Wonderkid

by Wesley Stace

  “Well, I was wondering . . .” Here it came. “I was wondering if maybe next year—you know we do this big gig in Prospect Park every year. I was wondering if you thought that the Wonderkids would consider playing it. I mean, it’ll be packed. Have they thought of getting back together?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “You probably worry that there’d still be a residual Pee-wee Herman effect, but you know Pee-wee’s having the last laugh now, right?” In his mind, the gig was already happening. I was witnessing a promoter promoting. I hadn’t been thinking anything like that, although perhaps he was right. It was more that I was considering that in order for there to be a reunion, we’d need the lead singer. It’s probably how the Pogues feel every time they play. “I think you’d be surprised,” he continued. “Everyone’s prepared to, well, forgive and forget. I mean, you saw the reaction in there. I think a lot of the parents would feel the same way.”

  “You make it sound a lot worse than it was. I love Pee-wee Herman, but he was actually guilty of a sexual offense.”

  “Well, the rumors about the Wonderkids were probably worse than the actual events.”

  “They were. Considerably.” Niall was beginning to annoy me, but here I was: the band’s representative.

  “I mean Peter Yarrow’s still performing to children,” he said by way of comparison.

  “I’m not sure that example is really working for you.”

  “And anyway,” he was off again, promoting, trying to iron out problems as they presented themselves, “the thing with Peter Yarrow is that it was 1970 and things were very different then. Also Carter gave him a presidential pardon or something.”

  “I think this may not be your best argument, Niall, because, without being specific, the Wonderkids weren’t actually or even technically pedophiles and if they were, you presumably wouldn’t be asking them to perform, unless they were Peter Yarrow, with his presidential pardon.”

  “Well, sorry, no, perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. But do you think there’s any hope?”

  “Of the Wonderkids reforming to play the KidCon Festival in Prospect Park?”

  “Yes. A show where we re-present them to America. And we carry the can. And they get paid very well.”

  “No, Niall. No. There is absolutely no possibility whatsoever.”

  There was absolutely no possibility.

  And yet, four years later, it happened.

  I watched the show, looking around for Joni Johnson, nowhere to be seen, as I fielded this and that inquiry about the band for which I was now the known earthly representative. And always the same question, like he was a cross between the Waldo and the Thomas Pynchon of Kiddie Rock: “Where’s Blake?”

  18

  “Rattle your jewelry.”

  MY PHONE VIBRATES. A TEXT.

  Deep breath.

  As I reach for my iPhone, the sound system explodes into volume. No one around the Wonderkids table misses my frantic lunge. It feels like if I don’t read that text straightaway, it will self-delete, evaporate into the digital ether, lost forever, and with it, its author: “Can’t find the stage door! Meet me outside the big windows. Come alone.”

  “It’s Blake,” I hiss across the table. “Everything’s okay. He can’t find the stage door. I’ll go and get him.”

  There is a general sigh of relief. Greg, completely gray now, crew cut to disguise the lack of alternative, gives it the smug “I knew he’d be here” nod of his head, accompanied by an equally annoying two-handed “be calm.” Perhaps he knows something: they’re as thick as thieves. “Shall I go?” he asks.

  “No, it’s okay. Back in a tick.” I don’t mention Blake’s instruction that I come alone. Why worry anyone unduly? I mean, it’s probably nothing, right? The lights dim.

  “It’s time to turn off your cell phones,” advises a voice over the PA, as I plot my exit. Squinting, I see a large series of plate-glass windows at the back of the room. “WELCOME TO THE FOURTH ANNUAL JIM-JAMMIES!”

  Time to make my way. But “the fourth”? We’re the fourth Hall of Fame inductees? Who were the other three? Pete Seeger? Peter, Paul & Mommy too? Who else? Simeon? It’s fair to say that we may represent a fairly radical change of direction.

  As I get up, the show begins. Why, if it isn’t Star of Stage and Screen and Part-Time Children’s Presenter . . . actually, I have absolutely no idea who it is, but it isn’t Dan Zanes (hair), They Might Be Giants (glasses), a Wiggle (primary colors), Simeon (very old, asshole), Joni Johnson (extremely attractive), a character from Sesame Street (furry), and it certainly isn’t 1-Z (black). But there’s a house band, and this guy’s behaving like the cameras are on.

