Wise Young Fool Read online

  If I sit down, I’ll end up talking to someone. Then Peanut will see, and I’ll get matched up with that person for the next Undercard.

  It pays to have no friends.

  Besides, I’m out of cigarettes.

  I can’t afford to not fight again.

  So I stand with my tray against the wall and choke down everything I can in less than a minute before telling this tall redheaded doofus everyone calls Meatstick that I’m ready to go back to my box.

  “So soon?”

  He’s got a new bristly half mustache growing in, the belly under his uniform tight and round like he’s trying to shoplift a George Foreman grill. He stands there, beating out a funky rhythm on it, smack-a-smackity-smack.

  “Went on a little date last night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say. “With who?”

  He doesn’t answer, just winks.

  “The Meatman gets around, huh?”

  “You better believe he does.”

  Peanut eyeballs me across the room, like, What you talkin’ to the po po for? Conner doesn’t bother. Which is even worse. I keep expecting someone to elbow me in the ribs and whisper, “Yo, Sudden, you down with Undercard?”

  I mentally count how many days I have left.

  I divide them by three, then by five, then by nine.

  I add an extra month for bad behavior.

  Subtract a week for quality journaling.

  And then stand there, thinking about absolutely nothing.

  Which is harder to do than it sounds.

  Finally, Meatstick leads me down the hall to C unit, clanging open the door to room number six.

  “Sweet dreams,” he says, clanging it shut again.

  My room is tiny and dark and smells like sweaty sheets. The window is wide open, but there’s still no air. A heavy pre-lightning gloom overwhelms my clankity-clank fan.

  I can’t play any more scales.

  I can’t practice another chord.

  So I crank up “Sway,” my favorite Stones tune. Shit’s more than forty years old but still makes every new band, all the loops and samples and alterna-hype, sound like just another thin approximation. It’s off Sticky Fingers, the album with the Andy Warhol cover, the one that 99 percent of hypermacho dudes who have ever owned it had no clue was a celebration of illicit men’s room blowjobs.

  Which is a beyond-hilarious FU to the mindlessness of fame, fans, and the myth of “Rock ’n’ Roll.”

  How can Sin Sistermouth possibly compete with that level of genius? Mick and the boys have us beat solid. Keef runs circles around us before the sustain from the first note even begins to fade.

  Everything I have ever written sucks.

  Everything I have ever played sucks.

  So I either need to develop a sudden interest in clothing retail or stick out my thumb and get the hell out of Sackville.

  Go experience something worth writing about.

  Write about something worth experiencing.

  Live in a place where people are revered for being clever, funny, and creative, instead of rich, annoying, and on television. Where they inspire. Where they aspire. Where they dream of the perfect sentence, or the perfect drawing, or the perfect chord. Where singing a line that sums up your generation with a run of simple, cutting words is more valuable than a million Likes or Follows or dumbass Retweets.

  It’s just that evil life that’s got you in its sway….

  Mainly, though, I think it’s all Andy Warhol’s fault.

  Everything changed, forever, when he decided to play the greatest joke of all and corner the market on dumb. No one will ever sing or play or write anything dumber than a painting of a can of tomato soup.

  Even murder is less dumb than tomato soup.

  Even a car crash is higher art.

  And there’s just nowhere left to go from there.

  I’m half asleep when my cell phone explodes, the ringtone Brian Eno crooning “When I got back home I found a message on the door, sweet Regina’s gone to China cross-legged on the floor.”

  It’s El Hella.

  “Who is this?”

  “Fuck off. Wanna jam?”

  “Thank the lord,” I say, already dressed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “There’s only one thing.”

  “There’s always one thing.”

  “You gotta drive. Something’s wrong with the Renault.”

  I never drive in the dark. “But it’s nighttime. It’s dark out.”

  “Time to cowboy the fuck up, Sudden. Time to man up like a man.”

  He’s right. I totally know he’s right.

  “Be there in twenty.”

  “Make it ten.”

  I’m palming an apple from the fridge when I hear Mom’s voice go, “It’s way too late to head out on a school night, honey.”

  I take a second to wonder who she could possibly be talking to.

  Right before I slam the porch door.

  We’re on the lip of the sixth tee. I have Dad Sudden’s old nylon string ride and Elliot has a beat-up Gibson acoustic, since even the Black Widow doesn’t dig us practicing in her basement late night.

  Sackville Knolls is a backwater nine-holer, trash and dog shit littered across the fairways, the kind of place no one with a shred of talent would be caught dead hacking at.

  So of course Dad Sudden used to drag me and Beth here as kids, make us watch him flub and swear and snap clubs over his knee, through the sand traps, through the water hazards, lost in the tall grass muttering how his string of triple bogeys were mainly due to our silent judgment.

  I hate golf.

  It’s for loudmouths and tam-wearers.

  It’s for martini guzzlers and rich dicks.

  But it’s a great place to jam out.

  The sixth tee is on a sort of promontory that overlooks an entire hillside. You can park on Tilden Road, which is unpaved and no one uses except groundskeepers. There’s a sweet view looking down over the vista of Sackville proper, not to mention the approval of a thousand crushed malt beer cans and used rubbers winking in the moonlight.

