by Jeff Strand
“Where?” I ask, suspicious of Blake.
“Miami.”
“We can’t play in Miami on Sunday night. We have to go to school the next day.”
“Only part of that is correct,” says Blake.
“Are you saying we don’t have to go to school Monday? Are you now so powerful that you can create a freak Florida snowstorm so schools are closed and we get the day off?”
“I wish. I’m getting us a tour bus for the weekend. We’ll drive home each night. Sunday night, you guys will do the show and then get some sleep on the way back. We’ll be back by 3:00 a.m. You’ll be fine.”
“A tour bus will cost more than we’re making,” I say.
“The bus is my treat to make up for my past behavior.”
“Our parents will never go for this idea,” I say.
“I can’t speak for Mel’s parents or Clarissa’s parents because I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them. But I’m pretty sure Aunt Connie will understand what a fantastic opportunity this is for you, and since you’re not actually skipping school and you’ve been maintaining a high GPA and you haven’t gotten into any trouble recently—at least not that the principal notified her about—I think she’ll say yes.”
“I think I could sell my mom and dad on it,” says Mel.
“I think if I ask my dad first and let him plead my case to my mom, my parents will say it’s okay as long as I promise to answer my phone even if my mom calls while we’re onstage,” says Clarissa.
“Perfect,” says Blake. “It’s Fanged Grapefruit’s first tour!”
“You’re not our manager,” I tell him.
“Can I be your roadie?”
“No.”
“I think he’d be fulfilling the duties of a roadie,” says Mel.
“Do you two really want to succeed so badly that you’ll let somebody as poisonous as Blake be involved in our future?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” says Clarissa.
“We’ve had no luck setting up shows,” says Mel. “Blake has only been here for a week, and he’s managed to get us three good gigs. Clearly, he’s doing something right.”
“He’s probably bribing them. Dude has too much disposable income.”
“Look, I’m not trying to cause strife between the three of you,” says Blake. “The only fair way to handle this is for you to put it to a vote.”
“Sorry,” I say, “but you don’t get to decide if we put something to a vote. Only the founding members of Fanged Grapefruit get to decide if something goes to a vote.”
“My mistake.”
I don’t want this to go to a vote because I know that Clarissa and Mel will vote in favor of playing these venues and I’ll vote against it, and there will forever be the knowledge that I voted against three sweet gigs. I’ll always be the band member who wasn’t as committed to our success as the others.
“All in favor of taking these gigs, raise your hand,” says Mel.
He raises his hand. Clarissa raises her hand. Though it suddenly feels like it weighs fifteen hundred pounds, I raise my hand.
No way does this end well.
• • •
“Sure, you can do that,” says Mom, robbing me of my chance to get out of this madness and blame a parent. “This can’t become a weekly thing, but once in a while, of course.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s good to see that you and Blake are finally getting along.”
“Yep.”
Mom narrows her eyes with concern. “You look upset. You should be happy. Is everything all right?”
“Audrey and I broke up.”
“Oh no! What happened?”
“We drifted apart.”
“Oh, Rod, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Do you need a banana split? I’ll make you one.”
“No, I’m fine.”
• • •
The worst part of this arrangement is that I have to spend the next week pretending that I don’t find Blake completely abhorrent. I speak to him as little as possible, but when we pass each other, I’m forced to nod politely. And we have to make conversation during meals. As Blake said approximately six thousand years ago, he’s not a fan of small talk, so dinner conversation tends to focus on subjects like the national debt and the meaning of our existence. I think Mom is impressed.
Yes, he’s in the garage every afternoon when we practice. And, yes, he makes suggestions. And, yes, Mel and Clarissa think his suggestions are oh-so-wonderful. And, yes, I will grudgingly admit that not all his suggestions are entirely worthless. But, no, I will not call him our manager.
Of course, I have to see Audrey every day in biology, and gosh, that’s not awkward at all. It’s also not the least bit awkward when I see Gretchen, Bernadette, Lorelei, Shannon, Melissa, and Jennifer. Nope, not at all. Jennifer does look like she feels guilty, though apparently not guilty enough to confess her role in Blake’s plan.
I should be all bouncy and giddy over these upcoming shows, but how can I trust that Blake is really trying to help? How do I know he won’t release a thousand sewer rats into the club as we take the stage? (Would that hurt our reputation or improve it? I’m not sure. Either way, I don’t want to find out.) How do I know he didn’t hack the venue websites to say we’re playing? How do I know he won’t purposely let the bus run out of gas so that we miss our show and damage our credibility?
I try to improve my mood with the realization that Blake has already been here for almost two weeks, which means that there are only two months and two weeks left to go! That’s way better than having three months left. I have to take joy in the little things now.
Unrelated to Blake, what if Fanged Grapefruit isn’t good enough to open for acts like Fist Knuckles and Krab Salad? What if we’re booed off the stage? What if the audience stands there, bored? What if the club owner has to come out and apologize to everybody for letting them down by booking such a low-quality opening band? What if we finish our set and I look over to see the lead singer of Krab Salad shaking his head with disappointment? I’m not one to be plagued by self-doubt, but these all seem like realistic potential outcomes.
