The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion Page 8

  Sophie moved to the front entrance of the Starbucks. She had barricaded herself inside the coffee shop with tables, chairs, and other pieces of furniture, which she started rapidly moving away from the door one piece at a time.

  “So she really is bait,” I said.

  “Is that her?” said Cad.

  “That’s her.”

  The camera panned over the mall, revealing hordes of weirdos—drooling women, limping men—all lumbering toward the Starbucks, alerted by the sound of Sophie moving inside. The camera zoomed in for another close-up through the glass, focusing on Sophie’s eyes as she looked back and forth.

  “So that’s really her?” said Cad.

  “That’s her,” I said.

  “She’s hot,” said Cad. “In a crazed kind of way, you know.”

  Sophie dragged the final chair out of the way and flung open the door. Her hair was matted to her forehead and her clothes were sticking to her skin. She chucked an espresso machine at the pack of goons approaching her, which was the wrong move. Seeing that she was now unarmed, the mob pushed forward, and Sophie took off running.

  The throng chased her, but none of them could get within a hundred yards. She zipped past a Hugo Boss, accelerated down the tile floor in front of a See’s Candies, and was gone from the camera’s view.

  “Poor girl…,” said Cad. “She’s fast, but she’s not going to be able to run from that mob forever.”

  “We need to help her.”

  “I know we do. But unfortunately, we also need to play a show, and at least it looks like your girl has a head start on those idiots. She’s pretty nimble.”

  “She does mud runs.”

  “That makes sense. We’ll figure this out after the gig.”

  Driver pounded on the dressing room door.

  “Get ready, we’re on in two minutes,” he said.

  I heard the voice of the stadium announcer through the walls of the dressing room: “Ladies and gentlemen and lady-gentlemen, please stand on your hands and clap your feet for one of the Greatest Bands You Will Ever See—as long as you don’t see one of the billion or so bands generally considered to be better than them….”

  “I hate it when the announcers mention we’re ranked out of the top billion,” I heard Skark complain as he stood outside his dressing room. “It needs to stop. Next show, I want that specifically written in the concert rider.”

  Cad walked out into the hall, holding his bass. There were no smiles between him and the rest of the Perfectly Reasonable, no nods hello, no joy. Playing this gig was business, and that’s all. They walked onstage.

  “So please give a head-shattering welcome to your gods made flesh…the three…the only…THE PERFECTLY REASONABLE.”

  Skark strummed a guitar chord—BARRUMPH—and I saw blood trickle from the left ear of the roadie I had been speaking with earlier. He noticed me staring.

  “My eardrum explodes a couple times a week,” said the roadie. “I’d get it fixed, but the band can’t afford to pay the crew’s health insurance anymore.”

  “They’re that poor?”

  “Unless something happens to put them back in the spotlight, soon they’ll be playing weddings, though even that career would probably last about ten minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “No man in his right mind would trust Cad around his bride. The man is a fiend. You know bassists.”

  “What about them?”

  “Chicks love a man with good hands. Do yourself a favor. Never bring a woman around Cad.”

  —

  Every time Driver hit his snare drum, he wrenched my spine out of place; every time he hit a cymbal, he split my skull.

  On bass, Cad could do anything—bossa nova, Philadelphia soul, gypsy rumba—his hands moving so quickly they gave the visual effect of being at rest, draped over the fret board, shuddering every now and then before snapping back to their home position.

  And soaring above the fray were the sounds of both Skark’s guitar and his voice, which left no doubt in my mind that he was more alien than human.

  His range was stunning—one moment his voice was a crisp, pitch-perfect tenor, and the next it would rise to hit notes so high I couldn’t hear them at all, climbing upward and then disappearing from my auditory range altogether, even though I could see that his mouth was still open. If he fell silent, the audience did the same, waiting for him to speak. If he motioned for them to clap, they continued unprompted until he cut them off with a slash across his throat with the neck of his guitar. If he put his hand to the side of his temple to hear them sing his lyrics, they did so at full throat, or whatever parts of their bodies they used to make noise. When he asked if they wanted to go home with him, their affirmative response echoed through the stadium.

