Fat kid rules the world (21 page)

My eyes bug out and I stare at the plant, wondering how many pills—and
whose
pills—he’s buried underneath the red blossoms. I want to tell him he’s insane, but I don’t.

“So,” I ask, “how long do you think you’ll be sick? What’ll you do when you get better?”

Curt scrunches his nose. Sneezes. He ignores my first question entirely and answers the second.

“Form a band. With you. Whaddaya think?”

I try to laugh, but it comes out as a cross between a snort and a huff.

“No,” I say, “I’m serious. Where will you go? Where were you sleeping before you got sick? After I blew the gig?”

Curt freezes. His eyes narrow and his jaw sets tight.

“What’s up with you?” he asks. He’s looking at me like I’m fat and I start to hyperventilate, then remind myself this is serious.

“Nothing’s up,” I say. “I just wondered, you know, you’ve got those bruises and—”

Curt lets out a loud laugh. Too loud.

“What are you, the CIA, or something? You think you’ve got to know everything about my life?”

Curt laughs again, but he doesn’t really think it’s funny. Then he snaps.

“Well, fuck off.”

He’s never told me to fuck off before. Even when he was pissed during practice he never meant it. But this time I think he means it. I can tell by the set of his eyes. I have two options. I can ignore everything about his life he doesn’t want me to see or I can fuck off. Simple as that.

One month ago it would’ve been simple, but now I’m not so sure.

I SIT IN THE LOBBY
for a long time weighing my options. I ought to go home, but I’m restless and my brain is spinning, so I call Ollie instead. I tell myself I just want to pound something, pick up the sticks and beat the crap out of the drum set, but as soon as I arrive at The Dump I know that’s not why I’m here.

I’ve got to make a choice, but before I do I have to know what I’m choosing between. I’ve never once sat on this stage and played the way I think I can play. In fact, I haven’t even been back since the eruption. I expect everything to look different. Humiliating. But it doesn’t.

I walk in and the place is almost empty. Someone’s setting up the bar and Ollie’s on stage setting up the drums. He asks about Curt, but I don’t feel like talking about Curt, so all I do is grunt. Ollie doesn’t push me. He turns up the music as loud as it will go, grabs one set of sticks, and throws me the other.

I climb onto the stage and take the empty place behind the set. It feels good—the way I wanted it to feel. A release. The bass pounds,
womp, womp
, deep in my gut, and the smack of the sticks feels sweet against the skins. Ollie uses everything in sight as his set and makes sounds I never dreamed of. I love listening to him, and at first I let him lead, but then I think,
Fuck that
. I’m remembering what Curt said about great drummers adding to the conversation. Now I’ve finally got something to say. I’m furious and I let myself play that way. I’m a distorted grotesque parody of a teenager who never saw anything beyond himself, and I decide to play like one. I think about everything that’s happened in the last nine years, about Dad and Dayle, and Curt’s stupid, self-destructive ultimatum. I play until I’m dripping sweat and my arms ache, but I don’t stop.

I want to play forever.

Ollie and I bounce off each other’s rhythms, and once when I
look up I see the bartender nodding, slapping the counter with his spill rag. I think,
This is what it’s all about
. More than anything, I want this feeling to last. I want a shot at being on stage, not in the crowd but
on stage
, saying everything that’s in my distorted, fat brain. I want every one of my twisted ideas exposed for the world to see. The thought that I might never get that chance makes my stomach turn. It’s like I’ve been in prison my whole life and the day I’m set free they close the world.

We play for over an hour before the music breaks and when I finally set down the drumsticks I’m breathing hard, but it still kills me to stop. I keep thinking,
This is the last time you’ll sit here. That bartender is the only person who will ever hear you play like this, on stage, unfettered
. I tell myself it doesn’t have to work this way. I can choose not to confront Curt and go on stage Saturday night while I’ve still got the guts. Curt will sneak out of the hospital just like he said and we’ll play our gig. Maybe someone would sign us, and
then
Curt could get better….

But deep down I know that’s not what will happen. Weatherman says optimism is unlikely—there’s only a five percent chance of happy endings. No one would sign us, Curt wouldn’t get better, and the thought of sitting on stage without him is worse than not sitting on stage at all.