I force myself to be excited. This could be our big break! Blake coming to live with us could be the best thing that ever happened to me. The best thing ever! Ever! Yep, I’ll keep telling myself that every six or seven minutes until my brain can’t argue with me anymore and I believe it!
When I look at my bedroom, it no longer appears that his posters are gradually shifting over to my side, so that’s something to celebrate, I guess.
For the record, his snoring doesn’t get any quieter. And I really miss Audrey.
Hey, it’s Friday afternoon already! Clarissa and Mel are at my house, and we keep making comments about how great these three shows are going to be. I have to admit that even though I’m leery of Blake’s motives, I can’t help but get excited. Fanged Grapefruit is more important to me than anything except Mom, food, and oxygen, so how can I not feel a little twitter in my tummy when the tour bus pulls up alongside my house?
Correction: the minivan.
“I thought it was going to be a bus,” says Mel.
“It’s like a bus,” I say sarcastically. “Just a little smaller and not bus-shaped, and…y’know, a minivan.”
Blake gets out of the passenger side. “Sorry it doesn’t have your logo on the doors. They would’ve charged extra for the painting and repainting. What do you think?”
Remember how Blake was making snide remarks about my car after I picked him up at the airport? This minivan doesn’t quite make him a hypocrite. (It’s a perfectly fine vehicle, rust-free, a pleasant green color, and there’s no evidence that any tires might pop off while we’re driving.) But it’s no tour bus.
“What happened to the bus?” I asked.
“I didn’t say bus. I said van.”
“Nope, you said tour bus. That’s fine. I mean, it doesn’t bother me. It looks like a nice sturdy soccer mom van. It’s just not what our manager promised us.”
“I’m pretty sure I said van.”
I shake my head. “Again, nobody here is going to complain. We’re a pretty easygoing group of people. It seemed worth mentioning that our mode of transportation has changed, but it’s certainly not something that anybody is going to make a big deal about. You’re not going to make a big deal about it, are you, Mel? Clarissa? We’re all cool with a green van instead of a legit tour bus, right?”
“I thought he said bus too, but maybe I heard wrong,” says Clarissa.
“Nah, you didn’t hear wrong,” I assure her. “I bet Fist Knuckles tours in a minivan too.”
The driver of the minivan steps out of the vehicle.
If you were wandering along a desolate road after dark and this guy pulled up next to you, there’s no way you’d get in his minivan. In fact, if he showed up in broad daylight and your car had broken down and you were on a busy street with dozens of witnesses, you’d still decline his offer for a ride. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that if you were at the grocery store and you saw this gentleman in one of the aisles, you’d decide to shop someplace else. Which is all to say, he’s rather intimidating.
“Is there a problem?” the driver asks.
“No,” I say.
“Good.” The driver gets back in the minivan.
“I actually wasn’t answering his question,” I say. “That no was aimed at the idea of riding with him.”
“What do you mean?” asks Blake.
“It’s pretty simple, really. We’re not getting in that minivan.”
“For real? You guys are in a punk rock band, and you’re scared of the guy’s tattoos and scars and multicolored hair and metal teeth?”
“Those were all fine,” I say. “It was his dead eyes.”
“Sorry. I guess I forgot to request a driver that didn’t have dead eyes.”
“You’re trying to be sarcastic, but I’m serious. I refuse to get murdered on our first out-of-town gig.”
“I’m not sure I can get a refund,” says Blake.
“Poor planning,” I say.
“So you’re canceling the tour?”
“Of course not. We’ll take my car and have a cramped, miserable ride, thanks to our manager.”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
“It’s not. But for our safety, that’s the way it has to be apparently.”
Blake walks over to the minivan. Despite whatever impression you may have gotten, I don’t wish for him to perish, so I carefully watch for signs that the driver may attempt to abduct or kill him. I’m not saying that I’ll rush over there if I hear the roar of a chainsaw, but I’ll shout a warning.
“You both agree with this, right?” I ask Clarissa and Mel.
“Oh, yeah,” says Mel. “I wasn’t going anywhere with the dead-eyed dude. I’m glad you said something.”
The minivan drives off, leaving my cousin behind and alive.
“I tried to get us there in comfort,” says Blake, shaking his head.
“And you failed,” I say. “Everybody has to suck at something. Let’s pack up my car.”
One point for Team Rod. Heh, heh.
As we walk toward my car, I notice Blake grinning.
Why is he grinning?
Did I prematurely assign the point? Was this part of his plan too?
22.
Though I'd been happy that Blake messed up, I have to admit that I’m less merry about it now that we have a two-hour drive ahead of us. I was looking forward to letting somebody else worry about steering and accelerating and braking and stuff. I will still defend my car’s honor, but it’s not such a great mode of transportation when you’ve got four people and musical equipment packed in there. (Reminder: Clarissa is very tall.)
I was in favor of leaving Blake at home to think about what he’d done, but since he’s the guy who set everything up, we pretty much had to bring him. But if he becomes too annoying, I won’t hesitate to make him run alongside the vehicle.
