Wonderkid

by Wesley Stace

  By the time Blake’s done, we’re in the underground car park, and he’s enjoying one final cigarette before we enter his nicotine-free backstage nightmare. He looks very much as though he’s going to face a firing squad.

  “I should text,” I say. “They’ll be on tenterhooks.”

  “Look, Sweet,” says Blake, finally reaching the point. “I’m not going to perform tonight. I’m just going to make a speech.”

  “The band isn’t going to perform?” I could talk him out of this. I could and I would.

  “The band will perform.”

  “But you won’t? What are they going to perform without you? An instrumental version of ‘Housequake’?”

  “No, you can sing. That’s why I bought you the jacket.”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “You will sing.”

  “You’re joking, of course.” He doesn’t seem to be.

  “Look, I can’t do it. I don’t even want to do it. I don’t want to be Blake Lear . . .”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I’m just going to explain to the audience how honored we are, and what happened, and what’s happened in the meanwhile, and that it just isn’t in me anymore. If I sang the songs, I’d probably end up having a funny five minutes like Prince, and you’d get locked out of the gig, wearing an identical white suit. You sing them. I’ll dance across the stage or something.”

  “You’re going to be Bez from the Happy Mondays while I pretend to be you?”

  “Bez, the Dance Instigator!” says Blake as though this might persuade me.

  “Hands down, your worst ever idea, Blake; second only to when you wanted to throw a fake toddler into a screaming audience.”

  This actually provokes a laugh. A large transit van honks at the two guys in the middle of the car park.

  “Well, it’s either that or nothing, because I’m not doing it. I promise it’ll be great. You know the songs.”

  “Better than you, probably, at this point . . .” To which I hastily add, “Not that that’s an argument for me doing it. Anyway, that’s blackmail. I honestly don’t want to. I’ll be terrible. Also, what about the Prospect Park gig? It’s thousands of dollars. It’s Chuck and Johnny’s college fund or something, isn’t it?”

  “I already put the money in Jack’s account.”

  “You’re just going to cancel the gig?”

  “I’ll go to the gig, mate, if you do the singing.”

  “What?” Ridiculous.

  He fusses over the stupid cross again, then fixes me with a laser eye: “Trust me. Do this for me.” He winks. That’s all, just a wink—a minute flexing of a tiny muscle. “Please, Sweet.” And now it really is like I’m dying or he’s hypnotized me. I remember how he delivered me through that dressing-room window, saved me from the Terrys, took me off to join the circus. Everything comes at me vertically and I don’t want to look down. “I’m your Dad, right?” I only realize there are tears in my eyes when I close them to stop the stinging. “Would I steer you wrong?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Then do this for me. I promise it’ll be great. It’ll be so much better than if I sang.”

  “It’s going to be terrible. I can’t front a band. I don’t even want to. I’m too old for this shit.”

  “No, I’m too old for this shit. You’re the right age. You know what to do. Trust me.”

  It’s like that TV magician/mesmerist guy, when he turned a woman into a concert pianist in one week, despite the fact that she couldn’t play the piano at all; his entire method was to encourage her to waft her fingers over the keyboard in a vaguely classical way, and tell her that it would be okay, however nervous she felt. I mean, that was the set up. The trick, the viewer found out, was that she’d been a concert pianist all along, but he’d hypnotized her to forget it, so when it came time for the concert he dehypnotized her, and voilà: Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3. Genius TV.

  But I’m not the lead singer in a band, nor have I ever been. Nor am I really hypnotized, though I do feel a little fuzzy. My entire stage experience comes down to a few songs with Jack’s cover band, including (I will admit) a storming version of “Burning Love” by Elvis Presley, the odd bit of “Testing One Two,” which sometimes, due either to my boredom or the tardiness and overwhelming lack of interest of a lead singer, has turned me into a vocal surrogate at soundchecks. Those are my meager qualifications . . . oh, and a working knowledge of the Wonderkids set earned by rehearsing the songs as Blake’s voice-double. Jesus.

  “Do you trust me?” He’s shaking my shoulders. I’m in a bit of a daze.

  “No,” I say.