  The crowd was surprisingly noisy, considering there was barely anybody present. The stadium itself was massive—if you told me a hundred thousand people could have sat comfortably, I wouldn’t have been surprised—but it looked like there were only a couple hundred fans in attendance, most of whom had crammed themselves into the first five rows. The rest of the arena was a ghost town, with the fans in the back having entire sections of bleachers all to themselves. I saw wisps of smoke rising above these nomads, who were altering their consciousness for the show, no doubt.

  It was a depressing scene, though the fans who were there were quite loyal—wearing T-shirts bearing Skark’s face, singing along with every lyric, shouting out song requests.

  But halfway through the show, something went wrong.

  The incident occurred while Skark was finishing a song called “You Can’t Hide,” a hard-driving dance number about visiting different planets in search of the perfect girl, which Driver had told me was one of the band’s biggest hits.

  For most of the song, the fans were rapturous—dancing wildly, singing along, using face tentacles to make out with each other. But as the song was ending, somebody shouted at the stage.

  “Play something new for once!” said the heckler. “This is the same set you did five years ago. You think I don’t remember?”

  “Who said that?” said Skark, putting his hand over his eyes to block the lights.

  “I said it,” said the heckler. “And you know it’s true.”

  “I can’t see you.”

  “Then apparently the song you just sang is wrong,” said the heckler. “I guess I can hide.”

  “Coward,” said Skark. “Insulting me and then refusing to show yourself. Where are you?”

  No response.

  “It better not be Ferguson out there harassing this band,” said Skark. “Is it Ferguson? I know it’s Ferguson.”

  Ferguson?

  “It’s not Ferguson,” said the voice. “But the band was better when Ferguson was in it, if you ask me.”

  “Cower in the crowd all you want, poltroon,” said Skark. “But this Friday afternoon we’re playing the Dondoozle Festival, and we’ll have a whole new set of material.”

  Cad and Driver looked at each other. The idea of having a new set of material by Friday seemed to be news to them.

  “Who the hell plays the opening slot?” said the voice. “Didn’t you used to close festivals?”

  Skark climbed an amplifier at the front of the stage, holding the mike at his side and staring into the crowd, searching for his accuser.

  “Somebody has to open the festival,” he said. “It’s an honor.”

  “Nobody cares about the opening act,” said the voice. “You guys suck.”

  “Tonight is a warm-up for our true glory,” said Skark. “A warm-up you don’t deserve, based on these outbursts.”

  The crowd grumbled.

  Cad leaned into his microphone and tried to do damage control.

  “You actually do deserve it,” said Cad. “We love you. Sorry about Skark. Let’s move forward and give you a good sho—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize for me,” said Skark. “If you want to continue the show on your own, you’re more tha
n welcome to, but I’m done. Good night.”

  Skark kicked down his mike and stormed away from the stage, grabbing his Spine Wine off an amplifier as he disappeared into the wings, the audience booing him in his wake. Food and beverage containers rained down on the stage. Cad watched Skark go, then turned back to his microphone and spoke again, dodging cans and tubes of meat.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m as angry as you are. Full refunds will be offered at the door….”

  Driver shook his head at Cad. We can’t do that.

  “Full refunds will be offered eventually,” said Cad. “We’re running a little tight at the moment.”

  I saw audience members working in teams to rip seats from the floor, pushing and pulling until the chairs broke free. They lifted them above their heads, and furniture poured onto the stage as Cad and Driver bolted for the wings. If ever there was a band that needed to break up, it was this one. I just hoped it didn’t happen until I found Sophie.

  Getting probed would have been better than dealing with these guys.

