“Hey, who’s this douche?” says a ratty-looking short guy in a flannel shirt. “Did your momma dress you, boy?”
He’s talking to Jason. Jason is dressed kind of weird, especially for someone going to a party. He has a short-sleeved shirt on, buttoned right to the neck. The shirt’s pattern is old-fashioned cars. And he’s wearing a pair of khakis. It looks like he should be manning the sugar-cookie booth at a church fair.
“Who invited this jerk to the party?” says the ratty guy. He blows smoke from his cigarette in Jason’s face, like some actor from a gangster movie.
Jason coughs. “Smoking will kill you,” he says.
“What?” Ratty moves toward Jason a little, sticking out his chin like he wants to fight.
“Jason.” I yell it into his ear, because someone’s cranked up that stupid punk song even louder. “Don’t even talk to him.”
At that moment, Jennifer kind of starts and lets out a little yip. I look over, and Ratty jumps back. He’s grinning. I just know he’s groped her or something like that.
“Hey, dude, you made it!” It’s Grant, holding out his hand and smiling like he’s Hugh Hefner at the Playboy mansion. He seems different, like he’s blurry or something. Maybe it’s just me. This is turning out to be one very weird night.
“This your woman?” he says, pointing at Jennifer with his beer. He ignores Jason.
“This is Jennifer,” I say. She smiles and holds out her hand, even though she was probably groped five seconds ago. Jennifer’s always nice to people. Maybe this party will work out after all. Grant smiles again and nods.
The band already brought all the gear over, including the bass amp, so I don’t have much to set up. I was hoping we’d have more time before Primal Thunk played, just so Jason, Jennifer and I could hang out a little. But Grant looks at his watch, burps and says, “Okay, 9:00 pm. We’re supposed to… we’re supposed to play now. So let’s get started, boys.”
The drummer clicks his sticks four times over his head, and we’re off. The music’s really rehearsed, I’ve gotta admit. But it’s like the volume is way louder than we usually play it. I must have missed the meeting where everyone agreed we’d crank the volume up to eleven. After the first tune, I rip the corner off my set list and make a set of earplugs with the rolled-up paper.
Still, it’s going over pretty well. I can’t see Jennifer or Jason. The floor in front of us is full of people dancing. A good sign. Actually, they’re just jumping up and down. Mostly guys—including some of the biker dudes. A superhairy no-shirt guy is standing right in front of me, flailing his head from side to side. He’s got this really long hair and a ZZ Top beard, so it looks pretty incredible. Sometimes I can feel his hair, which is wet and sweaty, slap across my right hand. Which is kind of disgusting.
After three tunes, Grant comes over.
“You’re playing good, Dunc,” he says. “Want some Jack?”
He takes a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey from his back pocket. The drummer’s looking at me, smirking. So I grab the bottle and take a slug. It tastes horrible, like liquid fire. But Grant’s looking at me, grinning in an “I dare you” kind of way. So I take another big slug.
“Rock and roll, my brother,” he says. “I always thought you were kind of a pussy.”
Grant pats me on the back. Him calling me
brother
makes me feel good. There’s no time to think about this though, because right away we’re into another song. And then another. And then in no time, our set is done. I look at the crowd, expecting applause or something. The funny thing, no one even claps. Except for this hairy guy. He goes crazy, smacking his hands together and whooping, like he’s front row at a U2 concert. I make a mental note to avoid him, in case he’s a psycho.
“We’ll be right back after a short break and a cold beer,” Grant mumbles into the microphone. He reaches behind the drum kit and starts handing out cans of beer to the band. The can is cold in my hand. This feels good, because my hand is sort of numb from hitting the strings so hard. But I don’t really want it.
“No thanks,” I say. That whiskey is already hitting me. I feel light-headed. It’s really noisy in the room—the stereo’s back on, and someone in the corner is yelling. Something about the money some guy called Jack owes him. He sounds pissed.
“Hey, McCann. I thought you weren’t a total weenie,” Grant says. “My mistake.”
So I grab the stupid can of beer and take a long swig. It actually feels good going down my throat, it’s so hot in the room. Grant hands me the bottle of Jack again. I take a long pull, then drink some more beer.
“That’s more like it, dude. Now you’re rocking,” says Grant.
There’s a tap on my arm. It’s Jason and Jennifer.
“Hey, stranger,” says Jennifer.
