Wonderkid

by Wesley Stace

  He ruffled my hair: “Okay, sport,” he said. “Sorry. You take over.”

  “And I’ll carry the guitar too.”

  Blake took to wearing a Walkman, though quite often there wasn’t any music playing; it just kept idiots away. I did the talking, following scripts he’d unconsciously written for me. I’d so admired the way he handled everything that I just let myself kind of become him. It was much easier on me, summoning this recent memory of him. Greg would have assumed this role in the old days. That’s kind of how I saw myself.

  Separate buses made sense. There was no point in Blake’s increasingly hectic promotional schedule inconveniencing everyone. Curtis, Mei-Xing, Camille, and Aslan had the “school bus”: lessons, organized games, bedtime stories. All the kid’s videos graduated there. Needless to say, there was no smoking, not even in the back, which had been designated the meditation room, tai chi, et cetera. The food was healthy—always a nice pile of trail mix and yogurt-covered pretzels in neat, color-coded snack cups—and the drinks non-alcoholic. One of the coffins was converted into a makeshift library; in another, bungee cords secured a collection of board games. I mean: it was cool in its way, for sure. It also seemed a little like an alien universe.

  “Their own nuclear family,” I said.

  “Nuclear? Unclear,” Jack answered. “Weird.”

  “Uncle Arly,” said Blake. “Unclearly.”

  During soundcheck and gig, Mei-Xing played nanny, but the rest of the day Camille was actively mother-henning. There’d been no honeymoon period. Camille was no sooner in the band, and playing well, than she started to get under Blake’s skin. Part of it was Aslan. Sure the kid was quiet, but he hid behind her knees and you could never get a feel for him. There were games to play, jokes to make, fun to be had with this six-year-old addition to the family; it was as if the boy had been expressly instructed to stay away from Blake, from us. When Blake referred to them as “the Lion, the Witch, and her Wardrobe,” I knew things were going askew. We needed Mum.

  In our WonderBus, the sieve we’d gone to sea on, things went on as usual, but with greater latitude. With no Becca and no Curtis to ensure best behavior, the merry prankster atmosphere no longer confined itself to the back of the bus. Blake slept there, rarely changing out of his pajamas. It was his nest. He called it China. When he got out of the bus, even at the beginning of the tour, he looked scruffier than before.

  Because Blake was emperor of China, Jack had the front to himself, and he spread out as never before. Sure, there was Mitchell and me, but all Mitchell required was the Captain’s chair beside Randy and a small berth at the table where he could finesse the ever-evolving itinerary. I, on the other hand, had the run of the bus. I even had my own special seat on the front sofa. I didn’t ask for it—it became mine, and Jack sat anywhere but there. I was the glue that held the bus together. Jack only went back if he wanted to get stoned, so I’d pass messages back and forth: what Blake had in mind for the gig, when we were going to eat. Mitchell didn’t like the fumes, though it wasn’t in his road-managerial nature to complain: we moved coffins as far from China as possible.

  In the outside world, despite the fall-out with Norm, it was onwards and upwards. The tour was sold out, the second record was climbing the charts—the real charts, this time. But in the undergrowth of WonderWorld, there was a rustling. There was little enmity among the troops, but there were different needs. When we drew up somewhere, it was Mitchell and I who made a point of heading over to the other bus, just to be friendly. The two factions now met only backstage and at soundcheck, and increasingly Blake took a separate dressing room, at first with Jack, then on his own. Only I was allowed free access between the different parties.

  “Oh,” I heard Mitchell tell Camille. “He’s just got a mild case of LSD.”

  “Blake’s on acid?” she asked, aghast.

  “No. Lead Singer Disease. I’ve seen worse.”

  Perhaps Camille assumed this was what it had always been like, but of course it had been nothing like this. Curtis seemed to prefer it. Perhaps he’d only managed to survive the WonderBus with gritted teeth and an ever tenser jaw.

  It got to the point where the two factions seemed surprised to bump into each other offstage, as though one bus had forgotten the other existed. The drivers, however, carried on regardless. Randy and his counterpart, who was called Beau but was known only as Randy 2, coordinated their movements via CB radio, even the synchronized circling of a Walmart parking lot in the middle of the night for a pee-dump.