  “Fine,” says Blake. “Now let’s you-go-and-do-this-thing. And don’t say a word to the band. They’ll just refuse to play. It’s better this way.”

  I deposit him in the dressing room and walk back to our table without relish, foreknowledge weighing heavily. Fuck knows which award they’re up to.

  “Everything okay?” asks everyone without the need for actual words. I feel bad that I haven’t alerted them.

  “Yeah.” I can only manage a half-smile. I’m feeling nauseated. It’s not like that nightmare where you’re taking an exam you haven’t revised for—I do at least know the songs—well, it’s a bit like that. Blake’s asked it of me—okay—but that doesn’t stop the Kravitz Center from swaying.

  “Man,” says Greg. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “The ghost looks fantastic,” I say. “He’s raring to go.”

  At intermission, the band, Greg and I leave the rest of our party at the table and head backstage to the dressing room. Blake has affixed a note on a paper napkin to the room-length mirror with a square inch of soap: “Having a massage.” Fuck. Just like before the Pack ’n’ Play Festival. And look what happened then. And there we sit, Blakeless once again, twiddling our thumbs; those people who smoke, thinking about smoking, those people who drink, drinking.

  “Nice back here,” says Greg. “I mean, you could move in, couldn’t you? Put a little bed over there, TV over here, kettle—groovy. Bit of a drag getting in past security and that.”

  No one’s nervous, but there’s also no natural opportunity for regular conversation, and no one’s willing to take that bull by the horns. The moment calls for Greg, a monologue on something irrelevant: “Did I ever tell you about that band Arab Spring? Well, their manager . . .” but Greg perhaps feels a little self-conscious, unnecessarily on best behavior, unusually reticent; he’s never known Curtis or Becca that well. Just when we need him most, he goes quiet. In fact, he’s doing the Evening Standard crossword. He’s in Manhattan and he’s going the Evening Standard crossword. Perky P.A.s and downtrodden gofers keep us apprised of the show’s progress. This finally kickstarts Greg into some story that passes a little time.

  And then there’s Blake, vivid in his white suit, rotating his shoulders as though he really has been massaged. He greets the room with genuine enthusiasm, abject apology, and takes the note off the mirror, as though he doesn’t want it to be unclear whether he’s back or not. He throws open a wardrobe door and hands me the white suit identical to his: “Throw that on; we’re all going to look great tonight, even the crew.”

  “Guy’s just about to induct us,” he says cheerily, as I emerge from the bathroom, gleaming, vastly self-conscious. Our favorite P.A. comes to lead us to the side of the stage for the grand entrance. The band is to set up behind the curtain while Blake gives his speech. Blake asked Jack earlier whether he’d like to say anything. Jack said: “I think I’ll let the music speak for itself, man.” Very wise.

  “How about if you let me speak for ourselves?” asked Blake.

  “Great, man,” Jack said. “Our band,” but he said it like he was saying “your band.”

  Roger Wrong takes the stage. It’s a lovely introduction, appropriate to the climax of the evening; he talks about how everything’s an opportunity to learn, and how great the Wonderkids were, and then goes on to tell a
very brief version of his Blake anecdote.

  “Did I do that?” Blake asks. I nod. He grimaces.

  “It was funny.”

  “It’s funny that I don’t remember.”

  As Roger Wrong goes on, my mind wanders. I feel myself floating like the tiny, stray feather currently fluttering to the ground in the glare of the lighting on the Kravitz Center stage. The feather swishes this way, then that, before it lands, buffeted by otherwise imperceptible eddies and currents of draft at shoe level. I’ve almost forgotten that I’m going to play some songs; it seems so surreal. I hope my landing is as soft. I had a friend whose first published poem was in The New Yorker. My first live stage performance as a lead singer will be to a thousand people in New York City. I first gave a woman an orgasm on the space ride at Disneyland. She’s standing behind me now. She squeezes my hand. It’s just like the old days. No one else notices. How did we get away with that for so long? Why did we bother?

