by Ted Staunton
“Den,” I say, “shut up.”
Chapter Eight
Denny says he’s going to go home and start editing.
“There’s nothing worth editing,”
I say as I snap my guitar case shut and pick up my hat.
“Hey,” Denny says. “Leave it to the, uh, magician and his apprentices.”
“Sorcerer and his apprentices,” I say. If Denny has apprentices, I’m Santa Claus—and the world is in big trouble.
“Yeah, whatever,” Denny says, “Later.”
He heads off. I walk back home, carrying the guitar and my hat and thinking about Lisa and her cutlets. If you asked me, I’d say she doesn’t need cutlets. But then, the day she’d ask me about something like that would be the day I became Santa Claus.
Chuck is in the basement again when I get home. I carry the guitar case downstairs. This time he’s in his real-estate-guy clothes—dress pants and shoes, and a snappy leather jacket. He reels in a tape measure, then writes in a little notebook.
“Hey, Dave,” he says. “Going to show a couple of houses. Need to measure up for drywall and hit the hardware store before I come back here to work. You around this aft? I might need a hand for a few minutes.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
Chuck closes the notebook and nods at the guitar case. “Been busking?”
“We were shooting our video.”
“Oh yeah. How’d it go?” Chuck reaches for the guitar case as he talks. I give it to him. After all, it is his guitar.
“It was okay.” Why tell him about something no one’s going to see? Chuck puts the case down and opens it. I remember the scratches on the guitar. Maybe now would be a good time to talk, to distract Chuck a little.
I say, “Denny filmed us busking, but it didn’t work out. Then we went to the park and made stuff up, but I don’t know if any of it is any good. We might have to do it again.”
This is the most I’ve said all at once to a grown-up since I was ten. I’m not sure if it works or not.
Chuck is kneeling, looking at the guitar and running a hand over it. “Man,” he says, “this baby’s seen some hard traveling. I didn’t realize I’d beaten it up that much, you know? Bar gigs will do that.”
Part of me thinks whew, but now another part feels guilty. “Maybe busking does too,” I say. “A little.”
Chuck shrugs. “Hey, it never was the world’s greatest. Long as it gets used.” He digs a pick out of the case and plays a chugging little lick from a Chuck Berry song. “Still sounds good, huh?” He plays some more. “Man, am I rusty.”
Chuck may be rusty, but he’s good. He’s a lot better than me, even if he does stick to geezer rock and country. I can tell from his chord positions that he’s in the key of A. I take the bass from its open case, flip on the amp beside it and dial it down low. It’s pretty easy to play along with Chuck. We get a little groove going.
“Nice,” Chuck says. Then he blows the next part and laughs. He shakes his left hand. “My fingers hurt already!” He puts the guitar back in its case and closes it. Then he stands up, brushing off the knees of his pants. “I ever tell you about the video we tried for Razorburn?”
“No. One time you said you would.” I turn off the amp and lean the bass against it.
Chuck laughs. “Okay, this was way back when videos were just getting big. We wanted to be out front, you know? So we decided to do a video for ‘Look Slick,’ one of our tunes. And naturally, we had to do the whole thing cheap. So we hired this guy—Stan, I think his name was—who said he could do it all. And we told Stan our ideas. Mainly they were about girls and convertibles, but the best part was that we’d video Gonzo, our drummer, getting his head shaved. Don’t ask me why, but he was up for it. Drummers are crazy, you know?
“So Stan set up, and Gonzo’s girlfriend, who was a babe, shaved his head while Stan filmed the whole thing. It went great. Gonzo had a major mullet to shave off, so hair was flying everywhere. But underneath, it turned out he didn’t look so slick. His head was all lumpy and pointy, and his ears stuck straight out. His girlfriend said they were like car doors. Man, it was grim.
“Gonzo was mad when he looked in a mirror, but we told him he’d taken a hit for the band. Stan told him it was great footage too. Now, you’ve gotta remember this was before digital cameras. So we gathered around for the playback, and that’s when we found out one of the reasons Stan worked so cheap—he was the kind of guy who’d forget to load a tape in the camera.”