  It started with the most innocuous thing.

  A support act had been thrust upon us. Having an opener at all went against Blake’s wishes, but he gave in to Andy, heaven knows why—perhaps it was an apology. A solo acoustic act was the compromise. The first lasted one night: his name was Jeff Trap, playing under the name Mr. Guitar. He was unnaturally shaggy and Blake christened him the Young Bob Dylan. His less-than-twenty-four-hour career as our support act is indicative of where things now stood.

  The Young Bob Dylan shuffled from foot to foot as he introduced himself in the dressing room. He made the tactical error of taking one of Jack’s special beers out of the fridge, then asked all the wrong questions—was Aslan Curtis’s son? Was Mei-Xing my girlfriend? It couldn’t have gone much worse, his wholesome folksiness notwithstanding.

  “Thanks for letting me travel on your bus, by the way,” he said enthusiastically.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Mitchell, otherwise involved with a fax machine.

  “Letting me travel on your bus. Thanks.”

  “Have a good show, Mr. Guitar,” said Mitchell. And out went the Young Bob Dylan to play to a crowd who had never heard of him, didn’t want its time wasted before the headline act, and wouldn’t be won over. In fact, all they’d get was bored, thus making the Wonderkids’ job more difficult. That was why the whole support act idea had been nixed in the first place.

  The moment he left the room, Curtis offered a tentative: “Mmm. Mitchell?”

  “Everything okay, Mr. K.O.?”

  “Is he traveling with you guys?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Only we never heard anything about him traveling on ours.”

  “No,” said Camille, too promptly.

  “Though he seems like a nice guy,” added Curtis.

  “Is this one of Blake’s faits accomplis?” asked Camille, as though it was only the most recent in a long list of insults.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mitchell. “Calm. Kid seems under the impression that’s what’s happening; perhaps he’s been misinformed. I’ll talk to Blake. Perhaps he intends Mr. Guitar to travel in our bus. You heard anything about it, Sweet?”

  I shook my head. It seemed unlikely. Things on our bus didn’t bear too much scrutiny.

  As Mitchell left, Curtis and Camille turned to each other in stage whisper. It was as if they’d been waiting for just such a slight, some real indignity. That’s what happens when you split people up. The focus goes. It’s a bit less of the all-for-one and a bit more of the every-bus-for-itself. I mean, each bus had eight coffins: four spare—we were living like kings. Even so, I wouldn’t have let the Young Bob Dylan on the bus for all the tea in China.

  Mitchell returned. “No cause for alarm. It’s a miscommunication.” Mr. Guitar had just started his strumming. Mitchell climbed up to turn off the tannoy. We didn’t need the added guilt of having to listen to the guy’s performance hissing through. “Blake hadn’t heard a thing about it.” Camille didn’t believe a word. “A promise has been made by someone, not us, and this isn’t our responsibility. I’ll sort it out. Carry on as usual.”

  The next day in the parking lot, we were ready to roll, when out of the hotel, axe slung over back campus-style, saunters Mr. Guitar, just about to board one or another of these huge, luxurious tour buses, then set out on the trip of a lifetime, a trip he could possibly only afford (given how little he’d be making) because the Wonderkids, those good old Wonder
kids, had generously offered the guy (or reluctantly agreed, those amusing old curmudgeons, to offer the guy) a ride. And he’d probably never been on a bus before. He was looking forward to it, the space, the luxury, ignoring America as it rolled by. He probably felt like a million dollars as he strolled out of that lobby.

  Mitchell positioned himself at the top of the steps and Mr. Guitar found his way blocked. Randy fixed his gaze straight ahead, hands on the wheel.

  “Hi,” said Mr. Guitar, all friendly.

  “Good morning,” said Mitchell, without moving.

  “Can I, er . . .?” asked Mr. Guitar.

  “No,” said Mitchell. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, okay. Am I on the other, er . . .” He looked to his right. Mitchell shook his head. His body language told Jeff all he needed to know. “Oh, my manager said that he’d arranged that I could go on the bus.”

  “No one asked us,” said Mitchell.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Guitar. “Isn’t there room?” Bit naive.

  “We can’t take you.”

