly in my house, each resulting in a similar answer—if I was feeling better, then who cares?
* * *
On my second day back at school, we got home to find Brody standing on our porch. He was pacing manically, clutching his messenger bag. He told us that he had news—big news. He couldn’t keep still.
We didn’t have a band practice scheduled, but we still went down to the basement to talk about whatever had him so excited. Pillows and a comforter covered the love seat where Nat had been sleeping. Headphones were plugged into the stereo—I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d listened to music.
Nat and I watched Brody open his bag.
He pulled out a large white envelope, and then a smaller one. Both had been opened. He pulled a piece of paper out of the small envelope, flattening it on the floor.
“Read,” he said excitedly.
Nat and I looked down.
Brody,
I was pleased to receive your music and letter, thank you for the kind words. I thoroughly enjoyed the tape, as did my staff. To my knowledge, we’ve never had a band from West Virginia on the tour before. It seems there is a first time for everything.
See you this summer,
Kevin Lyman
Warped Tour
His name was signed at the bottom. Nat picked up the letter and read it again. I was speechless. Brody opened the large envelope before either of us could respond.
THE AGENCY GROUP was in big, bold print on the top of each page. It looked like some sort of form. There were spaces for names and Social Security numbers.
“Is this a contract?” asked Nat.
“It’s an offer. Keep reading.”
When we got to the last page, it made sense:
The Agency Group (TAG) submits to offer “Defiance of Authority (DOA)” two hundred dollars ($200) for live performance at the following Warped Tour appearances:
July 11: GTE Virginia Beach Amphitheater, Virginia Beach, VA
July 12: US Phoenix Center, Bristow, VA
July 13: US Tweeter Center, Camden, NJ
July 14: IC Light Amphitheater, Pittsburgh, PA
July 15: OFF
July 16: Asbury Park Lot, Asbury Park, NJ
July 17: Tower City Amphitheater, Cleveland, OH
I saw the offer shaking in my brother’s hand. He looked up at Brody.
“We did it?” he asked tentatively.
“We did it!” Brody yelled.
Nat started laughing.
“We did it! We fucking did it!”
“We are going on tour!”
“THE WARPED TOUR, dude! Fuck!”
“It’s so on!”
“Fuck! It is so fucking on!”
We were going on tour we were going on tour we were going on tour!
None of us could believe it. We’d never even played out of state before. We didn’t have a record deal, or even a record. But now, we were invited to be part of the crown jewel of punk rock concerts, the biggest festival tour in the world!
We did it. It worked. We fucking did it.
At the time, I couldn’t fully appreciate how insane it was that our little band got an offer like that—it was like we hit a grand slam on our first time at bat. But back then, it seemed a lot less like luck, and a lot more like destiny.
2
Word about our big break spread through the local punk scene quickly—mainly because we told anyone who would listen.
We were the first band from West Virginia to ever get invited on the tour—I couldn’t remember ever feeling so proud. We started getting asked to play more shows—not just in West Virginia, but in other states too. Nat was looking at maps, talking about the possibility of booking more gigs around Warped Tour. Maybe we’d just tour all summer! Maybe we would tour forever!
We all had the urge to go out and play. Even me. Even as bad as I felt. I was now technically a professional musician—and as a professional, I felt like I needed to get off my ass and go play a show.
We were asked to play with an up-and-coming emo band at the VFW Hall in Charleston. The show was the following Friday, and super-late notice, but Ashley said the band was getting huge—which meant a crowd of new face
s for us to rock off. It was as good a time as any to jump back into things. I felt a nagging sense that there was no time to waste.
* * *
It was our first out-of-town gig.
We loaded up the tour van with our instruments like always, and filled the leftover space with freeloaders from the local scene—Ashley, Paul, Tyson, Brody, Jamie, and Angela crammed into the seats. I’d invited Ali to come, but she said she couldn’t. She was busy with her friends or something.
Charleston is about an hour east of Huntington. But on that night it seemed farther—beyond the lights of town, the world outside of our crowded van seemed strange and new. Everyone was excited. We blasted a Face to Face CD loud enough that everyone could sing along without feeling embarrassed.
The Charleston VFW was a crappy, one-story building on the far side of the capitol. The show promoter met us in the parking lot. He shook everyone’s hand and really kissed my brother’s ass. He offered to help us with our gear. The parking lot was full of kids, hanging out before the bands started.
It was different, but the same.
The only thing that definitely wasn’t the same was the chicks—they had real live punk rock girls here. They sat on the hoods of cars drinking, laughing in the shadows on the walls. As I carried my snare drum inside, I had a vision of the vampire girl who’d sold me my records a lifetime ago. Would she have ever guessed she’d met a future punk rock star?
As I walked out for the next load, I made eye contact with a group of girls. I tried smiling, but it was no use—the headlining band had shown up. All females were suddenly occupied.
* * *
Since Paul wasn’t promoting, he found himself with little to do. The two of us stood outside, waiting for our set time, staring at the golden rooftop of the capitol.
“Where’s Ali?” he asked.
“With her friends, I guess. She’s been hanging with them a lot lately. I think she’s getting sick of me being sick.”
“Shit, she’d better shape up before your tour starts. Don’t she know that they make girls like her in Pittsburgh and in New York and in Jersey? Plenty of them will be happy to hang out with y’all this summer, I guarantee it.”
We laughed.