  Five Things Our Band Needs (to win Rock Scene 2013):

  1. A name

  2. A drummer

  3. A singer

  4. A signature song

  5. Less proximity to used rubbers

  We run through our set, Sin Sistermouth unplugged. It’s a good change of pace, doing songs slower and more poppy just to see if they got any hidden pop in ’em.

  We’re halfway through a ballad-y rendition of “The Bloviator” when a car pulls up, high beams on.

  A car never pulls up.

  A car never has its high beams on.

  “Should we run?”

  “With our axes?” Elliot says. “Besides, run where?”

  I nod. “Yeah, screw it, let’s get arrested. It’ll be killer publicity. We’ll do a hunger strike. You be Che and I’ll be Nelson Mandela.”

  “Who and who?”

  “Charlie Sheen and Michael Vick.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Maybe we can even do a live album from inside Sackville County Prison.”

  Doors slam and two guys walk over. They’re wearing leather jackets and holding guitar cases. They’re wearing girls’ skinny jeans and ironic tour shirts, and have hair down to their asses. It’s like 21 Jump Street: Biker Edition. They’re the least convincing undercover cops I’ve ever seen.

  “You lames are in our jam spot.”

  Elliot leans back and lights the smoke from behind his ear. “Your jam spot? We been coming here since the summer of seventy-two.”

  “So you’re the ones always leaving cigarette butts in the cup, huh?”

  “Why, is it ruining your handicap?”

  The bigger one fakes a yawn. “We’re—”

  Elliot fake-yawns back. “We know who you are.”

  They’re Bob “Flog” Toggle and Angelo Coxone. Flog and Angelo are in Püre Venum, the biggest band around. They graduated from Sa
ckville, like, eight years back and have won Rock Scene twice, in ’04 and ’06. They even had a minor hit called “Fade You to Blue” that made it up to #687 on the hair metal charts. Now they play the local dives, like Toad’s Place and the Question Mark, in front of big crowds, sticking mostly to Clapton covers, Tom Petty covers. Girls dig them, dancing around. Guys dig them, holding up lighters and singing along to the chorus of “Layla” or “Runnin’ Down a Dream.”

  “What we seem to have here is an impasse,” Angelo says.

  “Well, at least you brought your thesaurus,” Elliot says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Tell you what, ladies. You go ahead and play us something. You’re any good, we’ll take off. The spot is yours. You suck, you have to split so the real musicians can jam.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” says Flog.

  I raise my hand like we’re in class. “Who’s to say what’s good? Who’s to say what’s fair?”

  “We are.”

  Elliot blows a plume of smoke. “How about you split now, since we were here first, and fuck your dumb idea?”

  Angelo takes off his leather jacket. He’s got a beer broiler, but he’s thick through the shoulders and chest. His hands are lined with heavy silver rings, the typical bats and cherubs and emerald-eyed tigers. Even in skinny jeans, he towers over both of us. “How about I stop having a sense of humor and just kick your ass instead?”

  Elliot looks at me and shrugs. “Should we do ‘Beast Cream’?”

  “I ain’t playing that,” I say, for some reason saying ain’t.

  “Well, how about ‘Lungfish Wish’?”

  “I ain’t playing that, either.”

  “Time’s running out, boys,” Flog says, pointing to a spot on his wrist where a watch would be, if he were wearing one.

  Elliot gives me a disappointed look and goes, “This is a new song I wrote.”

  Flog smiles. “Bust out the new tune.”

  “Yeah, guy,” Angelo says. “Kill it for us.”

  Like a total wuss, I stand up and watch.

  Elliot starts out fast; it’s a good rhythm. Chunka-chunka-chunk. Quick chord changes, almost like a chord solo to open, and then he sits in the pocket of A-minor for a while. He’s singing. It’s not bad. Verse, chorus, pretty hooky. I like it. I like it a lot. No way it’s hardcore. No way it fits within the tight constraints of Sin Sistermouth, but it’s solid. I look over at Flog and Angelo. They seem impressed. Or at least listening. I realize, for once, we’re going to win this round. I realize I should sit my ass back down and try to play a lead. I almost grab my axe, when something about the song starts to bother me, like an itch at the back of my neck, creeping all the way up to my temple.

  I know this tune. I’ve heard it before.

  And it wasn’t Elliot playing it.

  It’s “Carrie Anne,” by this corny old fifties band The Hollies.

  One of Dad Sudden’s favorites. We listened to the Best-of CD on the way to school for years.

  Except El Hella has altered it just slightly. He’s changed the girl’s name. He’s changed the chorus. But it’s still pretty note for note.

  He wraps up with a nice little crescendo thing and then a big sweeping open G.

  “Buddy Holly, everybody,” Flog says.

  Angelo pretends to clap. “You wrote that, huh?”

  Elliot just sort of stares at them. I put my guitar in its case and start packing up.

  “Not Buddy Holly,” Angelo says, pushing by and taking my spot, making sure to shoulder me in the chest. “The Hollies.”

  “Right.” Flog laughs. “Nice cover, James Frey.”

  “What a coupla faggalahs,” Angelo says, pulling beers from his backpack.

