“Then let's take everything over. How can she say no?”
“She can say no lots of ways, Den,” I say. “I'll ask when she gets home.”
Denny grabs the hi-hat anyway. The pedal clunks off on his foot. “Ow, Jeeâ” He cuts off. Pig's mom is upstairs.
“So let's go,” I say.
Denny is limp-hopping around the room.
“Call me,” Pig says.
“Aren't you coming?” Denny looks back at him, still limp-hopping.
Pig picks up an unpolished boot and nods at it.
“Later,” I say.
“Later.”
We're out of cash, so Denny and I walk the seven stops back to my house.
Denny says, “Pig didn't even want to come with us.” He shakes his head in amazement.
“He was busy, Den,” I say.
“Yeah, see those boots? What was that about?”
I shrug. “Maybe he's a professional grape stomper.”
Denny says, “Don't you wear hip waders for that?”
My mom isn't home when we get back to my place. We get snacks. Archie, our cat, pads in and stretches. I give him a snack too.
“Let's check out the stuff,” says Denny, as if we haven't a million times before.
We haul everything out from under the basement stairs. There's a microphone stand, a Yorkville bass amp, two guitar cases and a cardboard box. All of it looks pretty battered. Inside the cases are a Squier electric bass and a Cort acoustic guitar with a pickup. I know there are straps, patch cords, a couple of picks, and an electronic tuner with no battery tucked in there too. When you open the cases they let out a whiff of wood polish and plastic, cigarette smoke and beer. The bass case also smells of cat pee. Arch once took a leak in there. It doesn't matter. I like it. It reminds me of Chuck.
Chuck is the owner of all this stuff. He was a boyfriend of Mom's when I was eleven or twelve. Chuck was a goof, but in a good way. I liked him. I think Mom did too, but she said he had “reliability issues.”
When Chuck wasn't driving a truck, he played in a band called Razorburn. He said he was only driving truck until his music took off.
Mom said the truck would take off before the music did. She was right.
Inside the cardboard box is a pile of leftover copies of Razorburn's cd,
Mullet Over.
I haven't listened to it in a million years.
Denny is trying to tune the guitar. He gives up and strums. It's not music, but it gets your attention.
“Power chord,” says Denny. “See what I'm doing?”
“Mangling the guitar,” I say. We hear the door open upstairs.
“Hi,” Mom calls.
“We're down here,” I call back.
There are footsteps, and then Mom's feet and legs appear on the stairs. I spend a lot of time in the basement. I always like how people on stairs seem to sprout magically in front of you. Mom is wearing her house-showing pantsuit. Mom looks at all the gear spread out. She raises an eyebrow.
“Ask her,” Den hisses. “Go on, ask her.”
There are reasons I shouldn't ask her. I am supposed to be getting better marks. I am supposed to be looking for a part-time job. I am supposed to be more reliable. Thanks to Chuck, I don't think Mom thinks
reliable
and
music
go together.
On the other hand, Denny and Pig need this too. And getting out this stuff reminds me of how Chuck showed me chords and bits from songs. I liked that. Chuck said I was good too. Above all, there are girls everywhere who don't know I exist, but who soon willâif I ask. I ask.
“We want to start a band. Can we practice here?”
Denny takes a running step off the carpet. He slides toward my mom on his knees across the patch of lino. It's a good rock-and-roll move, actually. He stops in front of her and looks up, his hands together, begging, “Please Mrs. C, please?”
Mom looks from him to me. I am trying to look hardworking and reliable. Her mouth twitches. She says, “This is going to cost you straight Bs, minimum, on your next report card.”
Denny starts tweeting.
Mom invites Denny to stay for supper, but he has to go. She asks me to make salad while she cooks spaghetti. I start by looking in the junk drawer. “Do we have any batteries?”
“What size?” Mom asks. She's running water to fill a saucepan.
“I don't know,” I say, “The square ones.”
“Nine-volt,” Mom says. “I think there's one. What do you need it for?”
Man. Already she's piling on questions. I say, “The guitar tuner thingy.”
“Look in the computer desk.” She passes me the knife and cutting board. “After you make salad.”
