by Rob Rufus
5
Blood work was on Tuesday afternoons.
I sat in the waiting room with the others; grayhairs bundled in layers of unmatched clothes, coughing and sniffling, barely awake. We waited for our names to be called.
My brother was with me that particular Tuesday, off school for Christmas break and bored with being at the house. He kept glancing at a patient in the far corner. She looked like a skeleton rotting inside an overcoat.
“This place is a fucking mortuary,” he whispered.
I nodded—yes, I know.
A nurse with a clipboard came into the waiting room. She called my name.
I sat in a plush plastic chair and put my arm onto the armrest, the same type they used in the tattoo shop. The nurse didn’t make conversation. She quietly tied off my arm—the veins bulging thicker now, because of the muscle—and stuck the needle in deep.
Every week they sent eight vials of my blood to Columbus. The results always came back clean. Those anxieties were behind me now—I was healed. The blood tests were just another mundane chore on my calendar.
* * *
After my arm was slapped with a Band-Aid, Nat and I made our way to the parking lot. It was snowing. I looked at the white sky and stuck out my tongue.
Snowflakes dissolved on my glasses. The van was totally covered. Nat cleaned off the windshield, stopping every few seconds to shake the snow from his hair.
By the time we got home, snow dusted every rooftop and branch. Snow painted all the yards and the street. It showed no sign of letting up.
* * *
Inside, I watched it fall through my bedroom window and tried to measure its height. Eight inches? A foot? It just kept pouring in a quick, slanted rush. Nat came to the window beside me.
“You know what this means?” he said. “Gobbler’s Knob.”
Gobbler’s Knob—the most choice sledding spot in Huntington. It was behind the park, where the woods opened onto a clearing that just happened to be a steep-ass hill about three blocks long.
During the blizzard of ’93, Nat and I had spent weeks there, flying down the Knob at bone-crushing speeds, oblivious to danger or death.
But our town hadn’t had a good snow since.
“If it keeps coming down like this, that place will be packed tomorrow,” I said. “Every brat in town will be there, hogging the whole hill.”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why we should go tonight.”
* * *
Nat called Paul about rustling up some sleds. I decided to call and invite Ali. I was surprised when she actually picked up the phone.
“Are you seeing this snow?” I asked.
“Yeah! I love it. The winters are usually so gray.”
“Me and Nat are going sledding at Gobbler’s Knob tonight. I wondered if you might wanna come.”
“Tonight?” she said tentatively. “Okay, sure. But if I wreck the car driving down my hill I’m blaming you guys.”
“I’ll take the risk,” I said. “At this point I’d say that we’re goddamn untouchable.”
* * *
I was bundled in three hoodies, a jean jacket, snow pants, a beanie, gloves, and an old pair of Docs. I felt like a tattooed penguin waddling to the van. The night air was freezing and felt sharp in my remaining lung. I began to worry about my breath but decided that there was no point—if Ali was going, I was going.
The storm left the neighborhood covered in the glow that comes with the snowfall dark. The night was bottom-lit, as if natural law had reversed itself. Nat drove slowly, careful to stay within the tire tracks of those before him. Paul waited on the sidewalk in front of his apartment. Three huge black inner tubes were stacked beside him. We slid to a stop.
Paul threw the tubes in the back of the van. He rubbed his hands together, shivering.
“Damn, what took y’all so long? I almost froze to death.”
“Sooooo sorry, sweetheart.” Nat laughed. “But these roads are complete shit. But hey, the inner tubes look perfect, man!”
“The tire shop on Second Avenue gave ’em to me for five bucks each. These mammas are gonna fly.”
* * *
We pulled into the roundabout that marked the top of the Knob. Ali was already there, sitting in her car with her window cracked, smoking a cigarette. There were no other cars in sight. We parked beside her and walked into the cold.
“I almost skidded off the side of the hill,” Ali said.
“But you didn’t.” I smiled, trying not to slip on the frozen ground.
She rolled her eyes and hugged me hello. She kissed me on the cheek. Her lips were warm.
“Fucking chick drivers,” Paul said.
Ali punched him in his winter coat. We unloaded the inner tubes and headed toward the edge of the hill. I was really struggling, sucking frozen air in shallow puffs like a locomotive that’s run out of coal.
The four of us peered over the edge.
The snow below was untouched, making the incline of the ground impossible to gauge. It was a blind drop.
We sat our tubes down in a straight row. We stood behind them, looking down, hesitating.
Paul’s words were visible in the air—“Okay, pussies, do you want to live forever or something? Let’s go!”
He took a running start and jumped face-first onto his tube, propelling it over the drop and out of sight.
We could hear him yelling.
Nat laughed nervously. He sat down in the middle of his inner tube like it was a pool float. He used his hands to drop over the edge.
He disappeared.
Ali and I held on to the sides of the last remaining tube. We pushed it forward, launching our bodies clumsily on board as the ground dropped out from under us.
She grabbed my jacket. We started to fall.