Chuck laughs and shrugs to settle his leather jacket. “And that’s what he’d done. There was nothing to see. I thought Gonzo was going to rip Stan apart right there. He was jumping up and down yelling, I did this for nothing? Like I said, drummers are crazy.
“Anyway, one look at Gonzo, and nobody else would get shaved. And we couldn’t do it to him again, of course. His girlfriend said we could if we stuck a wig on him. I think they split up not long after that. Gonzo wore a Boston Bruins toque for the next three months, which was tough, ’cause it was summer. That was the end of our video.”
Chuck starts to climb the stairs. I follow him, wondering if Stan and Denny could be related. Chuck heads off to the hardware store. I go online and find that Lisa is there too. I’m not sure what to message, except I know not to mention cutlets.
Finally I type, Hi crazy day for sure. Think Denny can make it work?
She messages back, Think pigs have wings?
Wings make me think of chickens, and chickens make me think of cutlets. Oh, no. Usually, talking with Lisa is easy, but now I have to choose every word carefully. I decide to type, Busy 2nite? Want 2 do music or anything
I’m hoping Lisa will pick up on the “anything.” I’m about to send it when there’s another message from Lisa. Have 2 go now.
Chapter Nine
Denny sends the video Sunday afternoon. Usually my mom has an open house on Sundays, but today another agent is doing it for her. This is bad, because it means she’s walking by when the video comes onscreen. I try to shut it down before she notices, but I’m too late.
“Is this it?” she cries. “Perfect! Let’s see.”
Now I’ve got no choice. The video is titled Coming Apart at the Dreams. The title turns out to be the last thing Denny’s gotten right.
Everything else sucks. For the entire three minutes and twelve seconds. There are shots of us in the park and some of us busking. All of it is embarrassing. Lisa looks hot, but beside her I look like a toothpick in a straw hat and neck brace. The harmonica solo plays over shots of Doom Master posed in different places. Then, for a big finish, the colors go all overexposed and everything blurs. Oh, spare me.
It is every bad homemade band video you’ve ever seen rolled into one. The shots last forever. The camera jiggles every time Denny moves. The syncing is a mess. Our lips move when there’s no singing and don’t move when there is. Our guitar strums don’t match the music.
The only plus side is that the video is so useless, we don’t have to decide not to post it. It’s a no-brainer that this should be deleted.
Not for Mom. “Heyyy,” she says when it’s finally over. “For a first try, I think it’s…fun. That’s what this is all about, right?”
No, that’s not what this is all about. This is about me becoming rich and famous and so cool that girls—one especially—will chase me if I walk by. You can’t explain that to your mom, though. You know?
So the answer I give her is, “Right.”
“What was with the little robot toy?” she asks.
I’m not going there either. “We got a million dollars for a product placement,” I say.
“All right, smart guy. Enough for now. Don’t you have a history assignment due tomorrow?” Mom gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Anyway, I think you all did a great job.”
There’s a death sentence if I ever heard one.
Mom walks off. I click back through the screens to Denny’s message. Ready to post it. Sending you the blooper reel we put together
hilarious lol.
Yeah right. Denny has started using we as if he’s a king or something. Maybe he has a history assignment too.
This reminds me that, for once, Mom is right. I should look at my homework. Hilarious can wait. I’ve had all I can take of video for one day. At least nobody is going to waste their time looking at this. I message him back. Dream on. nothing to post. trash it B4 world sees u r not a genius.
After that’s taken care of, I do a little history homework. Not a lot of homework, so I’m kind of busy on Monday morning. I’m so busy, I don’t even look for Lisa or Denny. It’s only after I hand in my assignment that I get to breathe. That’s when I get the feeling something is different.
I’m not sure exactly why I get the feeling. It’s a bunch of little things. Like, why do those kids on the landing stop talking as I come down the stairs? What’s with that whisper and laugh I hear behind me in the library? How come I feel eyes on me when I line up in the caf, but when I turn, it’s as if everyone has just looked away? Why does a girl in English gasp as I walk into class? Why is there giggling when I get asked to read aloud? What’s going on?
