To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “No. About ten years ago.”

  “Still, though ...” It’s getting colder now that we’ve stopped moving, and I can tell she isn’t catching any of my conversational throws, so I run a Hail Mary: “Hey—do you want to come over to my apartment, instead? I’ve got Westway to the World on DVD.”

  She smiles her priority-shifting smile. “If we go to your apartment, it won’t be to watch Westway to the World. And as much as I’d like to, I’m still kind of figuring things out right now.”

  I nod stupidly. She stands on her tiptoes, delivers a consolation kiss on my cheek, then starts to walk backward away from me.

  “You know where to find me, right?” she asks.

  “Yep. Next to a faded poster of Bridget Jones’s Diary.”

  I wait until she’s out of sight and light another cigarette. The way home seems impossibly long, and the cold is starting to press down on my throat like a metal thumb. I walk for a few minutes before my phone rings. I don’t remember giving Alex my number, but still, I hope against all odds that it’s her. She’s changed her mind. Her mom is out of town and she wants me to spend the night. But when I look at the caller ID, it’s not Alex. It’s Vicky, and I know why she’s calling.

  I want to say that I’ll do the right thing. I want to say that I’ll let the phone ring itself out, walk home, and sleep off all the rye and beer I drank tonight. If there’s any chance that something could happen with Alex, I want to draw a clean, straight line right to it. But, the truth is, I have a very pragmatic libido, and it knows that a bird in the hand is worth more than one that’s “still kind of figuring things out.” I take a deep breath, press the green button, and hold the phone to my ear.

  SIDE A

  Worried Now

  I know why she’s calling, but she refuses to say it over the phone. She won’t acknowledge my imminent dumping, because to acknowledge it would make it so, and then I’d be well within my rights to call her That Bitch Who Broke Up with Me over the Phone.

  “We need to talk about some stuff ” is all she’ll say.

  “Okay, so you ditch me on my birthday, you barely return my calls for the last week and a half, and now you want me to change my plans so I can meet you at Hillcrest Park to ‘talk’? Well, sorry. I’m a little busy today.”

  “Fine, if you’re going to be a child about it—” She starts to say something else, but then changes her mind and hangs up.

  Part of this is a power play. I want to keep fighting indefinitely because, as long as we’re still fighting, we’re still together. I don’t want to know that she’s slept with Matty or Sudbury Steve, or some sensitive douchebag she met in her Gender Studies class. As soon as we have this “talk,” all my perfectly good anger is going to be eclipsed by crippling sadness, and I just don’t feel like dealing with that right now. Right now, she’s just my pain-in-the-ass girlfriend, and we’re in a fight. I’d take angry over sad any day.

  The other part of this, though, is that I actually am pretty busy. Was she seriously going to break up with me the same day Giant Killer was opening for fucking Sloan? I already feel like one giant raw nerve. Soda’s insisting that we play this new song and I’m not feeling really confident about the time changes. Plus, I’m going to have to play on the Bunsen Honeydew drum kit, which has all these ridiculous rototoms and weird cymbals because Kyle, their drummer, thinks he’s the love child of Neil Peart and Mickey Hart. I wanted to have another practice this afternoon—one last cram session just so I felt more ready—but Deacon and Soda agreed that it wasn’t a good idea.

  “It fucks up your chi to practise on the same day you play,” Soda explained. “It’s like jerking off when you’re about to get laid.”

  In a way, Soda getting kicked out of school is one of the best things that could have happened to the band. I half expected him to go off the deep end, but lately he’s been crazy focused on music. All he does while we’re at school is sleep in, sit in his bedroom, listen to music, and write new songs. They’re really good songs too—he played me this one yesterday called ‘Common Cold Heart.’ It’s not finished yet, but I can tell it’s going to be amazing.

  I look at my watch after Kim bangs the phone down in my ear and realize that Rita and the guys will be over in about an hour to pack up the Sabre, and then it’s another three hours or so until game time. Already my bowels feel like they’re migrating out my asshole.

  I hear the door slam shut. My dad is yelling about something. He works Saturdays and always comes home grumpy and smelling of Zellers—that weird mix of plastic, carpet glue, and cheap retail. I’m heading for the kitchen to grab a Coke when he accosts me with an envelope.

