The Bad Decisions Playlist

by Michael Rubens

  Then I look. It’s a pretty big room, crowded, everyone standing. The house music shuts off. It’s time. Faces turn toward me, curious, expectant. Prickly sweat. Heart racing. Here it is, what I came all this way to do, what I’ve always dreamed of doing.

  “Um,” I say. “Hi. Shane couldn’t make it tonight. I’m his son, Austin.”

  If there’s a murmur of surprise or any reaction at all, I don’t register it, because I immediately start playing the opening chords to “Good Fun,” my eyes closed.

  When I start singing the first verse, my voice is timid and shaky, my hands greasy with sweat. I keep my eyes closed as I sing, or keep my sightline fixed above the crowd. About halfway into the song, my voice starts to even out and settle, my confidence growing a bit. I can do this. I can do this.

  Then I let my gaze drop lower, and it falls upon some guy in the front row, a guy in his thirties in a leather jacket and T-shirt. Catching the precise instant when he turns and looks at his friend, the two of them sharing eye rolls and snarky smiles. What did we expect? that look says. And it’s like a drop of ink in a pool of clear water, diffusing outward, darkening and polluting everything, and I see others in the crowd trading similar glances, everyone coming to the same conclusion at once, their interest fading, people starting to talk to each other instead of listen. It’s not even hostility. It’s worse. It’s boredom and indifference.

  When I played with Shane, it was like a dream where you’re flying. This is every nightmare you’ve ever had where you forgot about the test or didn’t learn your lines or you’re naked onstage.

  Going into the third verse, I play the wrong chord and have to readjust. I’m looking forward in my mind to the upcoming parts of the song, but it’s like a road vanishing into the mist. I’m going to run out of words any moment​—​here it comes, here it comes, I can’t remember, it’s gone​—​and my voice falters and I stop singing and just strum the guitar, and then I stop that, too.

  I restart from the beginning of the verse and stop again.

  Start again. Stop.

  Everyone’s attention is back on me, but for the wrong reason. Now people are turning away, embarrassed for me, embarrassed for this child onstage, too painful to watch, one guy actually half covering his eyes with his hand, a car wreck playing out in front of him.

  A dreadful moment when I just stand there, not moving, not playing, exposed. My darkest fear of the worst thing that could ever happen onstage.

  “Sorry,” I say, too far from the mic for it to pick me up properly. I unstrap the guitar and grab it by the neck and jump off the stage, not bothering with the case, who cares, and I shame-trudge my way through the crowd as fast as I can, head down, ignoring Shefford saying “Kid! Kid!” I’m gasping for breath as I stagger outside, and suddenly I’m so angry it feels like all my cells are exploding, and SMASH I slam Shane’s guitar on the sidewalk SMASH SMASH SMASH until the body shatters and breaks off SMASH and all I have is the neck, the strings still connected to the bridge and a ruined remnant of guitar, and then I hurl the whole mess away from me and stand there panting and wild-eyed.

  “Okay, that one? You can’t blame that on me.”

  I spin around.

  It’s Todd Malloy.

  Stay an angry young man / as long as you can /

  the trick is knowing how and when / to come back down to land

  I want to flee. I want to sit on the ground and sob. I want to start gibbering and giggling and tear my hair out. I want to run into his arms.

  Instead I just stand there, stupefied, slack-jawed.

  The first thing that comes out of my mouth: “I swear I thought you guys broke up.”

  When he just cocks his head and looks at me, confused, I say, “Todd, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I stole my dad’s credit card and got a plane ticket.”

  “Nice!” says Shefford, who must have followed me out of the bar.

  “Are you nuts?” I say.

  “Dude, you stole a friggin’ car and drove here.”

  “This is fantastic,” says Shefford.

  “Who is this?” says Todd, jerking his thumb at Shefford.

  “I’m Shefford,” says Shefford, sticking out his hand.

  “Could you give us a minute?” says Todd.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Shefford says, and retires to a spot approximately three feet farther away.

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  “Josephine called me, asked if I’d seen you, told me what happened. I thought, damn, if he’s going, I’m going.”

  It’s taken me this long to process that Todd has an impressive new shiner under his left eye.

  “Yeah,” he says, noting my gaze. “That helped. And now I’m here, and you have to get back in there.”

  “What?!”

  “Not my business, but he’s right,” says Shefford.

  “Would you please?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Todd, I’m not going back in there.”

  “Oh, you’re going back in there, and you’re getting on that stage.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You’re going to. You’re gonna get on that stage, and I’m gonna play drums, and you’re gonna strum your guitar and sing.”

  “I don’t have a guitar,” I say, pointing to the wreckage on the sidewalk.

  “You can use my electric,” volunteers Shefford.

  “You can use his electric,” seconds Todd.

  “You don’t have a drum set.”

  “There’s a house kit all set up,” says Shefford.

  “Todd, I was a complete disaster in there!”

  “Uh, yeah. I saw. I got in there just as you were crapping your pants. Look, I was in a game once, and this guy hit me with​—”

  “Oh, God, don’t give me a sports metaphor.”

  “You can’t pussy out. You can’t.”

  “I can. I did. I’m done.”