  My most direct route to the back of the hall involves a wayward meander through a maze of circular tables, a game where points are lost for failing to avoid obstacles, tripping over longer legs, kicking purses. I prepare the wording of inevitable apologies. There are these weird girls dotted around, arched eyebrows and short Betty Boop skirts. They look like they might be selling cigarettes but they’re not; they’re just stylish. Or perhaps they’re a Kindie act: the Boops. Probably up for Best Newcomer (Group). I smile at one. She ignores me.

  The chain of events that has led to the Kravitz Center flashes before my eyes, as though—well, as though I’m dying. The band may yet die here tonight, so it’s quite appropriate. It’s like The Last Waltz by the band the Band. They got back together to break up for the film. Maybe the Wonderkids are doing that too.

  First there was the genius music supervisor who put “Rock Around the Bed” in a Judd Apatow movie a couple of years back. The Wonderkids were always ripe for rediscovery, but that rediscovery seemed impossible. It was always going to take someone with a little vision and a lot of enthusiasm to put the band back before the public eye. Turns out that this guy was at the Pack ’n’ Play Festival and witnessed the rogue finger, aged eight. On the back of the movie, the original video was recut, premiered on Vimeo, went viral (however that magic happens), and suddenly this 1-Z kid starts talking about the Wonderkids, how their anarchy influenced his Gangsta Kindie. Blake was the nearest thing Family Music ever had to an outlaw.

  And then Niall from KidCon started sniffing around again. I’d thought him rather ineffectual when we’d met, a bit of a standard poodle, but he was more like whatever dog it is whose jaws lock after he’s sunk his teeth in. Anyway, Niall just wouldn’t let go of our trouser leg. And finally, it was just like any band reunion: whatever the band says to the contrary, whatever the claims of “the time is right” or “we’ve all grown up and when we started playing together again, the bad vibes just melted away” and “sure we’ll be doing the old songs, but we’re debuting great new material as well,” it’s always all about the money.

  If the idea had stayed with Andy and Blake, nothing would have happened. But Jack found out, and as much as Blake didn’t need it, Jack and Rita did. And Blake, finally, couldn’t refuse: his brother, his family, his nephews. Perhaps there was a (totally unacknowledged) sense of pride in the accomplishments of the Wonderkids, as well. Anyway, he gave in, though it was clear that it would be up to me to take care of everything. “I’ll turn up” was about all he said. Things needed sorting out, but when you needed an answer, he wouldn’t call back; he barely understood email. The promoters needed to know this or that, and I’d answer as best I could. Blake didn’t seem to have any particular plans for the event, and I knew he wouldn’t get back to me anyway. There was an increasing air of desperation when people asked me what the band was going to perform. You can only tell people everything’s under control so many times.

  It wasn’t any trouble getting Curtis and Becca, though Curtis’s filming schedule was a minor hiccup. It wasn’t like anybody had been in touch much over the last few years—though Curtis was an inveterate Christmas card sender, always with those pictures of Mei-Xing and the last year’s progress report—a bit ridiculous given that she was in her mid-thirties and on her second marriage. But the moment
news got around (and I imagine Niall was behind a little of the rumormongering: he was dogged), it couldn’t not happen.

  And so here we are in Manhattan—a gig to follow at the KidCon Festival in Prospect Park and, icing on the cake, induction into the Jim-Jammies Hall of Fame: redemption. Niall pressed all the right buttons. I had to cancel the second half of a tour with some Scandinavian Goths—hard as fucking nails onstage, pussycats off, all vegan and organic underwear—just to get to grips with the logistics and visas. Blake hadn’t made things any easier, but I wasn’t complaining. It’s what I do.

  The Wonderkids’ entourage has been carefully placed, like a recently soiled diaper, at some remove from the action. And not one person, not one single person, has come up to say hi. Actually, strike that. Two people: Niall (who doesn’t count because he was paying his respects everywhere) and Simeon, but only to say hi to his daughter. Nice touch.