  Backstage, Skark and Cad were screaming at each other as the roadies and Driver stood around bored, having seen this display many times before. I lingered off to the side, munching on an appetizer that tasted like a crab cake but looked a bit like a marshmallow Peep. I was annoyed with myself for not possessing any culinary talent—if I had kitchen skills, maybe I would have been able to reverse engineer some of this food and open an artisanal small-plate restaurant if I ever got back home. Another employment opportunity if and when I didn’t get into college.

  I licked the crumbs off my fingers and waited for the drama to settle so I could get back to the business of finding Sophie.

  “You cannot keep stopping our shows to yell at hecklers,” said Cad. “Especially one who is telling the truth. The last time we were here, we did play the same set list, and the crowd knew that fact because these are the only fans we have left. And what about telling the crowd we’ll have an entire new set of material at Dondoozle? You haven’t written a new song in five years.”

  “It’s not my fault if I’m still waiting for inspiration’s gentle touch,” said Skark. “It will come, it always does. I wrote my first album in a weekend.”

  “Yeah, but you were good then,” said Cad. “Your head was clear. And what was that crap about Ferguson?”

  “Ferguson sent me a letter threatening to sabotage our shows,” said Skark. “Don’t pretend like I’m being unreasonable with my security concerns.”

  “Ferguson hasn’t been in the band in nine years, and he’s been sending us threatening letters the entire time,” said Cad. “He never does anything.” Cad pointed to the open bottle of Spine Wine in Skark’s hand. “Your habits are making you paranoid, man.”

  Skark grabbed Cad by the neck. Cad might have been in excellent physical condition, but Skark was far taller and built like a powerful, wine-fueled insect. He squeezed Cad’s throat.

  “After all this time together, it appears you still think this band is a democracy,” he said. “If I say we will have a new set of material by Friday, we will have it. Until then, keep your mouth shut and play your bass.”

  Skark released his grip and Cad fell to the ground, gasping for air. A roadie tried to help him up, but Cad waved him off.

  “If I wanted to play with a washed-up singer, I would have stayed in Atlantic City,” said Cad, wiping spittle away from his mouth with his arm.

  “I hate to interrupt you while you’re re-creating your normal scene,” said Driver. “But the bus needs to leave now or we’re going to be late for our next gig, so if you have more fists to throw, I suggest you get it out of your system….”

  “Leave without me, I don’t care, I’m out,” said Cad, climbing to his feet and walking away.

  “Good Lord, you quit the band every week,” said Skark.

  “And why do you think that is?” said Cad. “Maybe it has something to do with me wanting to leave the band. Imagine that.”

  Driver sighed and shrugged and headed back in the direction of the bus, while the roadies put their heads down and tried not to make eye contact with Skark as they packed up gear, placed instruments in cases, and loaded amplifiers onto their trucks.

  When Driver’s drum set rolled past, Skark grabbed a polished cymbal and held it up to his face like a mirror. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his makeup, which was smeared from the confrontation. He looked at me.

  “Would you please stop staring?” said Skark. “You’re like a pestiferous canine looking for a handout.”

  “I saw my prom date on the All-Universe Nature Channel,” I said. “She’s at the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species, and everyone there is chasing her. If I don’t get to her before they do…”

  “Let me once again make this clear, because you’re having trouble understanding,” said Skark, placing the handkerchief back in his pocket and staring at me. “Even if Jyfon was on the way to our next gig, we wouldn’t stop this tour to get your prom date. What we are doing now is calculated preparation for the Dondoozle Festival. We can’t afford distractions.”

  “You sure seemed distracted out there tonight,” I said.

  Skark poked his fingernail into my chest and pushed. He could have broken the skin if he wanted.

  “Mind your mouth or I’ll make sure you find yourself burning up in some distant atmosphere,” he said. “You wouldn’t be the first stowaway I’ve had to dispose of when he became too conspicuous a presence. I should have seen through your cheeseburger scheme, using me for cheap transportation and a way to the stars.”