  When I start to walk away, Todd runs around in front of me and blocks my path.

  “Todd, don’t. Please let me go.”

  “Methune, you remember that party with your dad? Down in that basement?”

  “Yes. What.”

  “That guy? He would have kicked my ass. He would have kicked. My. Ass. But there’s two things I can do well. I can play drums, and I can stand my ground. I won’t back down. You can’t back down now. Don’t you get it? You’re so . . . you’re so goddamn good, Methune. You can’t back down in front of these assholes.”

  “Are you complimenting me?”

  “Yes. Don’t make me do it again.”

  I try to push past again. He stops me with a hand on my chest.

  “Todd, you can’t make me do this.”

  “No. But you can. Methune, you got this.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you do. We got this.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  As Shefford and Todd are frog marching me back into the venue, Shefford says, “Look, just play loud.”

  “What if I screw up again?” I say.

  “Play louder.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Hasty last-minute planning as Shefford steers us through the crowd to the stage, Todd going through the set list. “And no namby-pamby Simon and Garfunkel crap. We’re going hard, straight-up Jack White, Black Keys, whatever. Got it?”

  Everything moving very quickly. Shefford playing roadie, plugging in his guitar for me and fiddling briefly with the amp settings; Todd thumping on the bass pedal and rearranging some things; me adjusting the guitar strap and not looking at the crowd, and just as I say to Shefford, “I don’t think I can​—” he grabs the mic and bellows into it, “What’s up, mofos! Please welcome to the stage Austin Methune!” And everyone’s turning toward us and there’s an explosion behind me as Todd assaults the drums, and screw it, I hit the opening chord, the amp erupting like a volcano, and as Shefford goes airborne, diving from the stage, I hear a howl come out of my throat I’ve never heard before and
oh, it is on.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  TAP TAP TAP.

  Here’s another really bad way to be woken up: Lawyer Rick rapping a key on the driver-side window of the car in which you’re sleeping. The car that belongs to him that you stole and drove to another state.

  TAP TAP TAP.

  The driver’s seat is leaned all the way back, and I prop myself up on my elbows to goggle at Rick. He’s standing right outside the door, hands on hips, bent at the waist, peering into the car like a traffic cop. His expression like a cop’s too: unreadable, blank.

  Oh, crap.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The show.

  The show is a distorted white-hot blur. I only remember snippets: yowling through the songs, the gunshot reports of Todd firing off accent notes, glimpses of faces looking at me in surprise. Looking at me with respect.

  Jumping off the stage afterward, Shefford saying, “Yeah, mofos!”, beers shoved in our hands, drinking, more drinking, Shefford’s band playing an ear-crushing set.

  When Todd and I stumbled out of the bar, I said, “That was awesome! You were awesome! We were awesome!”

  “No,” said Todd. “We sucked. But who gives a crap? You got up there, Methune,” and he punched me in the shoulder, ow, and I LOVE TODD MALLOY.

  Plans were made: Todd’s got a return flight at nine a.m. We’re gonna stay out all night. We’re in Brooklyn, right? We’re gonna PARTY! But first, let’s just head back to the car for a quick disco napzzzzzz . . .

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  TAP. TAP. TAP.

  “Okay . . . sorry, wait a . . . second . . .”

  I start fumbling with the door, too sleep clumsy and muddled to figure out if I’m supposed to be rolling down the window or opening the door, or how to do either of those operations. Rick observes me for a few seconds, then concentrates briefly on something in his hand, and​—​bleepBLOOP—​the door unlocks. I guess he has his copy of the key fob.

  I open the door about six inches, just so I don’t have to let reality come flooding in all at once. Rick rests his left hand on the top of the door and his right on the roof and leans forward and we contemplate each other, Rick going in and out of focus.

  “Car’s got a LoJack on it,” he says finally. “Vehicle locator.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Whuzzah? What’s going on?”

  Todd, sitting up in the passenger seat, doing some drool control with a forearm dragged across his mouth.

  “Oh, crap,” he says. Then, “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who owns the car,” says Rick.

  “Oh, crap.”

  “Yes,” says Rick. “Oh, crap.”

  We all ponder the Oh, crapness of the situation.

  “Cool car, though,” says Todd.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Out,” says Rick to me. “You too,” he says to Todd.

  We both comply, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk. Rick does a circle around the car, checking it for damage in the illumination provided by the streetlight overhead, then nods to himself, apparently satisfied. Then he walks directly up to Todd, hands on hips, regards him impassively for a moment, then proceeds to prosecuting-attorney the living hell out of him.

  “State your full name.”

  “Todd Patrick Malloy.”

  “Place of residence?”

  And so on, a rapid-fire line of interrogation that Todd answers without a hint of attitude or resistance, obediently spilling every last detail as if he were under oath. I have to hand it to Rick. It’s . . . impressive.

  “Please tell me you’re eighteen,” says Rick.

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “You’re not, are you.”

  “Uh . . . no. No, sir.”

  “I imagine your parents have no idea you’re here.”

  “I’ve stayed out all night before.”

  “But not, presumably, in an entirely different state, without permission.”

  Todd doesn’t say anything.