  “Doesn’t anybody pick up the mail in this house?” he asks. He serves me the envelope like it’s a subpoena. “Might be important.”

  I take it out of his hand and read the return address. University of Toronto Admissions. Jesus Christ. As if I needed more anxiety today. I feel very close to throwing up.

  My dad unpins the Manager tag from his chest. “You going to open it?”

  “Yeah ...” I say. “Maybe on my own, though.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says and goes to change out of his work clothes. I go back to my bedroom, throw the letter on the bed, and just stare at it for a few minutes.

  All in all, I applied to three universities. I was just going apply to one, but it cost the same to do three and Mrs. Leedy said I should play it safe. Of course, as soon as I did that, I started seeing three different potential futures. The future I wanted the most was at U of T. Their brochures were the glossiest, and the girls inside them were easily the prettiest. I wanted to major in Poli Sci and minor in getting drunk at the Horseshoe Tavern. York was my second-place future. It was a little further away from downtown, the campus looked kind of sterile, and the girls, well, I guess there are always pictures of pretty girls in campus brochures, but I suspected the York girls were ringers. One of the models appeared twice in two separate gangs of laughing, learning study-buddies, and I’m sure that didn’t happen by accident. Lakehead, obviously, was my last place. It was my safety. I didn’t bother looking at the brochure, because I already knew what that school was about. Brutal grey architecture, a man-made lake full of gently rusting bicycles, and miserable snowsuits scurrying from one class to another through the perpetual blizzard of Thunder Bay winter. Even worse, I’d have to live at home with my parents for another three years.

  And now, it seems my fate could be determined by the contents of a small white rectangle that looks disconcertingly slim. Bad news, I‘ve heard, comes in thin envelopes. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to open it. Maybe bad news is even worse for your chi than practising the day of a show. I tear it open anyway. It’s not an acceptance letter or a rejection. It’s a scholarship offer.

  “Dear Peter Curtis,” it starts. “We are pleased to offer you a Pre-Law Admissions Scholarship for the University of Toronto. This scholarship exempts you from tuition fees and student fees for the first year of your Bachelor of Arts degree.”

  I let out a happy holler and know that my parents will be barging into my room in a matter of seconds.

  The band arrives a little later than I expect. Deacon, Soda, and Rita spill into the kitchen in mid-conversation.

  “Well, maybe if you actually fed him, he wouldn’t try to escape all the time,” Rita tells Soda.

  “Yeah, dude,” Deacon says. “How he’s still alive is a fucking mystery.”

  “Hey, look—if you want him, he’s all yours.” Finally, Soda addresses me. “Sorry we’re late. Fucking Pepperoni got out again. Deacon and Rita had to help me find him.”

  “Poor thing was eating a dead seagull,“ Rita says.

  “Well, he probably killed that seagull,” Soda replies. “That cat is fucking vicious.”

  We all file down the stairs and start packing. Soda’s Telly, Deacon’s P-Bass, and all my breakables go into their cases. Pedals and cords are shoved into bags. Amps and cabinets go up the stairs and into
the back of the station wagon.

  On the way to the show, everyone talks like it’s business as usual, but underneath, there’s this low hum of electricity, like when you stand too close to a power conductor.

  “Ever notice on Friends that Rachel’s nipples are always hard? Like always,” Deacon says.

  “I don’t watch Friends.” This is Soda.

  “How do you not watch Friends?” This is me.

  “I don’t know. I watch Seinfeld.” Soda.

  “It is possible to watch both shows, you realize.” This is Rita.

  I want to talk about other things. I want to talk about how I’m so nervous about the show and so fucked up about Kim and so happy about getting a scholarship, but it’s all this weird, swirling deluge. I worry that if I take one finger out of the dike, everything else will come bursting out in some kind of permanently embarrassing way. I figure it’s better just to keep it all contained and talk about TV.