I swing my legs over the throne and wipe my palms on my pants.

“Thanks for letting me play,” I tell Ollie. That’s when I notice him grinning. He’s watching me, twirling a drumstick between his fingers.

“You know,” he tells me, “that set was freakin’ awesome. You keep this up and Rage/Tectonic will be huge.
You’ll
be huge.” He pauses. “No pun intended.”

It’s a cool compliment, but I only smile weakly.

“Of course, you’ll have to get Curt out of the goddamn hospital,” he continues, “and convince him you’re not going to bail again,
but that shouldn’t be hard. Once he sees you play like
this
… man, T. You’ll have the world on a platter.”

I stop midstride.
The World On A Platter
. It’s an odd thing to say to a fat kid, but now that he’s said it I wonder if he’s right. What if I could have everything I want? Order everything on the menu for a change? I want to play the drums. I’m positive about that. But I also want a friend. A healthy one. I’m positive about that, too. I look up.

“You know something, Ollie?” I say. “I think you might be on to something.”

I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT
all night, and I think I’ve got one shot at making things right.

Saturday morning I take the long walk to Curt’s room, hoping I can pull this off. I find him eating hospital macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding and he’s really happy about it in a tired sort of way. Every time he opens his mouth it’s like I’m looking at a gaping chasm of tired happiness and I have to turn my eyes. I stare at the pictures on the walls instead. Sierra desert. Still life of a mango.

“You cool?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m cool.”

“Good,” Curt says as if it’s settled, “because this is going to work out perfect. This gig’s bigger than the last one. Full set. We’ll play the three songs we’ve practiced, that way the crowd will be primed and if the other ones aren’t as good we can cruise on adrenaline. I’ve been taking my medication all day and I feel most excellent.”

He stops. “You know,” he ponders, “there may be reps in the audience tonight. If there are we’ll know it. You can always tell because
they’re just a little too straight. And old. Man, they’re almost always old.”

He pauses, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t he picks up where he left off.

“So we’ll play the gig, then I’ll sneak back here and pretend like nothing’s happened. I’ll act like I was taking a walk or something. I love taking walks around this place. You get to wear your pajamas all day. Walk around bare ass and no one cares. Sweet.”

I still haven’t said anything. I’m picturing Curt, half his ass hanging out, picking the locks on all the hospital medicine cabinets, making absurd deals with shifty orderlies, maybe sneaking into rooms and liberating old people of their narcotics … Curt’s oblivious. He takes another bite of chocolate pudding and toys with the remote control. All the seventies reruns flash by like a retrospecial on fast-forward. I take a deep breath.

“Listen,” I say, “I was thinking you shouldn’t keep your medications here. What if someone decides to water your plant? It’s starting to look a little droopy, don’t you think?” Curt frowns and inspects the plant closely. It
is
looking kind of wilted. “I was thinking I could take them to The Dump and you could take care of them tonight. Stash them somewhere after the show.”

His face changes from worried to relieved, then back again. He hesitates.

“Yeah, I guess you could do that….”

“Great. I’ll take it now so nobody finds it before tonight’s gig.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead and Curt gives me a strange look. Yesterday he would have trusted me unconditionally, but today …

“Thanks, T,” he says. “You’re the best. I can always count on you.”

I laugh nervously and lift the plant. I know I shouldn’t rush this, but all I can think about is getting out the door.

“See ya later,” I say. I want to say something else, something profound
to prepare him for what I’m about to do, but I can’t. Curt looks too happy. He stops me just as I reach the door.

“T,” he says. “You can have my next chocolate pudding.”

FAT KID GUILT WITH EXTRA WHIPPED CREAM
.

I’M JUDAS CARRYING A VERY
healthy houseplant through the halls of Union Medical. It’s the Fat Kid version of the Passion.

My hands are sweaty and the plant weighs a thousand pounds. I try to breathe normally but imagine everyone knows what I’m carrying and what I’m about to do. Half of them shake their heads thinking,
Why didn’t you do this sooner
? The other half think,
You fucking moron
—
you’re about to betray your only friend and give up the opportunity of a lifetime
. I can’t decide who’s right.