Snow blew around us like we were on the verge of an avalanche. It was hard to see. The tube twisted off course, spinning in uncontrollable circles like a hellish carnival ride.
We spun right. I saw Nat go flying off his tube.
“Wooooohhhooooo!” Ali cried.
We started to spin forward again and then crashed straight into Paul.
* * *
I was lying on my back.
My chest heaved. I heard laughter all around. I wiped the snow from my glasses and began laughing too—it made it even harder to breathe, but I just couldn’t help it.
“Let’s go again,” Nat said from the ground across from me.
No one stood up. Soon, the laughter faded.
The four of us just lay there, silently breathing in the cold. The stars above us were tinted blue, like ice crystals frozen in heaven. The earth below them lay still. Our bodies cast the imprints of angels in the snow, but we were only kids.
TWENTY-FIVE
Out of Tune
1
Mom called to me from the kitchen. I switched the TV on mute.
“Dr. Ranalli is on the phone,” she said. “He wants to know if you mind rescheduling your appointment next month, from January eleventh to January sixteenth.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, whenever.”
“I think he wants to talk to you.”
Weird, I thought. No doc has called me at home before.
Mom handed me the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Rob, Mark Ranalli here—how was your New Year’s?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Great! I’m just calling to see if you can come in on the sixteenth instead of the eleventh.”
“Yeah, Mom just told me. That works.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Oh, side note—didn’t you once tell me that one of your favorite bands is Pennywise?”
“Yeah, why?”
“It just so happens that they’re playing at the Newport Music Hall in
Columbus on the sixteenth, the day we just rescheduled your appointment.”
“Really?”
“Also interesting—I happen to have a buddy who runs the Newport, and he happened to get me in touch with Pennywise’s manager today. So you might ask your brother to drive you to that appointment—no offense to Mom—because there will be two VIP passes waiting at the box office. And just so you know, their manager said the band wants to meet you.”
Meet ME?
“Are you fucking serious?” I said without thinking. He laughed into the phone.
“Think of it as a parting gift,” he said, “from one old punk to another.”
2
It was the morning of the sixteenth.
The van was crammed, and everyone was grumpy. None of my friends were used to being awake so early. Nat and I sat up front, listening to Pennywise CDs on repeat. Doyle, Tyson, and Paul took the bench seats. Ali slept in the back.
In my pocket was a copy of our old demo—the new songs we’d been working on were better, but until we had them recorded this would have to do. If I got the chance, I was determined to give the demo to the band.
* * *
By nine, the gang was walking me through the halls of Columbus Children’s Hospital, earning odd looks from the families and staff. It was awesome to feel out of place inside these walls.
Before I checked in, I asked my friends to wait outside the oncology clinic—the waiting-room vibe usually rested somewhere between bleak and heartbreaking, and I didn’t want the presence of my weirdo buddies making these cancer kidz even more uncomfortable. I told them I’d call Nat’s cell when I finished, and they left to look for some trouble.
* * *
Pulmonologist. Audiologist. Cardiologist. PET scan. EKG. Normally all these appointments left me exhausted. But not today—today, I was buzzing.
After the EKG, a nurse showed me into an exam room to meet with Dr. Ranalli. But when the door finally opened, Stacey walked in alone.
“Mark was held up,” she said. “It was an emergency. He wanted me to come tell you to get outta here—and to have a great time at the concert! We want a full recap.”
“For sure,” I said, jumping off the exam table. “And can you tell him thanks? And that he’s the most kick-ass doctor in the world. And that you’re the most righteous nurse in the world. And, well, just that I said thankyouthankyouthankyou. . . .”
“I’ll tell him.” She laughed. “Don’t rock too hard tonight.”
“No promises.”
* * *
We drove down High Street, looking for the Newport. The street ran straight through the OSU campus, but after a few miles the college kids started looking scummier, so I knew we were close.
On Twelfth, I saw the venue—and a line stretching around the block.
“We’re here!” I yelled.
“Fuck yeah!”
“Hurry up and fucking park—fuck!”
* * *
We took our place in the back of the unmoving line. I looked at the marquee:
TONITE! PENNYWISE
BOYSETSFIRE DEVIAT3S
SO1D OUT!
I was here—in the city, with my favorite band, with my favorite people—it was all so unreal.
“I’m over this waiting around,” Nat said. “If you’re a VIP, you need to act like a VIP—fuck this line, go tell the door guy we’re on the list.”
“Which list, though?”
“I don’t know, man—the list. Come on, don’t be a chickenshit. Go tell him what’s what.”
“All right,” I said nervously.
I tried not to make eye contact with any other fans as I squeezed past them to the entrance. The door guy looked as if he might squash me.
“Back of the line,” he said.
“I think I’m on the list.”
“Name?”
“It should be.”
“I didn’t ask what should or shouldn’t be,” he said. “I asked for your name.”
“RUFUS,” Nat said loudly behind me. “Rob Rufus, plus one.”
The door guy went inside. We stood there shivering for fifteen minutes. I imagined there was some mistake—of course we weren’t on any list. And now the show was sold out, and I didn’t have a ticket. There was no way I’d even get in.