Instead, I look in the computer desk right away. I can't find it.
By now, Mom is browning ground beef in the fry pan. She has stacked the salad vegetables beside the cutting board. “Who else is going to be in the band?”
I say, “Pigpeâ¦Jared.”
Mom says, “Really? Jared from grade school?” She turns to look at me.
“Uh-huh.”
“That's nice,” she says. “I haven't seen Jared in ages. What does he play?”
“Drums.” I tear off chunks of lettuce to wash. Will the questions never end?
“Anybody else?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
Mom nods and says, “What are you going to call yourselves?”
I turn off the tap. “We haven't decided. Either Green Day or the Beatles.”
“All right, smart guy,” she says as she takes spaghetti down from the cupboard. “Just⦔
“What?” I start chopping carrots, ready for the lecture.
“Never mind,” Mom says. She tells me about the people interested in the house instead.
After supper I hit Facebook and try to line up the evening. It is Saturday night, after all. For way too long I write on walls and don't get anything back. Where is everybody?
Finally, Denny writes back and asks if I want to go to Rock 'N Bowl. I'm a bad bowler, but I like Rock 'N Bowl. You don't tell people you like Rock 'N Bowl though. It sounds lame. I message back
better than death
and ask Mom if she'll drive us.
There's an hour to kill before we pick up Denny. I go down to the basement and open the guitar cases. I look at the instruments, nestled in plush. They are full of music I want to get at. I remember Chuck showing me chords and a bass pattern for playing blues. The guitar had felt big as an army tank. Now it feels lightâand hard, for something so curvy-looking. I pluck the strings softly. I don't want Mom to hear. I also don't know what it's supposed to sound like.
I take the neck in my left hand and press down on the littlest string with a finger. It's tougher than it looks. In fact, it hurts a little. I pluck with the pick.
Cluk
. I press harder. Now I get a twang. I stop the sound with my hand. I remember a chord Chuck showed me, a G, I think. Anyway, it's the one where you reach across with two fingers to the two thickest strings. It's tough tucking my little finger in behind. I try a quiet strum.
Yuck. I need that tuner.
I put the guitar down and pick up the bass. It's heavy, and the balance is different. After the guitar, the neck is like a tree. The strings feel thick as snakes. They push back under my fingers, vibrating through me when I pluck them. Cool.
I have to take the next step, even if I'm not in tune. I have to hear the sound, the real sound. It's time for power. I plug the patch cord into the amp and the bass. I flip the power switch. A red light pops on, and the amp starts to hum. I feel my whole body hum with it. I set the volume down low and try again. The strings slither under my fingers. The sound vibrates right into my gut, like it's the center of the Earth.
All at once I can see myself on a stage with Pig and Denny. I feel music swirling all around us, loud music. I see bright lights, and beyond the lights are faces and waving arms.
I want that
. I want it to be me you hear at Rock 'N Bowl, especially if you are a girl.
I start fake singing at the empty microphone stand. I blump at the bass like an idiot. Already my fingers hurt. I close my eyes and make a rock singer face. When I open them, Mom has sprouted on the stairs. I freeze in mid-
blump.
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you might want this.” She's holding a battery.
I say, “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” I can feel my face turn the color of spaghetti sauce. This is worse than being caught on certain websites. I take off the bass, then grab the tuner from the case. “Where was it?” I ask.
Mom smiles. “In the kitchen drawer.”
“Oh. I'll justâ” I'm fumbling so hard I can't get the tuner open.
“Let me try,” Mom says. She takes the tuner. She opens the back and hooks in the battery. She presses the button. Bingo. “Remember how to use it?”
I nod.
“Good,” she says. “Didn't Chuck write out some things to get you started?”
“Oh yeahhhâ¦,” I say. My face is cooling off. I look in the guitar case. There are pages with writing in pen. One says
How to Tune
. Another has chord charts. I remember practicing making the chords. Another sheet has bass patterns for songs marked on it. There's “Smoke on the Water” and “Sunshine of Your Love
.
” I remember Chuck showing me those. They were cool.