  Skark walked back toward the bus, crushing a soda can under his foot and booting it a hundred feet with a frustrated kick.

  I didn’t want to follow him. I asked a roadie where Cad had gone, and the roadie responded with a plump finger pointed outside. After a short walk, I was in the stadium parking lot, which was packed with equipment trucks and other grunts finishing up disassembling pieces of the set.

  It felt odd to be strolling normally in such a strange world. Comets zipped through the atmosphere above me, beyond which I saw green spiral galaxies and hot pink nebulae that looked like they’d been poured from a paint can into the sky. I followed a copper-colored river that ran along the perimeter of the parking lot until I reached a clearing, where Cad was sitting on a bench with a half-consumed bottle of Spine Wine. I sat next to him and waited for him to finish downing a long gulp.

  “I’m sorry you had to see the fight back there,” he said, wiping the liquid from his lips. “I don’t like arguing in front of guests, but if you haven’t already figured it out—this band is breaking apart in a real way.”

  “Did you mean what you said about quitting?”

  “I mean it every time I say it,” he said. “Not that it matters. We haven’t gotten along with each other in forever. Nobody takes anybody seriously anymore.”

  “Have other members left?” I said. “I don’t know much about the history of the band.”

  “Everybody leaves, eventually.”

  Cad took me through the litany of musicians whom Skark had fired since he started the band—a pair of bassoonists back in the eighties, a beatboxer in the early nineties during Skark’s brief hip-hop phase, a pan flutist who might have actually been the god Pan, along with dozens of bassists and keyboardists whom Skark had used for a moment and then summarily dismissed.

  In fact, at this point, Skark and Driver were the only original members of the group, having met each other while incarcerated in a juvenile prison, which Skark was in for multiple counts of shoplifting—starting with lip gloss and skinny jeans, but eventually moving up to microphones and guitars. Driver was constantly in trouble for putting his fists through walls or pounding on school desks until they broke. That one of them would become a singer and the other a drummer was a natural progression.

  Cad explained that the original lineup had also included an arsonist from the detention center, who was
kicked out after three years for using a suitcase bomb to light his bass on fire at the end of a gig, necessitating the evacuation of a large city. He was followed by a never-ending rotation of bongo drummers and clarinetists and whip dancers, with Skark constantly trying to assemble the correct lineup to replicate the music in his head. Now they were just a trio. As long as his voice and his guitar were part of the sound, the audience didn’t care who was backing him.

  Having lasted more than a decade, Cad was now the longest-serving member the band had ever employed, during which time he’d seen endless musicians come and go.

  “But the worst was getting rid of Ferguson,” said Cad.

  “Who’s Ferguson?”

  “Ferguson is who Skark was howling about out there tonight,” said Cad. “Ever since we kicked him out, he’s been in Skark’s head.”

  “What did he play?” I said.

  “Triangle.”

  “You had someone in the band just to play the triangle?”

  Ferguson had already been in the band when Cad joined, because Skark had thought some of his songs could use a little ding from time to time. Skark was a madman, but to his credit, he was against bringing in session musicians to lay down a track or two, instead reasoning that if he made music with somebody, that person was his brother, at least until Skark let him go. (Or his sister, as it turned out. Skark had had a handful of talented female artists join the band over the years, all of whom were too smart to put up with his crap for more than a few days.)

  When Cad was hired, the band’s popularity had been growing steadily over the previous decade. With the fame, Ferguson’s ego ballooned, which made touring miserable for a band already dominated by Skark’s life-guzzling personality. Ferguson started fighting Skark for the microphone, missing his cues, insisting he be in the foreground of band photographs even though he was, as Cad described him, a scoliosis-ridden troll.

  “We were riding high back then, and the lifestyle had gone to Ferguson’s head,” said Cad. “All he had to do was hit a triangle with a stick, and he was too screwed up to even do that. Eventually we just left a bus ticket at the brothel where he was staying, with a note that he wasn’t in the band anymore. That was nine years ago.”