  And then Roger Wrong announces Blake Lear of the Wonderkids, and on Blake walks to, I have to say, an ovation. I wasn’t expecting anyone to boo—everyone here knows what’s what and who’s who and why—but there’s genuine adoration, even perhaps a note of apology on behalf of America. Add a dash of redemption into the mix, and you have the cocktail for a proper comeback. If only he was actually going to sing . . . or come back . . . but there he is, large as life behind the see-through podium in his white suit, like Alec Guinness, Hopkirk Deceased and David Byrne all rolled into one, but with a cross on his chest.

  We are escorted behind the curtain to gather our instruments, or rather for the band to gather their instruments, and me to fiddle with Blake’s guitar and check the positioning of his microphone as though he, rather than I, is about to sing. So we can’t really watch him. But we can hear.

  “Do you ever get the feeling you’ve been inducted?” is Blake’s opening sneer: Sex Pistols. Risky, but the audience gets it. “Hey, at last, we get an award. About bloody time! Firstly, I’d like to thank The Man for this.” There isn’t a monitor near, so I can’t be sure, but I imagine him lifting the award skyward, brandishing it in a Heavenly direction. Very Blake. Whether he believes in God is irrelevant. It’s just the kind of thing twats do when they get an award. “And I’d like to say this. The Wonderkids were the best band I ever played with; we weren’t perfect, but we were a great little band. We tried to communicate directly with the kids, with you, without mediation. We tried to show the kids a little rock ’n’ roll, when you lot . . .”—and perhaps he’s indicating a few of the stars of the contemporary scene; perhaps he is indicating my girlfriend . . . oh, what is she about to witness . . .—“when you lot were a twinkle in your fathers’ eyes.” Laughter. Good. It’s like listening to the Oscars on the radio.

  “I tried to channel Edward Lear, William Blake, and all the poetry I loved into these songs, for which my brother Jack wrote fantastic tunes.” His voice floats around us in the hall, disembodied, echoey. “Originally I meant those songs for adults, for everybody—Everyone Music—but Nick Hedges over there, who made it all happen, thought that possibly our best audience was children, and that made total sense to me. Kids dream without restraint. Your great Dr. Seuss said that. They don’t know how to do it, they just do. And as we grow up, we forget; so my appeal was directly to the subconscious, and that’s what they enjoyed. So I’m proud.”

  I strum the guitar once and check the monitor. I’d need a whole lot more guitar.

  “But I feel humble, too, because we weren’t ready. And I say that frankly: we made mistakes. We were in untested waters. We were the kids. The kids were more grown up than us! Maybe that’s why they liked us. We didn’t mean to, but we screwed up. And for that, we’re sorry.” There is respectful applause, but I don’t want to hear him apologizing for the band, particularly if I am just about to be its lead singer. One two, I whisper, as the monitor guy gives me the thumbs up. “Well, we’re not entirely sorry, because we enjoyed monkeying around, and we indulged ourselves to the full, and we enjoyed the mums’ company, and we made no secret of that then, I guess, which was foolish, and we make no bones about it now because . . . why bother? It was my gang and I was in charge. But we were made an example of. And now the rest of you are all very well behaved. Because you worked it out. And I’m pleased we died for your sins.

  “But just because you’ve worked it out, don’t always be telling the kids what to do and what to think and how to behave. The environment’s up the spout; all animals are endangered species now, including humans; but let the kids be kids. The kids are cool! Just entertain them. That’s what we tried to do. You know what nonsense is to kids? It’s mother’s milk. If you want to send a message, use FedEx. Kids are people too! Free the kids, man!” He’s laughing, but all I can think is: he’s right about kids, so why is he always wrong about me? “And to anyone who followed us, who took that leap of faith, we love you more than you’ll ever know. And if we let you down, we apologize. We’ve spent the rest of our lives trying to work out how to make that up to you. I tried to be a mate, and I should have tried harder to be a role-model.”

  And that’s when I know he’s talking to me. The room’s quite silent now. A drumstick skitters away from Curtis across the floor. He winces.