  Andy, one-time manager, is with us but paying little attention; ditto Nick Hedges. Andy seems far more interested in his wife, much younger and faker than the one before, though there remains the possibility that she is the one before, but with work. And what on earth has he been doing for the last eighteen years? I bet he moved with the industry, left the majors, went into consulting, got into digital distribution, licensed stuff online, developed a very briefly top-selling app, rolled with the punches. Back in the day, nothing was too little trouble for him. The Wonderkids were his problem once, but not anymore, no sir.

  Jack has been fidgeting like crazy, right hand twitching like Blake’s used to. He’s been drinking too quickly. “Tastes like piss” is the only non-Blake-related remark he’s made so far, referring to the wine, winking for my benefit only; oh, the secrets we share, the jokes only we can make, the smoothies we defiled. There’s nothing wrong with the wine, but he wouldn’t let that stand in the way of the joke that only I understood. All these years on, the same stimuli provoking the same reactions from Pavlov’s Wonder­Dogs. Rita is wearing the largest pair of silver cuff bracelets; they’ll steal the show, clinking in toast and clattering in applause. Becca, more hippieish than she used to be, is with Sam. I met him when he was six, and now he’s twenty-five, a stand-up comedian. It always seems like that would be the punch line. In truth, everyone seemed on edge except Andy.

  Of course we are: the Wonderkids are going to play live for the first time in, let’s be precise, eighteen years, and there’s no sign of the lead singer. The last I saw Blake was the night before, when we gathered at the hotel bar. When I turned in, he was unsuccessfully trying to swivel round on his stool, yelling “Quack!” in Greg’s ear. Curtis then witnessed his departure for a “midnight creep”; I could confirm his return because I woke him with a phone call around lunchtime to go over the schedule. He subsequently didn’t turn up to soundcheck; no surprise there. He hasn’t shown up to any of the rehearsals either. I stood in for him. Like I always used to, while we wondered where he was.

  On top of the fact that there’s no Blake, there’s a weird energy in the room. Granted, it’s an awards show: everyone’s edgy. There will be winners and losers; some of the bigger names, confident of a good showing, speeches prepared in their back pocket, feel comfortable in their finery. Others haven’t bothered to dress up at all. They’ll grin and bear it, assuming failure while secretly hoping for the success that would make a monkey suit worth the expense. The good news: the Wonderkids will be spared the more competitive aspects of the evening. We are being honored, Hall-of-Famed, inducted, whatever the exact phrase is: the band has won just by having existed.

  The Jim-Jammies is, by its nature, a family event. Not in the sense that there are any kids in evidence. Oh, maybe there are a couple: one male nominee is sporting a BabyBjörn (full of wriggling baby, unlike the one Blake used to sport), but you get the feeling that the contraption and its contents are fashion accessories, part of his brand. It isn’t like the dude’s babysitter fell through or his kid desperately needed an evening out suspended across his father’s stomach. It’s a bold move by dad; luckily the ergonomic Björn leaves his hands free to pick up possible awards later on.

  The irony is, I would have been invited to the Jim-Jammies anyway, since it’s Joni’s world; she’s sitting with her manager at a different table. I would have been there as her guest, her date, rather than as her tour manager, so I’d have been dressed rather smarter. I’d stuck to my policy of never dating someone you’re working with, but she can barely have got her key in the last hotel door before I texted her to ask her out. There’d been a bit of flirting—she used to call me “Sir”; I once said she looked so good she’d make her teenie audience come of age (she acted shocked but I could tell she liked it)—but I wasn’t positive she’d say yes. She did.

  I push hopefully at a glass door that turns out to be a window. An usher, seeing my mistake, holds the actual door open for me.

  There’s no sign of Blake outside but there’s a fountain, bathed in a white watery light, and that’s where he’ll be. He has a soft spot for fountains: a chance to throw in a coin, make a wish. I half-expect to see him paddling—bedraggled, shivering, laughing—but he emerges, dry as a bone, from behind the central spout, obscured by spray, calling my name. The first thing to say: he looks fantastic, in white suit, white shirt, and white tie. He’s spared us the halo, but he still appears saintly, angelic.