  “Right,” says Rick.

  He sighs and rubs his eyes, no doubt envisioning potential legal liabilities.

  “What I should be doing,” he says to Todd, “is informing both the authorities and your parents of your presence here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Todd waits. I wait.

  “Ah, screw it,” says Rick. “Both of you, in the car.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  What is Rick feeling as he pilots the car through the late-night traffic over the Williamsburg Bridge to Manhattan? I haven’t the foggiest. He’s silent until we reach a stoplight and he fiddles with his phone, then hands it to me. “Tell them we’re in suite 442 and we want to order room service. Get what you want. I want a burger and fries. Medium on the burger.”

  I take the phone, moving like I’m underwater, and tell the voice on the other end that we’re in 442 and would like to order room service.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  So now it’s two a.m. and Rick and I are sitting at a table in a suite in a fancy Manhattan hotel eating burgers and fries. Todd’s food is sitting untouched on the tray under its metal cover, Todd already out cold on the sofa after saying he was just gonna close his eyes for a second. Rick still hasn’t said anything. He seems content to sit and eat like there’s nothing particularly unusual about, well, everything.

  “Um . . . my mom . . .” I finally say.

  “Yeah, your mom. She’s very relieved that I found you, although she didn’t express it exactly in those terms. By the way, I met your friend Josephine.”

  “What?”

  “Around the time I got back and realized the car was gone, she came by the house and told us what happened.”

  “She hates me.”

  “Cared enough about you to try and help. Anyway, I told your mom I’d go fetch you and went to the airport.”

  “I stole your car.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s a crime.”

  “Yes. It’s grand theft auto, which is a felony. Plus you transported it across state lines, which makes it a federal crime. That’s the kind where the DOJ, the Department of Justice, gets involved, and you get a visit from folks who refer to themselves as special agents. By which I mean they’re FBI.”

  He pauses to dip a french fry in ketchup.

  “That,” he says, “would be unpleasant.”

  He goes back to his french fries, sips some water. I’m not sure if he has anything else to say.

  “Rick, I’m really sorry.”

  He nods absently.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “You’re not gonna . . . ?”

  “What, have you arrested? That what you want? You think I’m going to put you through the criminal justice system? I’m pretty familiar with that side of things. I have a fair sense of what the outcome would be.”

  “My mom’s gonna send me to that military academy.”

  “Doubt it. For my part I told her it was about the worst idea imaginable. I’m sure she’ll figure out some punishment for you, but”​—​he shrugs​—​“what’s the point? You’ll either learn or you won’t. You’ll keep doing stupid crap, sabotage yourself, or you won’t. Doesn’t matter much what I do or your mom does. But here’s how it works: Very soon you’ll get to be a real grownup and comprehend that the world doesn’t revolve around you. That you, and only you, are responsible for you. No one else.”

  He wipes his hands and mouth with his napkin, stands up.

  “Okay. I’m going to take a shower and go to sleep.” He glances at Todd on the sofa. “Looks like you get the floor.”

  Last verse / same as the worst thing I’ve ever done

  Rick is snoring in the bedroom as I gather my things quietly in the darkness. Todd doesn’t stir. I slip silently out of the room, easing the door closed. It’s four a.m.

  The hallway is empty. The elevator is empty. The bong it makes when it arrives is loud and lonely in the deserted hallway. There’s no one else in the lobby except a single night
clerk behind the reception desk.

  “Checking out, sir?” he says, eyeing my bag.

  “No, I’m just . . .” I say, pointing to the exit, then walk through the double doors out into the Manhattan night.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  When I wake up, the sun is bright in my eyes. There are people talking. I close my eyes against the glare and listen to the conversation. It takes a moment for me to figure out it’s the TV, tuned to CNN.

  “Get up,” says Rick. “We have to take Todd to the airport.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  When I walked out of the hotel, I stood for a moment on the sidewalk, listening to the sounds of the city at night, trying to decide which way to go.

  As I shifted my weight back and forth, standing there, I became aware that I had something in my back pocket. The note from Shane.

  I dug it out and looked at it without opening it. Ten yards from me was a trash can. Well, at least that was a direction. I walked to the can and held the envelope over it, preparing to drop it in.

  Then didn’t. Instead I opened the letter.

  It wasn’t a long note, the Dear Austin note I’d been expecting. It simply said,

  It’s not too late for you, either.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there, reading and rereading those seven words. Then I folded up the note and returned it to my pocket.

  “Welcome back, sir,” said the night clerk without expression when I came in. I didn’t say anything to him as I trudged to the elevator bank and went upstairs.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  When we get to LaGuardia Airport Todd says, “You can just drop me off at the curb.”

  Rick says, “Yeah . . . no.”

  We park and go in with Todd, Rick helping him print out his boarding pass from the kiosk and then escorting him to the security line.

  Before Todd joins the line, he looks at me and nods. I nod back. He sticks out a hand and we shake.

  “You did good, Methune.”

  “You too, Malloy.”

  Then Rick squares himself up with Todd, like he did last night, and says, “Todd? At some point I assume your parents are going to see their credit card bill and have some difficult questions for you. But as for me being here? It never happened.”