After English, I duck into a washroom and do a quick check. My fly is up, and my hair doesn’t look any dorkier than usual. There are no new zit volcanoes on my face, and nobody has stuck a Kick Me sign to my back. My backpack is still pretty rank from the chocolate milk, but you have to be right up close to smell it. Is this all my imagination? Hey, I’m fourteen—I’m supposed to be self-conscious, right? I bet you are too.
But I go to math and my teacher is biting down on a grin as he asks me to do a problem. Nawww…he isn’t. Is he? I mean, why would he be laughing at me?
This is weirding me out. After school, I don’t stick around to find Denny and give him a hard time about the video. I want to go home, chill in the basement and let this feeling pass.
As I walk by the smokers on the corner, their voices drop. Am I going paranoid? I hustle home, give Arch some food and a scratch behind the ears, make a peanut-butter sandwich and head down to the almost-man cave.
Chuck got me to help him put some drywall up on Saturday afternoon, so you can’t see into the man cave bathroom anymore. He says I can help him with the taping and mudding next, whatever those are. I flop into a beanbag chair, eat my sandwich and try not to think about it.
I decide the stuff at school was just my imagination. I’m reaching for the guitar case when I hear the front door. “Hi,” Mom calls. I listen to the change in the sound of her footsteps as she walks from the tile at the front door, down the carpet in the hall and across the wooden kitchen floor. Then I watch her feet grow legs and a body as she thumps down the stairs.
“Hi, sweetie, how was your day?”
“Sensational as always, Mom.”
“That’s terrific.” Sometimes my mom doesn’t get sarcasm any more than Denny. “Got much homework?”
“Practically none,” I lie.
“Lucky you. Then you can help Chuck. He texted that he’ll be over after supper. I’m doing that chicken you like, so you’re on table setting and salad.”
“I didn’t say I have no homework.”
“Then come on up and do it before you set the table.” Mom starts back up the stairs. All but her shins and feet have disappeared when she stops. “Say,” she calls back down, “do you know a YouTube video called Pop Top?”
“Nope.”
“Chuck’s text said to check it out. Everyone at his office says it’s a hoot.”
“Gee, better jump right on that one.” God knows what an office full of Chucks would call a hoot. I don’t want to find out.
“Okay, smart guy. Up here for homework in five minutes.” Mom goes upstairs. There are a few more footsteps, then nothing.
I pull out the guitar for a sec. Mom will remember the five minutes, but I can try to make them last.
I’ve just played the coolest chord I’ve ever heard, and I’m trying to figure out what it is when I hear the kitchen footsteps again. Mom’s voice floats down. “Hey, get up here and check this out. Then you’ve got homework.”
Chapter Ten
I guess this is togetherness time. I head upstairs. Mom is at the kitchen table. She’s sitting in front of her work laptop, holding Arch. The Pop Top video is cued up on the screen. The first image is a frozen orange blur.
“How long is it?” I ask. I don’t know how much Chuck-style funny I can take.
Mom peers at the screen. “Three minutes and twelve seconds.” Why does that time sound familiar? She pulls another chair out from the table. “Have a seat.”
I sit on the edge of the chair. I’ll give this thirty seconds, tops. Mom clicks on the Play icon.
Through the tiny speaker I hear an acoustic guitar strum. It’s a rhythm and chord I know. A bass line kicks in. I know it too—I play it all the time. It’s “Coming Apart at the Dreams.” Hey, what is this?
The camera pulls back and into focus. The orange blur is the fuzzy lining of a guitar case, with Doom Master in the middle. I’m getting a very bad oh-oh feeling. But what is this? Did Denny go rogue? The shot switches to Lisa’s tight pink top as she sways on the swings. The parts of her in that tight pink top bounce in slow-mo as you hear her sing,
What’s up? I’m down
When you’re not around…
And now, a flash close-up of my face with my eyes bulging out, as if I’m staring at her bouncing. I know it—it’s from that day Denny surprised me with the camera.