  “Where on earth did you get that?”

  “Garment district today. That old boy’s still there. I couldn’t believe it. He measured me up. Too much?”

  I remember the guy. We’d stopped there the day before Blake spent the night in jail. “Perfect.”

  He takes me in his arms, kisses my cheek.

  “Is it time yet? How’s it going in there?” He takes a brand new pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and, in one deft sequence of movements, removes the cellophane, bangs the pack hard on his hand, opens it, whips out the silver protective wrapper, and rifles through his pockets for a lighter. He doesn’t have one, but I do: it’s just the kind of thing you get used to carrying. You become other people’s pockets. I also have a church-key bottle opener on my keychain. And a Leatherman.

  “Well, it’s quite ritzy. Everyone’s going to be relieved that you’re here. Jack’s on edge.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry . . . the suit took time, and I actually wrote a little speech . . . So this isn’t too much?” he asks, drawing attention to the suit once more.

  “No, it’s fine. But there’s no alternative, right, so why are you asking? It’s that or underwear, right?” It’s unlike him to worry.

  “There’s another one inside. You’re going to wear it.”

  “I’m what?”

  He brushes away my concerns. “How about this?”

  He produces a large silver cross on a necklace.

  “Depends what you’re going for,” I say circumspectly.

  “Gotcha. ‘It’ is what I’m going for. I’m going for it.” He’s sucking the life out of the cigarette. He still smokes twice as quick as everyone else; even an American Spirit doesn’t slow him down. Smoking doesn’t relax him; that isn’t the point. “I couldn’t find the stage door.” He fiddles with the cross, trying to get it perfectly straight.

  “I know that. Because when you text me, I’m the one who gets the text.” He nods as though this is news. “I also know the location of this elusive door. Look, I’ll text Greg, and let everyone know we’ll see them backstage at the intermission.”

  The fountain abruptly changes color to red as the light show continues through its cycle.

  “Well, hold on, before you do . . . Let’s talk as we go.”

  I lead him in the direction of the backstage door. We could never go back through the audience with him in his stage clothes: I mean, rule number one. Unfortunately this involves our walking around the entire complex and in through the underground parking, the way we arrived this afternoon.

  “Reminds me of that friend of Greg’s who was tech-ing for Prince. Remember that o
ne?” asks Blake. It’s a story I know well, and one I’d just thought of when Blake mentioned my matching suit, but I think Blake might want the chance to tell it, settle the old nerves. It’s from the days when Prince made his whole crew dress up wearing braids and bodysuits, identical to whatever the little genius was wearing for that particular tour. Halfway through the show, at some barn in Germany, Prince has a kind of freak-out, and the guitar tech, his boss’s peace of mind paramount, escorts Prince from the stage, while the audience wonders what’s going on, whether it’s something serious or some kind of James Brown “I’ve given too much” piece of showbiz. The guitar tech bundles a hyperventilating Prince into a taxi and off to his hotel, and heads back into the gig to make his report on the situation to a none-too-pleased stage manager, who will have to explain to a none-too-pleased promoter, who will in his turn have to announce to an arena full of hostile punters that Prince has left the building. Furs will fly. Has the small star even played long enough to ensure ticket money doesn’t have to be refunded? (That’s the key thing: I once saw Bowie play in a monsoon at Jones Beach, just long enough to get past the “no refunds” watershed.)

  However, the door through which the guitar tech has delivered Prince to safety has closed behind him without his knowledge. In fact, all the doors around the huge arena are closed, since the concert is supposedly in full purple swing. Further, Greg’s mate realizes that he doesn’t have any of his stage credentials with him, such had been his haste to leave, and that therefore his only option is to return through the main entrance, around which only a few increasingly desperate ticket touts linger, and that, to cap it all, he is a small, slightly pudgy, white New Yorker, in Germany, dressed as Prince.

  We never knew how the story ended. Probably he got in okay and all was well, but we loved that image of the bloke wandering around outside the Stadion Halle, dressed as Prince, wondering how he was going to get back in, while 20,000 people inside bayed for blood as the band manfully vamped an instrumental version of “Housequake.”