But when he returned, he put his hand on my shoulder.
“Yes sir, you’re on there, all right—step this way, please.”
The line-waiters cursed as he ushered us inside. He gave us plastic wristbands and told us to go up to the front row of the balcony and wait.
“If you need anything,” he said, “just flash that wristband and ask.”
* * *
We sat on the balcony for over an hour. I leaned over the rail as the crowd herded inside. I couldn’t see my friends anywhere.
When the opening band came onstage, the club was still filling up with people. By the time Pennywise played, this place was gonna be packed.
“Rob Rufus?” a voice behind us said.
“Yeah,” I said, way too eagerly.
He introduced himself as Pennywise’s tour manager. He asked us to follow him downstairs. We walked through the crowd, right up to the stage. He banged on a black door with no knob. A security guard opened it, looked at our wristbands, and waved us in.
We walked through the corridors that made up the backstage. We passed the dressing rooms and then went into some type of storage area. From there, we walked out into the alleyway, behind the club.
A tour bus sat there, blowing exhaust through the telephone wires above. The tour manager walked us over.
“Go on up, they’re expecting you.”
He headed back inside. Nat and I stood there, staring at the door of the bus.
“Come on, VIP,” he said.
I laughed nervously and knocked.
* * *
The inside of the tour bus wasn’t what I’d imagined. It was carpeted in cheesy purple fabric. The counter was covered in potato chips and empty twelve-packs. A TV was on somewhere. I felt more like I was standing in a cramped bachelor pad—only this pad was filled with the members of one of my favorite bands of all time.
The band introduced themselves. The roadies didn’t bother.
Jim, the singer, wore the same hat he was wearing in the poster on my wall. Randy, the bassist, complimented my Black Flag jacket. Then, we met Fletcher—he stood almost seven feet tall. He wore his hair in a long ponytail, more like a pro wrestler than a musician. He was one of the most infamous punk guitarists alive.
I was intimidated as shit, but they went out of their way to make us feel comfortable. They asked us lots of questions, like you might on a first date. We mostly made small talk about where we were from, our tattoos, our favorite bands.
But a few minutes later, their tour manager came on the bus.
“Thirty minutes till showtime, guys. Time to get rolling!”
The band and crew started grabbing fresh beers and making their way off the bus. Fletcher stood up last. His head almost touched the ceiling.
“Come on, motherfuckers,” he said to us. “Let’s go give them a show.”
* * *
I could hear the crowd all the way from backstage.
Not voices—but movement, a rumbling like the place was on the verge of a blowout. The air in the club was thicker now. The molecular structure of the whole damn building was changing.
Fletcher and Randy had their guitars on and stretched their fingers down the frets. Jim paced back and forth. Their drummer was in the dressing room “warming up.” Nat and I were trying to stay out of everyone’s way.
The tour manager looked at his watch.
“Five minutes!”
The band made their way to side stage. Fletcher walked over to me.
“Once we start, you two come watch from the side of the stage—there, near my guitar cab. Cool?”
“Yeah!”
Fletcher nodded—cool.
A few minutes later, the stage lights went black.
The crowd let go, erupting into a collective scream of cusswords and shrieks. The entire room started chanting—PEN-NY-WISE!—the ground shook in time with the stomping mob—PEN-NY-WISE!—the band ran onto the stage.
“What’s up, you motherfuckers!” Fletcher yelled into his mic.
The crowd got even louder.
Jim walked out, mockingly flashing peace signs like Richard Nixon.
“We’re Pennywise, from Hermosa Beach. Let’s fucking do this!”
Nat and I rushed to the corner of the stage, right near the edge. As soon as the band started playing, the entire club spread into a mosh pit—the most violent one I’d ever seen. Kids kicked and punched wildly, boys and girls jumped on and off the stage. Hundreds—thousands—of people, screaming the lyrics and losing their minds, were tearing the place apart. I banged my head with the insane volume of the music.
Pennywise blasted through songs without stopping. The room got even hotter. I felt my shirt stick to my chest. The band, the crowd, and the building itself were drenched in the bodyheat chaos of the night.
The band finally took a pause.
“Let me hear you, Ohioooo!” Fletcher yelled.
The crowd yelled back.
“This next song’s going out to some friends of ours—two brothers, who are more punk rock than any motherfucker here! Give it the fuck up!”
The crowd cheered blindly. Fletcher motioned for us to come onto the stage.
“Holy shit,” Nat said.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me under the stage lights. The crowd sounded ten times as loud. I listened for Ali out there, but it was all too crazy.
“Wanna help us sing one?” Fletcher said, and then he turned back toward the crowd. “This one is called LIVING . . . FOR . . . TODAYYYY!”
The music was all around me. Nat put his arm over my shoulder. He raised a middle finger into the air. I raised my hand and did the same. We stood at the microphone, soaked in spit and sweat, the moment like a perfectly out-of-tune song.
I raised my middle finger higher and began to scream along.