  When we get to the Odeon, Sloan’s silver tour bus is parked outside, but there’s no sign of its occupants. The Odeon used to be this big old movie theatre. The new owners cleared the seats, built a stage, painted everything black, and turned the concession stand into a sound booth. Now it’s a bar that’s so big it’s never full and usually open only on Saturday nights for fundraisers and CD release parties for local bands. Most bigger acts usually play at the university or the Fort William Gardens, but seeing as Sloan is a little too big for the pub, and they don’t draw the over-forty crowd required to fill the Gardens (my dad took me to see Kim Mitchell there in ‘88—rah rah olé), the theatre is an unlikely fit.

  Outside, perpendicular to the bus, a lineup is already forming. We spend a few minutes trying to convince the brick shithouse of a bouncer at the back door that we’re not just trying to sneak in. Eventually the promoter, a thirty-year-old guy dressed head to toe in Adidas appears and tells the shithouse that we’re okay.

  “Just load in your stuff and leave it by the stage.”

  We do as we’re told and then lean against the stage while we await further instruction. Without anyone in it, the room seems enormous. There’s even a balcony if people want to watch us from a safe distance. Eventually, the Adidas guy reappears and asks us to follow him. He takes the four of us across the room, through a set of doors, and up a flight of stairs into an office that I assume was once the projectionist booth. Adidas surveys the room and lets loose with a weary sigh. Then he introduces himself as JP. He shakes hands with me and Soda, but just nods at Deacon and Rita, like he’s reached his handshaking quota for the time being. I don’t want to judge a book by its cover or anything, but I can’t really say there’s anything about him that suggests legitimate businessman. With his shaved head and thick neck, JP looks more like an aging boxer than a bar manager.

  He inspects us up and down and frowns. “Okay. You guys are more than half an hour late. Your sound check was supposed to be at six thirty.”

  We glance at one another, eyebrows raised in confusion. As far as I knew, no one actually told us when to arrive. We just sort of guessed. Soundmen are not a particularly punctual species, but traditionally, sound check starts at seven o’clock.

  “Sorry about that. We weren’t really sure when to come, and then—” I stick a thumb toward Soda “—his cat got out.”

  JP rubs the back of his head and it makes a sandpapery sound. I expect him to say something like, “Goddamn cats,” or at the very worst, “Don’t let it happen again,” but instead he stares at us for a while with these cold, dead eyes and says, “I’m trying to run an event here, and you’ve put me behind. I’m docking your pay by a hundred bucks.”

  Again, we look at each other, our faces all screwed up. What the hell was going on? Rita speaks first, as our manager, trying to head the other guys off at the pass with a little diplomacy.

  “Okay. Hold on. Let’s talk about this—” but before she can continue, Soda runs roughshod over her strategy.

  “How the hell are we supposed to do a six-thirty sound check? We’re sharing equipment with the other band, and they’re not even here yet.”

  “This isn’t about the other band. This is about you.”

  “You’re only paying us two hundred bucks to begin with. Have you seen the lineup out there? You guys are going to make thousands of dollars tonight.”

  JP smirks at Soda.

  “You think that lineup out there is for you? You guys should be paying me to play tonight. Consider yourself lucky.”

  We’re not really in any position to argue. In fact, JP Adidas could kick us off the bill, pocket our cut, and it wouldn’t put a dent in his bar sales.

  “This is such bullshit,” Soda says, with a hollow little laugh.

  “Chalk it up to a learning experience,” JP pontificates. “I’ve worked for a lot of big names and let me tell you, this is how it is. If you plan on staying in this business, you’ve got to learn to be professional.“

  “You know you’re wearing sweatpants, right?” Deacon asks him.

  JP picks up his leather jacket off the desk chair, as if to announce he’s done with the conversation, but then adds some final words of wisdom.

  “Just be grateful that you learned this so early in your—” He looks at the band and I can almost hear him name us in his head: Skinny, Shorty, Indian Chief. “—in your musical careers.”

  I can see Indian Chief wrestling to keep his mouth shut, so I hustle him out the door and down the stairs, with Deacon hot on my heels. Soda gets a few feet ahead of me and ducks into a bathroom. I follow. He pounds a couple decent-sized dents into a paper towel dispenser before I grab his arm.

  “Hey! Easy!”

  Deacon walks in a second later. “You’re going to mess up your strumming hand doing that,” he says, surveying the damage.