“Hi. Where were you guys?”
“We took a little walk outside. Some of those motorbike guys are making a bonfire in the front yard. In an oil drum,” says Jason.
I look at Jennifer in her party dress. I get that sinking feeling again.
“How’d you guys like our set?” says Grant, who’s staring at Jennifer in a way I don’t like.
“Well, we were outside, but it sounded great. Actually, I was wondering if I could ask you something,” says Jason.
Oh god. Don’t say it, Jason. Don’t say it. Please.
“Yeah, I was wondering if we could use your music. Me and Dunc are making a movie. It could be, like, the soundtrack.”
“What kind of movie?” says Grant.
“It’s a remake of
Raiders of the Lost
Ark
. We’ve been making it since we were twelve. It’s really cool.” Jason goes on to give Grant all the superdorky details, talking fast and breathlessly like he always does when he’s excited. I’m embarrassed, but at the same time, I’m getting this weird floating feeling from the booze.
After Jason finishes explaining about the movie, no one speaks for a few seconds.
“Oh, man, that’s so lame,” says Grant, finally. “You guys sound like a bunch of babies. What are you, in grade two?”
Jason looks at Grant open-mouthed, like someone just punched him in the face. Then, without saying a word, he turns and walks out the front door. Jason has officially left the party.
Meanwhile, Grant’s wandered off somewhere. I think maybe I should go after Jason, but my legs feel kinda wobbly. It’s like my body’s wrapped in cotton.
“Duncan, maybe we should go home now,” says Jennifer.
I’d forgotten she was still here. Maybe I’m drunk.
“No…it’s cool. Beside, I have to, uh…play another set.”
“Please. I think I should go home.”
Suddenly, I feel drunk. At least, I think so. The room is starting to spin a little.
“Aw, come on, Jen,” I say, thinking we should take this boyfriend-girlfriend thing to the next stage. “Lemme have… I mean, how about a kiss?”
I turn to hug Jennifer, but stumble. Then something terrible happens. Both my hands land on her chest. One of the straps on her dress snaps. Jennifer’s face sort of crumbles. Then, without saying another word, she runs out the door, one hand holding the broken strap. Oh no. What have I done?
“Your bitch leave?” says Grant, who like magic is somehow back at my elbow again.
“Yeah,” I say, slurring. So really, it comes out like “Yeshh.”
“Who cares,” he says. “Come on, let’s play.”
We play another set, but it’s nowhere near as good as the first. It’s horrible in fact. After every couple of songs Grant gives me a beer and another shot of whisky. I go along with it—hey, I’m a rocker now, right?
After that…well, it’s hard to explain what happened. Even today I can’t quite figure it out. First I’m playing music with the band. And the next thing I remember, I’m waking in total darkness. I guess I passed out. I can hardly breathe. A
CD
player is on in some other room, skipping on the same two notes over and over. But aside from that, it’s quiet.
I try to move, but it’s hard to shift my shoulders. Stuck. I struggle, then finally get free. Somehow, I got wedged behind this old, dirty, smelly couch. Unbelievable. Not only that, but I’ve been sick on myself, like all down the front of my pants. And I feel really, really horrible, like I’m gonna die or something.
The digital clock in the room— the only light—says it’s 5:14. Oh no. Dad’s gonna kill me. So I decide to phone Terry. Her phone number’s still in my wallet from the time we visited Houston.
Terry sounds groggy on the phone, but amazingly, she’s cool and agrees to pick me up. Thank god I still have the address on that piece of paper so I can tell her where I am. I wait on the street holding my bass. Couldn’t even find the case. My head is pounding. At least I wiped the sick off my pants with a dirty towel from the kitchen. I feel like lying down on the sidewalk. Terry raises her eyebrows when she sees the condition I’m in, but doesn’t say a word other than, “Jump in.”
The next thing I know, I’m waking up in Terry’s apartment, on her couch. The clock on the wall says 12:34 pm. My jeans are washed and folded on the coffee table. I walk over to the sink, drink a glass of water…and throw up into the sink. What a start to the day.
If you think Dad was mad when I finally made it home that day, you’re exactly right.
I’d say on a scale of ten, it was… oh, maybe about a fourteen. Or a fifteen. Dad lectured me for about an hour. It was extra rough because my head ached—in fact, my whole body did. I just felt like going to bed, which is what I did after Dad was done.