  “I have no words of wisdom for you, except don’t do what we did. Or do it, and know you’ll pay for it. I paid for it, and then I tried to write songs that made perfect sense and that didn’t work; so I tried to write a novel that made perfect sense, and that didn’t work; and I ended up writing a series of young-adult books under the name Judith Esther, The Dark-Headed Clock Trilogy, six of them.” Perhaps some people assume he’s joking; there’s also, however, an audible gasp. He’s never mentioned his authorship in public before, and though this comes years after the books’ success, their moment in the sun has lingered. They’re still in print, still sold in select airport bookstores. “I won’t write another of those. It’s weird, having success as another person, a person who doesn’t exist, but no one really wanted to hear from me, and I’d said all I had to say as Blake Lear. In fact, my life has been one of meaning to do one thing and ending up doing another.

  “Sorry, I’ve gone on. We’re really very proud of this award and the band is looking forward to performing for you, but I want to finish with this: I can’t stand before you, or even jump around before you, and play these songs. It isn’t in me anymore and it just isn’t me. I’m no fool. I know when I’m done.

  “And now, ladies and gentleman,” he adopts a rather stuffy American accent, his old Ed Sullivan routine: “Yesterday and today our theater’s been jammed with newspapermen and hundreds of photographers from all over the nation, and these veterans agreed with me that this city never has witnessed the excitement stirred by these youngsters from London and Los Angeles who call themselves the Wonderkids. Now tonight, you’re gonna twice be entertained by them. Right now, and again in the second half of our show. Ladies and gentlemen, the Wonderkids! Jack, Curtis, Sweet and Becca! Let’s bring them on.”

  I pick up Blake’s guitar. The curtain rises.

  The band looks at me. I look at the band. We all heard the speech, but nobody, I think, has been looking at each other aside from the moment Curtis dropped his stick; certainly I haven’t been trying to work out what anyone is up to. I’ve been too busy pretending to ready Blake’s equipment, while secretly trying to remember whether we’re going to play “Life, As It Is Lived” or “The Story of Dan, Beth, Chris, and Blank” first, before we bring the house down with “Rock Around the Bed.” We rehearsed them all, but we decided on two, and my mind has gone . . . “Blank.” That was it!

  The man in the white suit wafts off to applause, taking the award with him, and glances once over his shoulder: “What are you waiting for?”

  Curtis counts 1,2,3,4 and we’re playing “Dan, Beth, Chris, and Blank.” And suddenly I’m singing: “There once was a girl named Dan / Who loved to fix and loved to fan.”

  The singing bi
t is easy; the guitar playing is easy; playing with the band is easy; but the whole thing is very hard. Partly this is because searchlights are circling the audience, and I can see in every eye, including those front and center, that I am a great disappointment. They want Blake. They don’t want me. I daren’t even look where Joni is sitting. Heaven knows what she’s thinking, but she knows it’s complicated. And here I am, exactly as I’d expected, the turd in the Super Bowl. I’m not actually doing anything wrong; I’m just not right.

  Blake is standing at the side of the stage, conferring with Greg and smiling broadly, despite the fact that this is already the massive anticlimax I’d predicted. The band, on the other hand, is motoring, not in the least bothered that Blake isn’t singing and I am; perhaps, I reflect, because they knew. At Blake’s right hand, Greg is organizing left and right, an atypical display of leadership. I just go on opening and closing my mouth singing, the band go on playing, about which Jack particularly seems enthused, and the audience goes on being disappointed. The song ends and there is applause—it would be mean to deny us that—but there is no standing ovation. It isn’t a nightmare; it doesn’t qualify. Perhaps I’d give it a little more wellie if we were going to bother to do the other.

  Those Boop girls, the look-alike cigarette girls that I saw swanning about, are now standing in little battalions around the room, all holding silver salvers. I’d thought there were three or four but there seem to be about a hundred Kindie-music storm troopers. Curtis is turning a screw on his snare drum and doesn’t seem ready to start the next song. I feel I should say something but all that comes out is: “Sorry I’m not Blake.”

  I look out into the hall. The cigarette girls now flank every table, large silver-domed serving plates on their arms. Probably dessert. As one, they put the silver salvers down on the tables and remove the tops with a flourish. It’s perfectly choreographed, whatever it is they’re doing. The serving of the lukewarm starter wasn’t nearly this spectacular. I struggle to see what’s on offer. I’m the one who should be sitting down there eating ice cream, maybe next to my girlfriend, not standing on the stage.