Then I think of something. “Is it, like, okay toâ”
“To use Chuck's things?” Mom smiles. “I think so,” she says. “In fact, I think he'd like it. Besides, he'd have been back if anything had been important.” Her voice changes, and her smile fades.
“Okay,” I say. “I thought that since he used to show me stuff⦔
She smiles again. “You're right, he did. He was good that way.”
“Maybe he forgot it,” I say.
Now she laughs. “I wouldn't be surprised. Forgetful was a way of life for Chuck. Remember the time he used two tins of Archie's food by mistake in theâ”
Now I laugh and say, “Yeah, and we all had to go out for dinner.”
Mom stops laughing. “And I paid. No, Chuck did pay. I shouldn't be so hard on him. He was a nice guy⦔ Mom sighs and looks at me now. “I'm glad you're giving this a try. Focus is good. But remember your promises, Davey.”
David is my real name. Everybody calls me Ace because when I get asked about marks, I always sarcastically say, “A's.” Everyone but Mom thinks it's funny. Now I nod my head. “I know,” I say.
“Good. We should get going in ten minutes.”
I turn off the amp. Mom starts back up the stairs. “Cat food.” I hear her chuckle. She vanishes a step at a time.
“How long till the next bus?” I ask.
Pigpen shrugs. Denny is busy tweeting:
nmbr1 rd. trip w/drums.
need rdies nxt time 4 help. R U up 4 it
girls?
We're at the bus stop near Pig's house. It's Tuesday after school, and it's hot for late September. I'm sweating and thirsty because we're carrying the whole drum kit. Also, the fingertips of my left hand are sore.
I've tuned the instruments that are waiting at my house, and I've been practicing. I don't tell Pig and Denny. I want to surprise them with how good I am. Instead I say, “We could have waited till tomorrow. My mom could've given us a ride.”
“Rock and roll doesn't wait, Ace.” Denny snaps his cell shut. “And Pig's mom wanted the stuff out.”
“It was only until tomorrow,” I say.
“Who cares?” Denny says. “It's cool. Anyway, it's like free advertising for the band. People will remember us:
I used to see them carrying their drums
down the street.
”
This could be true. We're hard to miss. The drums take up a lot of sidewalk. I've got the bass drum, pedal and a cymbal stand. Denny's got the toms, the snare and stand. Sticks are poking out of his back pocket. Pig, the biggest of us, has the cymbals, a stand, the hi-hat stand and another set of sticks. How did he end up carrying so little?
“What we really need,” Denny goes on, “are band T-shirts. If we were wearing them, everybody would know who we are and remember when they hear us.”
“The T-shirts would be blank, Den,” I say. “We don't have a name.”
“
Oh yeahhhhh
,” Denny says. “Okay, I think we should be Corruption.”
“Incoming,” says Pig.
“What kind of name is that?” I ask.
Pig jerks his head. I see he means that the bus is coming.
As we pick up all of the drum parts, Denny says, “Remember, slip in the back door. Nobody will notice.”
This time it's nearly rush hour. Getting on by the back doors is like swimming upstream to Niagara Falls. With a drum set. Tired-looking adults glare at us, especially when Denny backs into someone with his drum sticks.
“Hey!” the guy says.
The driver's voice comes on over the intercom. “Boys with the drums, come to the front.”
Have you ever tried squeezing down a bus aisle with a bass drum? It's hard to do. I feel like a human bowling ball, but this is not Rock 'N Bowl. I get stuck between a sweaty fat guy with grocery bags and a tall skinny lady who looks away. This is not what being up close and personal with your fans is supposed to mean.
The bus rumbles. I stare at the top of the drum. As we slow for the first stop, Denny squeezes back to me. “We gotta get off,” he says. “She says we're creating a disturbance. Besides, I don't have money for a ticket.”
I have to back out when the bus stops. I keep my eyes on the drum, but I feel the staring and hear the grumbles. At least we're going with the flow. I make it to the sidewalk before I have to put the drum down. My arms are killing me.
“I bet
they'll
remember usâeven without T-shirts,” Denny says.
“Incoming,” says Pig.
“We just did that,” I say. My back is killing me too.
“For a name,” Pig says. He doesn't seem tired.