by Jeff Strand
What if he didn’t sabotage the first two shows so that I wouldn’t be prepared for the third? What if tonight’s the night he releases the rats?
There was no room in my car for a box of rats.
What if he had the box of rats delivered directly to the venue?
What if his sabotage isn’t related to rats?
He could do anything.
Anything.
No, he’s not going to disrupt the show. He played his silly little mind games before I stepped out into the way-too-bright lights that are hurting my eyes and making me a little dizzy, but that’s as far as he’ll take it.
I glance up at the ceiling. There are no buckets up there that might contain foul substances for him to drop upon the band or the audience during the show.
Am I succumbing to paranoia? Has Blake won yet another round?
What if I pretend to pass out? They can’t hold it against me if I collapse. They’d be heartless monsters if they got mad at me for losing consciousness onstage.
No, I probably shouldn’t do that. I should make sure this is the best show of all time.
I realize that Mel and Clarissa are staring at me. Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to be singing and playing now. My bad.
You lose, Mr. Blake Montgomery. This show is going to be phenomenal.
24.
We're driving home.
Clarissa is in the passenger seat up front because she needs the most leg room. Mel is behind her. Blake is behind me. Sure, why shouldn’t I have a monster behind me, staring at the back of my head while I try to concentrate on driving?
I suppose you’re wondering how the show went. Let’s just say that there were parts of it that went well and that there were parts of it that didn’t go quite so well. As an example of a part of the show that went well, I’ll direct you to Clarissa’s drumming. She did a superb job. You won’t hear any complaints from anybody about that. If you came to the show exclusively to hear Clarissa drumming, by golly, you got your money’s worth.
Now if we switch gears and discuss the parts of the show that went less well than Clarissa’s drumming, I guess we should touch upon the lackluster performance of Mel during the bridge of “I Shouldn’t Have Had That Sixteenth Energy Drink.” Not his best guitar playing by any stretch of the imagination. He was a little off-key. He was out of synch with the drums, and his vocals were—let’s be honest—subpar.
I’m not sure why Mel flubbed that part. He’s usually extremely professional. If I had to guess, I’d say that he was slightly distracted by the fact that I had completely screwed up that song.
Oh, yeah, another element of the show that didn’t go so well was me. It’s my book, and I can make up anything I want. But a lot of people whipped out their cell phones when I started to mess up, and the videos are out there for the world to ridicule. I don’t know what happened. Yes, I was exhausted. Yes, I was hyper-focused on trying not to make a mistake while at the same time keeping vigilant for Blake’s sabotage. Yes, I had a moment in the second song when it suddenly hit me that Audrey had broken up with me and I felt sad and alone. Yes, I kept hearing Blake’s voice in my head, and I kept seeing little floating transparent Blake-heads, and…actually, I guess all these elements, put together, explain pretty clearly why my performance was so wretched.
If I’d done this badly the first time Mel or Clarissa heard me play, there never would have been a Fanged Grapefruit. The interaction would’ve gone like this:
[I play and sing.]
ROD: Wanna form a band?
MEL/CLARISSA: Oh, goodness, no!
At least the manager of the club paid us. Oh, wait. He didn’t. He explained to Blake that he’d taken a chance on an untested band like Fanged Grapefruit, and now many of the club’s patrons who’d been there tonight would choose other venues when they were in the mood for musical entertainment. We were welcome to try to sue him for our fee. But if we did, he’d play a recording of our performance for the judge, and the judge would issue an order forbidding us from ever playing music again. We knew that the courts didn’t really have the authority to end our musical careers, but we also knew that we weren’t getting our cash.
Anyway, we’re driving home, and as you might expect, it’s a bit awkward.
Finally, Blake speaks. “So who wants to go first?”
“I don’t want to hear anything from you,” I tell him. “Not one single word out of your mouth. My car, my rules.”
“We can’t keep our heads in the sand.”
“I can shove your head in the sand if you don’t stop talking. I’ll do a Google search for the nearest patch of quicksand. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Very well.”
“This is all your fault.”
“You’re right,” says Blake. “I played horribly tonight.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I never set foot on the stage. I didn’t say a word during the show. In fact, I left halfway through because it was too painful to witness.”
I remember that moment clearly because when Blake walked away, I thought that it must be when he was preparing to strike. He didn’t. Or maybe he was ready to but simply decided that I was doing such a good job of sabotaging myself that further efforts were not necessary on his part.
I want to bellow, “This is your fault! Your fault! Your fault!” over and over at him, but no matter how many times I shout this, it will be difficult to make the case with my bandmates. And I have to admit that I should’ve been less susceptible. If Blake was able to undermine my self-confidence like that, maybe I’m not cut out for the life of a professional musician. Maybe I should start shopping for ties for the office job I’ll have after college. Trade in my lyrics for spreadsheets. Practice saying, “TGIF,” by the water cooler.