There are a lot of madcap antics that can happen when a punk rock band drives an old car one hundred thirty-eight miles across Florida; however, the trip is not particularly wacky enough to detail for you, and we arrive at the venue ahead of schedule. The windows look like they’re glowing blue, green, and pink, which is appropriate since the club is called Blue Green Pink Glow.
The four of us walk inside. Clarissa stops. “Do you smell that?”
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. There’s no scent. We’ve never played anywhere that doesn’t have a distinctive odor.”
“Look up at the ceiling,” I say. “It’s clean.”
We all look up and admire the ceiling.
“Do you think it’s been recently washed?” asks Mel. “Or did the stains not make it all the way up there?”
We walk over to the bar to introduce ourselves to the manager, marveling at the way our feet don’t stick to the floor.
“That’s the stage,” says the manager, pointing to the elevated platform behind him. Obviously, we didn’t need him to point it out, but this is the kind of venue where people are polite. “Get yourselves set up, and we’ll do sound check in about thirty minutes. Can I get you guys anything to eat? Club sandwich? Nachos?”
Our first impulse is to decline his offer because none of us would dare consume any food from the Lane, not even a bag of chips from a vending machine. But here? I bet their club sandwiches contain the meats you’d typically associate with that type of sandwich instead of the Meat that Might Be Ham and/or Turkey, the Meat that Might Be Roast Beef and/or Bacon, and the Meat (?) that Could Be Anything. Put your guesses in the jar for a chance to win fifty bucks and food poisoning!
I bet their nachos wouldn’t turn your digestive tract yellow.
I bet if I had a cherry cola, it wouldn’t look like an oil slick, and the last sip wouldn’t stretch from my mouth to the glass like cheese sticking to the pizza box.
So we have dinner. I’m not saying that it was Michelin star dining, but it’s nice to be offered food that isn’t actively harmful to our well-being.
We set up our instruments. Sound check goes perfectly.
The lead singer of Fist Knuckles (who also plays the piccolo in the most punk rock manner imaginable) walks up to the stage. “You Fanged Grapefruit?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re big fans.”
“Of Fanged Grapefruit?”
“No, of Fist Knuckles.”
“That’s cool. We’re playing tonight.”
“We know. We’re opening for you.”
“Interesting. Any idea where the stage is?”
“We’re standing on it.”
The lead singer looks down. “No, I’m not.”
“We are. You’re standing in front of it.”
“If you don’t know the answer to my question, you could simply say so.”
“Sorry.”
“Mind if I vomit?” he asks.
“Go right ahead. You’re the headliner.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, sir.”
The lead singer smiles. “You bet your…”
We all wait for him to finish the thought.
“I can’t remember what we were going to bet,” he says.
“Our bottom dollar?” suggests Mel.
“You bet your bottom dollar I’m the headliner! Those other four losers in Fist Knuckles think they bring in the crowds, but it’s all me, baby. It’s all me. You’ll tell them that, right?”
“Probably not,” I admit.
“That makes sense.”
The lead singer wanders off.
“I can’t believe we get to open for Fist Knuckles!” says Clarissa, bouncing with excitement.
By showtime, the club is about half full, which means that it’s by far the biggest audience we’ve ever performed for. I don’t see any Fanged Grapefruit shirts out there, so Blake has been slacking on his bribes, but there’s a definite energy in the crowd. As long as Blake doesn’t sabotage the show, it’s going to be incredible.
I’m sure he wouldn’t sabotage it. He set up the gig.
I know what you’re thinking. Have you not been paying attention to your own book? Of course he’d sabotage the show, fool!
But it would reflect badly on him too.
I know what you’re thinking. The mess-up with the minivan also reflected badly on him, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a piece of his evil puzzle. He could absolutely be planning to sabotage the show, and if you’re not prepared for that possibility, you’re a simpleton.
Still, maybe everything Blake did was to be more closely involved with Fanged Grapefruit. Maybe he’s achieved his goal, and now it’s in his best interest for everything to go well tonight.
I know what you’re thinking. Maybe you’re right. Everything might go fine. However, as your reader, I want you to remain vigilant during the show. Don’t let down your guard. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, okay?
Thanks. That sounds like a solid approach. I’ll stay optimistic, but I won’t be dumb about my optimism.
Mel, Clarissa, Blake, and I sit in the greenroom, which is—and I’m not exaggerating—eight trillion times better than the greenroom in the Lane. You can sit on this couch without wearing a hazmat suit. The bottles of water still have their original seal. At the Lane, they provide bottled water to the performers, but you can tell that they just filled the bottles with water from a faucet. The tint gives it away. And there are free apples. Apples! So healthy and delicious!
The door opens, and the owner sticks his head in. “Sixty seconds,” he says.
Blake stands. “Good luck to all of you.”
Wait. What did he mean by that?
I immediately do a mental replay of “Good luck to all of you.” Was it sincere or menacing? His tone seemed to straddle the two options. He didn’t wring his hands together and go “Muahahahahaha!” but I’m not convinced that he was genuinely wishing us good luck. Are we headed toward disaster? Should I warn Mel and Clarissa? Should I come up with some sort of excuse for me and Blake to walk outside of the club and then knock him unconscious and lock him in the trunk of my car so he can’t follow through on his devious plan?