  “Well, there’s no need to be a dick about it,” said The Young Bob Dylan. Mitchell was being a dick about it, and it pained him. He knew he was in the wrong.

  “Sorry. No one asked us.”

  “Can you at least give me a lift to the next venue? I don’t know how I’m going to get there otherwise.”

  “Rent a car?” said Mitchell, then over his shoulder. “Randy, let’s do it.”

  “Leaving the flop box,” Randy rasped into his CB, and the buses pulled out, leaving a forlorn Mr. Guitar with his tote bag in one hand and his guitar slung over his back. We never saw him again. Either he was pissed off, or he literally couldn’t afford to make the gigs. Whichever, he was never to be heard of again.

  Mitchell scowled and took his place at the desk. Then as an afterthought, he shouted down to Blake:

  “Fuck you very much, Blake!”

  “Fuck you too,” shouted Blake. “Hey, Sweet!”

  Mitchell shook his head and sighed as he flipped through the itinerary. I sat next to him. That wasn’t the way you did business. It wasn’t kind. Blake shouted my name from the back once more. Then the moment I finally got up, as though he’d known, he yelled: “Doesn’t matter!”

  An acoustic support act was bad enough; one who expected to travel with us worse; but worst of all would be the support act who stayed the course. It was as if Norm insisted on the Kidders, another of his signings, as a punishment. The fact is: at this precise moment, in this small world, a warm-up slot for the Wonderkids was like opening for U2. Money may have exchanged hands. I have no idea if you paid to play back then.

  After the mistreatment meted out to the Wonderkids by bigger acts in their fledgling Wunderkind years, you’d have thought that Blake and Jack would be extra vigilant when it came to their own support acts. But that’s the cycle of abuse, isn’t it? You promise yourself you won’t do to your kids what your parents did to you, and then you do.

  I actually liked the Kidders. They put on a good show, with none of the Wonderkids’ special sauce: just songs and vibrant personalities. Offstage they were hardly less dynamic, and they gravitated towards Curtis and Camille’s dressing room, where they continued playing to an even smaller audience. The show never stopped; the bonhomie was unceasing and a little tiring, but they meant well, and a little friendly enthusiasm, even a cheery “good morning,” goes a long way. Sure it was cramped, and their gestures were extravagant, but they didn’t clock on and off like Blake in his new mode. He didn’t seem to pay them any attention; I’m sure he said hello, but he didn’t want his schedule tampered with or affected in any way. He didn’t want them hanging around at soundcheck; he didn’t want them in the dressing rooms; life was the way he liked it, and he was just stoned enough not to realize it was all a bit selfish. The shows—and I know I say this a lot—never suffered.

  “Give ’em a year,” Jack said.

  The Kidders traveled in a beat-up van that looked like they’d been following the Dead since 1969. The four of them, without road manager or roadie, piled into it at the end of every night and drove off: where? To sleep by the roadside? A cheap motel? Crash with friends? None of them drank. None of them smoked. They knew what they were doing.

  One night, both bands done, I didn’t feel so great, and I feared a repeat of the Seuss incident. Blake stayed at the booth—it astounded me that his good cheer in the melee never wavered—as did Vern, who was starting to stash the merch. My stomach felt funny, so I went out to get some air, a can of Coke in my hand. (I used to think the fizz helped.) I decided to head to the bus, maybe even have a lie down. It was curtained as usual, locked I assumed. But when I stretched out the lanyard from which my key dangled, the door opened with the merest pull.

  I had hardly turned down the aisle when I realized I was not alone. Far from it. In the dim light, all I could see were the great cratered moons of Jack’s buttocks as he ploughed in and out of a woman—unknown, unknowable, given that all I could see were high heels either side of Jack’s ears. Neither Jack nor his partner knew I’d come in. My initial reaction, jaded in the extreme, was: “I can’t believe they’re using my place on the bus.” This would have been my opening verbal gambit, but I just stood there, not knowing whether to clear my throat, or walk past to my bunk, where it had been my intention to lie down, or just leave. The door fell closed behind me, and Jack looked around, noting my presence, frowning, then turning back again without missing a stroke. I have no idea if the woman knew I was there. I left, slamming the door. She knew now.