  Soda backs up against the wall and takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. I just—fuck. I hate guys like that.”

  “Like what? Guys who wear sweatpants?” Deacon asks.

  “I’m going out for a smoke. Can you start setting up my amp if the other guys show?”

  Deacon nods, and Soda’s out the door.

  In the next two hours, three notable things take place.

  First, Bunsen Honeydew finally arrive and set up their gear. The soundguy, this bone-thin gargoyle with a ponytail down his back like a piece of nautical rope, tells us we’re only getting a line check because we were late. It doesn’t make any sense, but we don’t bother fighting him. It’s never a good idea to piss off your soundman. Instead, we sit and drink our two-dollar Cokes and watch as Kyle fusses with his ludicrous drum kit, and as Matty brags to anyone who will listen that they’re going on tour at the end of May (“About ten or twelve dates. No big deal.”).

  Second, I see Kim. While Bunsen Honeydew sound check, Deacon and I decide to leave Rita and inspect the downstairs band room Matty had pointed out earlier (“We’ve played here a couple times before. Have you met JP? He’s hilarious. Bought us all Jägerbombs last time.”). Really, it’s just a big storage closet with a couple metal folding chairs and a filthy couch. After the thrill wears off, we go back upstairs and there she is. My girlfriend. She’s standing with her brother, drinking a beer. When she sees me, she whispers something in Townie’s ear and then vanishes. Townie locates me, stares a couple daggers, then takes off after her. Because I’m the asshole.

  The third and final notable incident occurs after Bunsen Honeydew’s sound check, when Matty corners me outside the bathroom.

  “Dude, check it out ...” He sticks out his tongue to show me what’s on it—a tiny light-blue tab of paper. “Things are about to get fucking in-sa-a-ane.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I realize I sound like an enormous square, but seriously, dropping acid would be the last thing I’d want to do before getting in front of hundreds of people.

  “Trust me, brother. It’s a great idea,” he assures me.

  When I sit back down with Deacon and Rita, I’m a little alarmed that Soda h
asn’t materialized. JP’s henchman soundguy appears at our table reeking of cigarette smoke and tells us we better be on that stage at ten o’clock sharp. He leaves and I look toward the back door, as if Soda will suddenly burst through it, stage lit and dry iced. He doesn’t, and we’re on in exactly thirty-six minutes.

  “He’ll be here,” Rita says, reading my mind. “You guys go get ready. I’ll set up the merch table.”

  “I’m not sure ...”

  She shrugs and says, almost sadly, “Where else would he go?”

  There’re two full pint glasses of water in my jittery hands and the sides are already wet from little spills. I put one down beside Soda’s amp. The other, I put down next to the monstrosity that is the Bunsen Honeydew drum kit. Slowly, and feeling very much like I’m on display, I twist and pull and adjust and readjust until the drums take a slightly more familiar form. The way the stage lights are, I can’t really see the crowd very well, but I’m sure that somewhere in the audience Kyle is watching me tinker with his babies and seething through his beard. Stage left, Deacon is crouched in front of his amp, making minor adjustments, twiddling knobs. Then he stands, steps on a pedal with a clacking sound, and tunes his bass. I can hear the ugly, elastic twang of his metal roundwounds. I put a freshly sharpied set list underneath one of the legs of the floor tom and read over it one last time.

  “How much longer do you think we can stall for?” I shout to Deacon over the house music (Metallica, ‘Nothing Else Matters’).

  By way of answer, I hear the gargoyle’s voice come through the monitors. “All right, I’m going to need to hear some drum levels.”

  Reluctantly, I sit down at the kit, keeping my eye on the back door.

  “Bass drum?”

  I start pounding with my right foot. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Still no Soda.

  “Okay. Snare?”

  Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Still no Soda.

  “Okay. Play the rest of the kit?”

  For about ten seconds, I make a racket that, I’m sure, annoys pretty much everyone in the bar. When I finish, I’m left in line-check purgatory for a couple minutes until I hear the sound gargoyle ask Deacon to play his bass. Deacon thumps through a few bars until we hear an irritable “Okay, that’s fine.”