I carry the plant to the cafeteria, where I’ve arranged to meet Dad for lunch. I wind past the gift shop and through the halls until I smell the strange mixed odor of food and body fluids. Hospital cafeteria. I walk inside and wonder whether people think I’m a patient, there for some sort of medical treatment. A heart problem? Diabetes?

I balance the plant on one hip and scan the tables. I’m looking for Dad’s polo shirt, but see Dayle’s football jersey instead. He sees me and lifts one arm as if he might wave, then scratches his head. I carry the plant over and set it in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised.

Dayle shrugs.

“Maybe I wanted to see how Curt was doing….”

“Maybe?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I was wondering.”

I almost smile, but at that moment Dad walks up, carrying a tray with three sandwiches, Cokes, and desserts. He sets them down and doles out the food, oblivious to the houseplant that sits before us like a centerpiece.

“How’s Curt?” Dad asks. “How’s that new medication working out for him? Any better than the previous stuff?”

I shrug.

Dad unwraps his sandwich and takes a huge bite. He eats slowly and methodically, his chewing restrained, measured. I get the distinct impression he’s enjoying the sandwich, and that makes me happy.

I look over at Dayle and he’s eating with a purpose. He eats fast, and looks at Dad a lot. They have the same type of sandwich and I wonder if Dayle even likes his. I think he’s trying so hard to be Dad, he might choke. I’ve never noticed this before, but I don’t have time to think about it now.

I set my sandwich down, untouched, and take a deep breath.

“Dad,” I say, “I think Curt needs some help. I think he should come live with us when he gets out of the hospital….” I pause. “I think maybe part of why he’s not getting better is because he doesn’t have anywhere to go … afterward, I mean, and if he had a place to stay he could get better.”

Dad stops midbite. Dayle keeps eating, but he watches me intently. I expect him to throw a fit, but for once he keeps quiet.

“What makes you say that?” Dad asks, but he doesn’t ask as if he’s asking for information. He asks as if it’s a question about me.

I look from Dad to Dayle, then tip the houseplant over on the table.

“Oh, man,” Dayle says. He stops with his mouth full, all his food wadded into one cheek. Half the pills Curt’s supposed to have taken, along with dozens of pills he’s obviously stolen, are now sitting in a clump of dirt in front of us.

I clear my throat.

“I think,” I say, “Curt needs a place to stay.”

Dad stares at the collection of pharmaceuticals in front of us, and I risk a glance at him.

“I also think you’ve considered the idea already, and I’m hoping you won’t change your mind.”

Dad’s jaw is very tight and I hurry to make my case.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I huff. “You’re going to tell me there are consequences to our actions, and if Curt’s stealing medication he has to be reported to the authorities. You’re going to tell me about responsibility, honesty, cause and effect….” I pause. “And that’s all good stuff. Stuff I believe in, but we both know the hospital will call the police, and we both know that Curt is over eighteen, and we both know that he’s got talent if someone would just give him a chance….”

Emotions pass over Dad’s face like a shadow. He’s thinking even before I start talking and before I say half my speech he reaches out and grabs my arm. His hand barely makes it around half of my bicep, but his fingers grip tight.

“You’re asking me to lie,” he says. He looks me right in the eyes. “You know that’s what you’re doing, don’t you?”

I haven’t thought of it that way, but I nod.

“I’m asking you to withhold strategic information,” I offer.

Dad lets go of my arm. He runs both hands over his crew cut and glances around the cafeteria. It’s mostly empty, but the little old lady two tables over stares at us like we’re a traveling freak show. Dad glares until she turns away, then looks back at me.

“I know you want what’s best for Curt,” he says. “But what’s best
for Curt is to get help. Curt
needs
help. Addiction to medication is still addiction. Stealing is still stealing.”

Dad has a point—
I know it
—but I have a point, too.

“Yeah, Dad,” I say, “but a jail term is still a jail term, and a criminal record is still a criminal record.”

Dad and I have locked gazes and we barely remember Dayle is there until he clears his throat. My heart sinks. I think for sure he’s going to say that I’m the king of the morons, and I’m humiliating him by defending my psycho, druggie friend and I can’t afford to let his whining sway Dad’s opinion.