  I was more annoyed than upset. You get inured to these kinds of things, and though I’d never been exposed to anyone’s shunting arse before, I wasn’t shocked. But I guess I was shocked that I wasn’t shocked; shocked that it hadn’t happened earlier. And I wanted to lie down. I shouldn’t have had to run that gauntlet just to lie down in my own fucking bed.

  My next thought was the other bus. I was welcome there, despite the decontaminated atmosphere. And so I knocked and gamely skipped on, trying to leave my recent shitty experience on the asphalt of the parking lot. I even made a polite attempt to wipe my feet: their bus had that effect.

  “Come in,” said Camille.

  Everything was a picture. Camille was applying some preparation to Curtis’s dreadlocks and Mei-Xing seemed to be teaching Aslan to read. I mean, it was truly picturesque, very Happy Valley. There were fresh cut flowers on the central table, and the whole place smelled like a girl’s bedroom, pink and cleansed. Music was playing: something very tasty, maybe even Sting playing some kind of lute. On the sideboard sat a basket of bananas, grapes, and apples, just next to a blender so pristine it looked mint. It was all lovely, and completely uninviting. I felt like a cancerous leper. It was too much; it was the Stepford bus. It had the astonishing effect of making me feel even worse. It was like they were all members of a religious cult. And as it happens, they were mostly wearing white.

  “Hey,” said Camille with a huge smile, extending an arm of invitation as if from Heaven. “Would you like a smoothie?”

  “Oh,” I said, as my nausea returned with a vengeance. I was sullying the place, bringing it down to my level. I was crapping all over their nice carpet then stepping in it and walking all over the rugs, smearing it on their pillows for good measure. “Any sign of, er, Jack?”

  “Jack?” asked Mei-Xing.

  “No Jack,” said Curtis. “Anybody seen Jack?”

  Nobody had.

  “Right,” I said, “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be off then.”

  “You can stay if you like,” said Camille. “We’ve got all the drinks you like.” That wasn’t true: it would all be diet this and no-fructose-corn-syrup that. She was going to offer to teach me macramé or finger knitting.

  “And,” Curtis said, “Mei-Xing wondered if you wanted to . . .”

  “Yeah, I’d love to, but I have to go now.”

  I honestly felt like vomiting.

  Standing outside, I took one look ba
ck at the gig, then one look at my bus, then one look at the bus behind me, and I felt like weeping in frustration. I just wanted to be alone—without anyone—and there was nowhere. Perhaps Blake hit the same wall every now and then. The only possible refuge was the Kidders’ van, dwarfed in the shadows of the two tour buses. It was unlocked—typical: hippies—and I laid myself out on one of the seats, closed my eyes and tried to zone out.

  Finally, I was joined by a couple of Kidders.

  “Hey, man,” the girl said, Regina was her name. She called herself Reggie “like Audrey Hepburn in Charade.” Cute. “Did we leave the van open?”

  “Yeah,” I said wisely. “Thought I’d just lie here and keep an eye on it for you.”

  “Thanks, man,” she said. “Good show, tonight, huh? Your guys were on fire.” They were? Good.

  “So what’s your story?” she said, handing me a bottle of backstage Coke. “Is he really your father?”

  The wheels kept rolling, but something was missing. Fortunately, the audience had no idea. Blake could always get lost in the performance, and he was still writing new songs, but it wasn’t the same. It had been a perfectly amicable separation, tarnished only by small moments of distrust, but no infidelity; the band’s dealings were now purely professional.

  The unspoken truth was that there was every reason, commercially, to keep going. The Wonderkids were still a winning formula. They’d found a way to coexist fairly peacefully, and, with a packed calendar, the new single riding high, invitations to go on TV rolling in by the day, it seemed like the road could go on forever. A dysfunctional family band: go figure—it wasn’t the first time.

  The first invitation from a major late night talk show was cause for celebration. The Wonderkids were known primarily as children’s artists, so this was a real accolade: no children are up at 11 p.m. (East Coast), let alone midnight (West Coast and Central). This was for the parents, because the band had a hit and made great music. No other reason. Blake and Jack were thrilled. Andy was suddenly everywhere: “Okay. You should do the single.”