  Elliot smiles, raises his lip, the smile that’s not a smile.

  I know what’s going to happen before it happens.

  “Okay, okay, we’re going,” I say. “So how about a couple brews for the road, no hard feelings?”

  “How about no?” Angelo says. “How about fuck yeah, hard feelings?”

  Elliot swings, but Flog’s ready for it. He twists, and the punch catches him harmlessly on the shoulder. Angelo grabs me and puts me in a headlock. Flog swings back, slamming Elliot in the stomach, all his weight behind it. Elliot collapses, curled up, holding himself. Flog kicks him a couple of times in the side and then grabs Elliot’s Gibson. He winds up and smashes it against a tree. The guitar explodes, body separating into tiny pieces, chunks of wood flying everywhere. Flog walks back over and jabs Elliot with a pointy shard.

  “Now get out of here, princess, before I do the same to your pygmy-ass legs.”

  Back in the car, neither of us says anything for a while. I wonder if it’s a good time to mention that we need a drummer.

  “Stuck-up pricks,” Elliot finally groans.

  “I know. I hate those guys.”

  He gingerly raises his shirt. A line of fat bruises is already purpling. It looks like mainland Japan, along with a bunch of the lesser islands.

  “Let’s find something heavy. Some lead pipe. And go back.”

  “Are you serious?”

  El Hella is grinding his jaw, actually considering it.

  I grind the starter instead. The Saab coughs weakly, fires a piston, agrees to reanimate, chugga chugga. I gun it away before he can change his mind.

  “Their band blows,” he says, wincing as he probes rib.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tom Petty practically does covers of himself to begin with. Like he needs Flog and Angelo to do even lamer versions?”

  “Yeah.”

  We’re halfway across town and Elliot is staring at the HORROR sticker.

  “Way to have my back, Sudden.”

  “Man, okay. I froze.”

  “Bet your ass you did.”

  I roll up my sleeve. “You want to punch me? Go ahead. I don’t even—”

  He goes ahead and punches me. It really hurts. I don’t rub it. He pokes the play button on the boom box with his toe. This band Fear immediately blares out, Lee Ving screaming, “New York’s all right if you like saxophones! New York’s all right if you like tuberculosis!”

  “Feel better now? I hope that—”

  He leans over and punches me again. In almost exactly the same spot. It hurts so bad it almost doesn’t hurt. This time I do rub it.

  “I will have revenge,” he says.

  “What, on me?”

  “Yeah, on you.”

  I try not to drive off the road. My hands are trembling.

  “No, dipshit, on them. Flog and Angelo. Am I supposed to swallow being dissed like that?”

  “Did you just say dissed?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Just checking, Hammertime.”

  El Hella actually laughs, and now I can breathe. He starts throwing pieces of busted guitar out the window like a trail of bread crumbs.

  “This was my dad’s, you know.”

  “Which dad?”

  “First one.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope.”

  I’ve never heard him mention his first dad. The second one owned a frozen-yogurt chain that went bankrupt once people wised up that frozen yogurt tastes like frozen shit, and the third one was a concert pianist. We wasted an entire summer constantly referring to him as a “concert penis-ist,” and then being all wide-eyed and innocent, like, “What? What?” while he stormed around the house in a fury. Except for Lawrence, none of them ever seemed worth keeping straight.

  “Wow. Heavy.”

  “I will have revenge,” Elliot says again. “Greek style.”

  “You’re going to stuff their navels with feta? Plato them to the wall?”

  His face gets grim.

  “Go ahead. Talk shit. That’s all you do, right? Talk?”

  I slow down. And then go even slower.

  Ghost Beth is in the backseat, telling me I should have played a song with him.

  Why didn’t I play a song with him?
/>   “Sooner or later,” Elliot says, almost whispering, “I will bring the pain.”

  “You sure you don’t have enough enemies already?”

  “What are you talking about? Everyone loves me.”

  “Um, how many times I got to say it? Spence Proffer told me he’s gonna—”

  “Ah, screw that guy.”

  “Says the guy with three broken ribs.”

  “They’re not broken.”

  “Dude, have you ever really looked into his eyes?”

  “Whose?”

  “Proffer’s!”

  “No, have you?”

  “Not ’cause I wanted. But there’s nothing there. Dude’s a complete blank. Talking to him is like trying to explain calculus to a pig. That guy scares me.”

  “Everything scares you.”

  Could it possibly be that obvious?

  “The thing is, Proffer’s three times the size of Flog and Angelo put together.”

  Elliot says nothing.

  Fear segues into The Replacements, a very weird but perfect transition, Paul Westerberg singing, “We are the sons of no one, bastards of young!” in his beautifully ratty voice.

  “So you wanna go home?” I ask, just out of habit. “Or should we hit Scumbies?”

  Scumbies is Cumberland Deli. They’re open until midnight, the only place around with smokes and coffee and a curb to sit on where any random bastard of young can wolf frosted snack cake in peace.

  We always go to Scumbies after a jam.

  Always.

  It’s a tradition.

  “Nah, take me home,” Elliot says.

  “You serious?”

  He looks out the window, not even bothering to answer.