For the last four weeks, I’ve been on the straight and narrow. It’s been go to school, come home, do my chores, listen to Dad lecture me on the evils of drinking, and go to bed early.
Me and Dad drove back to the party house the day after to try to get my bass case back. That really hairy dude answered, but when Dad explained what we wanted, Mr. Hairy just said, “I’ve never seen this damned kid before in my life,” and slammed the door. So that was that. Although Dad was pretty choked.
Maybe it’s not that big of a deal about the case anyway. I’m not really playing bass anymore. Dad made me quit the band after the party. He says those guys are a bad influence. Maybe they are. I don’t know. It was pretty fun playing the music. But I can’t really say they were my friends.
Anyhow, something better happened. I started hanging out a lot at Houston’s, playing his Hammond B-3 organ. Dad said that was okay. And Houston says I can play any time I want. And guess what? I’ve started to get really good on the organ. No kidding. Much better than I was on bass. Houston says it’s because every musician has only one instrument that comes naturally to them. For me, it’s the Hammond B-3. Love the grinding, whirling sound. It just sounds fantastic to me.
Jason was mad at me after the party. Not sure why, since it was Grant who made fun of the dumb movie project, not me. But now we’re good buddies again because of something that happened in the school cafeteria. Jason and I were eating lunch when Grant came by. We hadn’t talked since I told him I was quitting Primal Thunk. He’d just said “whatever” on the phone and hung up.
Anyway, so Grant sees us and says, “Hey, babies. How’s your widdle movie show coming along? What is it again,
Raiders of the Lost Tinkerbell
?”
“Shut up, Grant,” I say.
“Shut up, yourself. You lightweight. You and your baby-ass friend.”
“He’s a lot smarter than you.”
I thought Grant was going to hit me. I really did. His face went all funny, like he was thinking four or five things all at once. But instead of slugging me, he just paused for a second, then kept walking. Jason didn’t say anything about it, but I could tell he was happy because I stood up for him in public. He bought me some French fries right after that. And Jason is usually pretty cheap.
It didn’t go so well with Jennifer after that party though. I mean, I apologized to her and she seemed okay with that, but when I asked her out afterward— two times to go for coffee, and one time to a movie—she always had an excuse. Once she said she has to visit her grandmother, which I think is code for
Get lost, pal
. Then yesterday I saw her in the hallway, holding hands with some guy from the basketball team. Too bad.
It’s funny, but Dad and I have started to get along better now than ever, even though he’s still being really strict. He said we need to spend more time together, like “father and son” time. At first it was awkward. We’d go to a movie or even fly fishing one time. I felt like he was just feeling sorry for me or something. Just going through the motions, like following the Rulebook for Good Fathers Whose Sons Get Wasted at Parties. But after a while, things did get easier and smoother between us. I can’t explain it, exactly. It’s kind of cool though.
The weird thing is, Dad broke up with Terry about the same time Jennifer and I stopped going out. I asked Terry about it—I still see her all the time at Houston’s house. She says my dad’s a good guy and all, but their personalities are just too different.
“Dad’s too uptight,” I said.
“No, Duncan. Don’t say that. Your father is a good man. He’s a great dad, and he cares about you a lot. I know that. We’re just different personalities.”
Terry smiled, and the corners of her eyes wrinkled. For an adult, she’s pretty cool.
It’s a drag not to have a girlfriend anymore. But there’s another girl in the school band, Carrie, who I kind of like. She’s new—she moved here from Edmonton. And guess what? She plays the drums. Carrie’s pretty good. I’m thinking of asking her to join my band.
Oh yeah, that’s right. I have my own band now. How cool is that? We’re rehearsing at Houston’s house. And guess what? Jason’s playing my old bass. He’s not that good, in fact, he’s pretty bad. And it doesn’t help that there’s a crack in the neck of the bass—it somehow happened the night of the party. The bass goes out of tune a lot now. But he’s learning pretty fast. Of course, I’m playing organ. And we also have a guitarist—a guy who answered the ad I posted online. He’s really, really good.
Houston sometimes sits in with the band on organ. When that happens, I just hunker down on the couch and watch. I’m happy to do it. He’s so good, and you can learn stuff if you concentrate real hard. He taught me how to play “Green Onions”—maybe not quite as good as him, but pretty well—and now the whole band’s learning it.