Uh-oh, is there a tear trickling down my cheek? Please don’t let Clarissa glance over and see it. Should I wipe it off, or will that draw more attention to it?
“You don’t have to cry,” says Blake, who can apparently see my tear-stained face in the rearview mirror.
“I’m not crying,” I say.
“Leave him alone, Blake,” says Clarissa. “He can cry if he wants to.”
“I’m not crying,” I say.
“I can see the tear,” says Clarissa, “but that’s okay. I’d probably be crying too.”
“At least he didn’t cry onstage,” says Blake. “That’s one positive thing we can take from this experience. The show would’ve been way worse if he’d started bawling. I hope we never have to find out how that would look.”
“I’m serious, Blake,” I say. “I will track down some quicksand.”
“I apologize,” says Blake. “You won’t hear another word from me. It’s all my fault for setting up big shows before you were ready. I should have gauged it better.”
“That was fifteen more words,” I say.
“It was more than fifteen. No wonder you can’t keep time. You can’t count.”
“Blake, I asked you to leave him alone,” says Clarissa. “One more word, and you’re riding as a hood ornament.”
Blake nods.
“Rod,” says Clarissa, and I can tell from the way she says my name that this is going to be a very serious conversation that I’m not going to enjoy. “Mel and I have been talking.”
“When?”
“When you went to the restroom after the show.”
“So what…I can’t go to the restroom anymore without you talking about me?”
“You’re already missing the point.”
“What is the point?” I ask.
Mel leans forward, at least as much as he can because he is wearing a seat belt. “For starters, we’re no longer going to accept any help from Blake.”
Did I hear that correctly? Are they severing ties with Blake instead of me? Did they realize that this whole night
mare is his fault?
“Huh?” says Blake. I don’t mind that he said another word. He can say, “Huh?” as often as he wants.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” says Mel. “He’s your cousin, and we can’t in good conscience let him continue to find us gigs, all things considered.”
“What things considered? What are the things?”
Mel and Clarissa both sigh.
“Are you kicking me out of Fanged Grapefruit?” I ask.
“We were thinking more that the band should take a break,” says Clarissa.
“A break? A gosh-darn, flipping break?” (I do not say “gosh-darn” or “flipping.” I’ll let you substitute other adjectives as you please.) “You guys can’t kick me out of the band! Where’s my due process? There’s no Fanged Grapefruit charter that gives you the right to get rid of me! No! I won’t go!”
“It’s a majority vote,” says Clarissa.
“Well, I vote against it.”
“Yeah, okay, we figured that you would, but it’s still two to one.”
I violently shake my head. “I don’t accept this! We created Fanged Grapefruit together! We practice in my garage! I wrote the best verse of the fish and popcorn song! You do not get to kick me out! I refuse to leave!”
“We thought you might feel this way,” says Mel quietly. “If that’s the way you’re going to act, we can’t kick you out. So Clarissa and I are officially quitting Fanged Grapefruit.”
“You can’t quit on Clarissa’s behalf!”
“I quit,” says Clarissa.
“Oh, really? You quit, huh? What are you going to do? Form your own band?”
“Yes,” says Mel.
“It’d better not be called Fanged Grapefruit!”
“It won’t.”
“It’d better not be called anything like Fanged Grapefruit! It’d better not have any references to teeth or fruit!”
“We can’t promise that,” says Clarissa.
“And you’d better not use any of the other names that we rejected! I’ve got a list! I’ll know!” I bellow over the rumble of the engine.
“We don’t like any of those names,” says Mel.
“And you can’t play punk rock!”
“Of course we can play punk rock,” says Clarissa.
“Well, you can’t play any of the songs I wrote! Those are my intellectual property!”
“Everybody contributed to every song we play,” says Mel.
“Then nobody gets to play any of them!”
“Why not divide them up?” suggests Blake.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak again,” Clarissa tells him. “This is between us.”
“I want you both to pay your share of the rent from the time we spent practicing in my garage,” I say, though I’m aware that this may be an unreasonable demand. “And it’s time you started chipping in for gas.”
“We chip in for gas all the time,” says Mel.
He’s right. They do. Clarissa paid for the fuel we’re using at this very moment. “No, you don’t,” I say because I’m not in the mood for truth.
“We understand that you’re upset,” says Mel. “But I hope you understand our decision.”
“I don’t. You both suck.”
“Fair enough.”
“Kick me out of the band if you want,” I say, “but I call the right to burn all the Fanged Grapefruit merchandise.”
“You can burn it,” says Mel, “but you can’t record the fire and post the video online.”
“Yes, I can. That would be the whole point of doing it.”
“No. We don’t accept those terms.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll burn it for my own pleasure.”
“We’re okay with that.”
“I’m not,” says Clarissa. “Someday we’ll wish we still had those stickers and shirts. You can burn your third of the merchandise, but I’m keeping my third.”
“Actually, yeah, I’m keeping my third too,” says Mel.
“You’re not allowed to profit from it,” I say.