I could trip, I could fall
Would you hear if I called…
Now I’m fast-motion stumbling into the guitar case and Lisa’s jumping back, then my eyes bulge and I yell. Then there’s a shot of Doom Master tumbled over on two white lumps—cutlets.
I feel bad, I feel good
Like you knew that I would…
Aw, noooooo…I can guess what’s coming. Sure enough, there’s Lisa doing the Heimlich on me, then a cutlet popping out of the neckline of her top and the harmonica popping out of my mouth. Cut to Doom Master on the ground, as if he’s what I spat out.
Over and over and over and over
Coming apart at the dreammmmmms…
Over and over and over and over, there is Lisa’s chest doing four stuttery fast-mo bounces on the teeter-totter, with a cutlet popping again and again and again and again. On dreammmmms, a cutlet sails through the air. Cut to Lisa turning away and fumbling with her top, then my bulging eyes again.
Can it get worse? Of course it does. The first verse repeats, and this time you see my butt-first crash landing on the teeter-totter. It’s a horror show. I’m frozen, my eyes locked on the screen for all three minutes and twelve seconds, including the last bit, where a flying cutlet takes out Doom Master. Every second makes us look like idiots. As an added bonus, I look like a pervert, too.
It doesn’t help that I hear Mom snorting, giggling, then just plain laughing beside me. When it’s over, I can’t look at her. I may never look at anyone again. In fact, I may never come out of the man cave again.
Mom wipes her eyes and says, “That’s—how did—did you plan it all first, or make it up as you went along?”
“It just happened,” is all I can answer. Then I add, “Somehow.”
“Well, you’re naturals, then.”
Right, I think. Natural disasters. Is Denny suddenly on drugs or something? Where did this come from? What happened?
Mom scoots Arch off her lap and stands up. I stand up too. As I do, I notice my fingernails have dug into the table. Mom hasn’t even noticed anything’s wrong.
“You and Lisa were such good sports to let yourselves look silly,” she says. “How did you dream all that up?”
“It’s hard to say.” I’m going to find out though. Behind me, Mom opens the fridge. I start for the man cave. I need a moment to myself before I begin finding out.
“No one will see it,” I say to myself. I’m at the top of the stairs.
I guess I say it out loud, because Mo
m says, “Oh sure they will! Don’t worry about that, hon. There have been a ton of views already. Look at the number.”
I don’t want to go back and look at the number. I might throw up if I look at the number. “Just tell me if it’s over seven hundred,” I say. That would be almost half my high school. That might also explain the weird stuff this afternoon.
I hear Mom walk over to check the screen. “Let’s see…way more than that.” She laughs. “It’s almost six figures.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nearly a hundred thousand.”
I almost fall down the stairs.
Mom comes over and smiles. “See? I told you. You’re a hit!”
A hit. I feel as if I’ve been hit, with a sledgehammer. “Sure,” I say. “Right.” My voice sounds as if I’m choking.
Mom gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Aww, hon,” she says. “Having second thoughts? Don’t be embarrassed. It’s fun. You went for it! All these hits mean people like it.” The squeeze turns into a hug. I have to say I need one just now. And then the sledgehammer hits me again. What about Lisa? Has she seen this? I have to warn her. What if she’s seen it and thinks I did it? Will she even listen? What am I going to say? As I stumble back downstairs, all I know for sure is, I’m going to get Denny for this if it’s the last thing I ever do.
Chapter Eleven
Lisa doesn’t answer her phone. She doesn’t answer my texts. She’s not online. Maybe she’s sick or too busy with homework to answer or go online and see the video.
Yeah right, and maybe I’m Doom Master.
Denny doesn’t answer his phone. He doesn’t answer my texts. He’s not online. He’s not sick or busy with homework. He’s…never mind. I’m not going to say what Denny is.
I help Chuck with the drywall, which is not bad, because he only mentions the video once. “That’s the kind of thing Gonzo would have done after a few brewskis,” Chuck says. I think it’s a compliment.