“We don’t want to profit from it,” says Clarissa. Or Mel. Does it even matter at this point which one of them is speaking? “We want to keep the stuff as souvenirs.”
“Souvenirs of the time you stomped on my heart!” I proclaim. “So if you’re ever sitting around thinking that you’re a good person, you can look down at your Fanged Grapefruit T-shirt and see that you’re not!”
No! Another tear is forming! I try to blink it away before it gains momentum, but I think it’s too late. The tear rolls down my cheek.
I glance over to see if Clarissa’s noticed, and a tear rolls down Clarissa’s cheek.
It’s hard to tell because it’s dark out and I’m looking at his face in the rearview mirror, but I think a tear rolls down Mel’s cheek as well.
Yep, we’re three punk rock musicians, weeping. How charming.
I have no girlfriend, and I have no band. He did it. I don’t want to be melodramatic, but Blake has successfully ruined my life.
25.
I sort of wish that Mel and Clarissa had waited a few hours to kick me out of the band. We’ve still got a long drive together, and it’s going to be ridiculously uncomfortable. Maybe they were worried that I’d kick them out of the car. Or maybe they were worried that I’d accuse them of waiting until we got home to do their dirty work just so I wouldn’t kick them out of the car.
My prediction is right though. The drive home is ridiculously uncomfortable. It’s late, and we have school tomorrow. I’m sure that Mel and Clarissa would like to get some sleep, but they both stare out the window. Maybe they feel too guilty about sleeping while I’m driving. Or maybe they don’t dare sleep in a car with an angry driver. I don’t know. We’re no longer bandmates or friends, so I’m done trying to figure out their motives. Who cares?
Blake falls asleep just fine. And he begins snoring.
“Poke him,” I tell Mel. “He doesn’t get to snore in my car anymore.”
Mel jabs Blake in the side. Blake pops awake. “What?”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Then you were talking in your sleep in a foreign language that sounds like snoring.”
Blake closes his eyes. “I’ll try to be quieter.”
“No, you’ll stay awake,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because if I drift into the opposite lane, I’ll need you to shout a warning.”
“Can’t Mel or Clarissa do it?”
“I’m telling you to do it.”
“All right, all right.” Blake opens his eyes. “You’re mad because everything you’ve worked for is gone.”
“Maybe there was some confusion,” I say. “Your talking privileges are still revoked. If I don’t drift into the other lane, I don’t want to hear anything from you.”
“But—”
“Mouth closed.”
Blake doesn’t say another word. Neither does anybody else. Every time I peek at him in the rearview mirror, Blake looks very pleased with himself. I kind of wish I’d let him sleep.
• • •
We arrive at Clarissa’s house. I want to say, “Unload your own drums, hag!” but that would be needlessly impolite. She gives me a hug when we’re done, but I don’t return it. I let my arms dangle.
When I drop off Mel, he mutters, “See you at school tomorrow.” I want to say, “Not if I see you first!” but that’s weak and too jovial. I could also point out that it’s already tomorrow and that I’ll see him at school today, idiot, but that also doesn’t reach the level of devastating wit that I require. Instead I settle for says, “Kay.”
Blake leans forward. “I’m not sure if you want me to stay in the back so you don’t have to be near me or if you want me to move up t
o the front seat so you don’t look like my chauffeur.”
“I don’t care where you sit.”
“I’ll stay in the back then.”
“No. Sit up front. I’m not your limo driver.”
(I’ll admit it. Whatever choice Blake made, I’d have demanded that he do the other one.)
Blake climbs into the front seat. “I hope we’re not mortal enemies.”
“Oh, we are so mortal enemies. Remember how I used to pretend to tolerate you? Those days are over. From now on I will only look at you with disgust.”
“Then these next four months aren’t going to be very pleasant for either of us.”
“Four? What do you mean four?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“No. What? What? What?”
“My parents have extended their cruise.”
“What?”
Blake grins. “Just kidding.”
“You don’t get to joke around with me! We’re enemies! Enemies don’t have playful banter!”
“My mistake.”
Mel walks out of his house and over to the car. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “I looked through the window and saw that you were still here, so I wanted to make sure that everything’s okay.”
“It’s fine. Go back inside and start thinking up new band names.” I back my car out of his driveway and go home.
• • •
Any day at school in which you literally get no sleep the night before is going to be a rough one. But word of the destruction of my band has traveled fast. This is, of course, not long after word traveled fast about my breakup with Audrey.
If it was only the Audrey thing, there could almost be a silver lining. Sorry to hear you broke up with Audrey. So you’re single now, huh? I heard your show at the Lane went really well. But when you get kicked out of your own band for incompetence, that silver lining goes bye-bye.
Not that anybody flirted with me last week. Maybe the ladies were waiting a respectable amount of time before they pounced.
I fail a history quiz. No, the teacher doesn’t grade it on the spot, but when you leave half of the answers blank, it’s not a good sign.
