To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “You know, when I played music with Evie, we really looked up to you guys. Giant Killer, I mean. You guys were a really good band.”

  “Thanks,” I say, “I always thought—”

  “No, shut up and listen.”

  I realize she’s not trying to compliment me. She’s working at getting something out of herself, like when you get water in your ear and you have to knock it out of your head.

  “I know that, in his own fucked-up way, Soda’s trying to make things right. I get that. But you can’t just come back after ten years and expect things to be the way they were when you left.”

  She looks at me. Dares me to speak. I don’t.

  “Deacon’s not going to California. He couldn’t tell you last night because we have this agreement not to tell anyone—not even my parents—until we get through the first twelve weeks, because last time we had a miscarriage—”

  Now I have to interrupt. “You’re pregnant?”

  “Eight and half weeks.”

  “Congratulations! Any chance you’ll name it after me?”

  Ruth rolls her eyes.

  On Saturday afternoon, just as we finish packing up the wagon, Evie’s minivan pulls up to the curb with Rotten riding shotgun and two little Dora the Explorers in the back.

  “Hey, guys. Break a leg tonight,” Evie says out the window. “I’m so jealous. Totally unfair.”

  “Come on, Mom! Vamanos!” the Doras shout in unison from the back seat.

  “That’s a pretty sweet ride, Rotten,” Deacon says.

  “Least it’s not my mom’s station wagon. Loser.”

  As Evie starts to pull away, Rotten flips us all the bird. I can hear the Doras scolding him for his rude behaviour, but a moment later they’re drowned out by the sound of the Sex Pistols’ ‘Pretty Vacant.’ It makes me glad to see he’s still a badass to somebody. Deacon watches them all drive away with a funny expression on his face.

  “I never really thought about it before,” he says, “but those two kids scare the shit out of me.”

  The show doesn’t start for hours, but when we get to the Marina, there’s already a crowd forming—people with blankets and beach balls and camping chairs. The bandshell over the stage looks like a massive blue-and-orange kite that’s ready to sweep the entire stage into Lake Superior. Part of me wishes it would.

  The parking lot is a disaster of pylons and confused teenagers waiving drivers in all directions with fluorescent batons. We have a little bit of trouble trying to get the Sabre anywhere near load-in because the access road is blocked by an irritable security guard, who shakes his shaved head and refuses to make eye contact with us.

  Eventually, we find our way to a little fenced-off area behind the stage. We stop and Deacon jumps out to open the back. I reach in to drag my bass drum out, and when I turn around, some guy wearing a bandana and cut-off army pants holds his arms out like a long-lost relative looking for a hug.

  “I can take that!” he insists cheerfully.

  I smile and lug it over to him.

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I grab a couple toms in their cases. I haven’t walked three feet when a young woman with long hair like a horse’s mane reaches down and plucks the handles from my hands.

  “Here, let me grab those,” she says, before I have a chance to answer or refuse.

  I smile at Deacon and shrug. “Looks like we have roadies.”

  Soon, a small army of hippies is carrying our gear through the grass and up onto the stage like a line of industrious ants.

  “Aren’t these guys great?” Mrs. Wheeler makes her way toward us, trailing a jet stream of frilly scarves behind her. “They come every year to help out with Matty’s birthday. Usually there’s not so much work to do, but they’ve really stepped up their game this year.”

  From the little that I know of Matty’s mom, she’s one of those people who’s so relentlessly positive that you kind of worry about being around when the dam finally breaks. You certainly can’t blame her—she’s gone through a lot—but tonight her joy seems completely unfabricated.

  “Well, I’ll let you guys get ready. There’s some kegs of beer in the backstage area, and Scooter’s mom brought in a bunch of samosas and pakoras, which are just spectacular.”

  There’s about thirty or so people milling around the field behind the stage, laughing and drinking beer out of plastic cups. Most of them look like regular attendees of the Bunsen Burner—tie-dye shirts, Grateful Dead skulls and teddy bears. Todd Farkas is sporting some kind of ridiculous jester’s hat that he unearthed from 1993. Everything smells just a little like weed.

  In the middle of all this, we find Matty sitting in his psychedelically painted motorized wheelchair and talking with a bearded well-wisher. All things considered, he looks pretty good. He’s managed to keep his dreadlocks, which, from a maintenance standpoint, are actually kind of practical, and he’s wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Ronald Reagan that reads Shut Up Hippie!

  “Dudes!” he says, winking when we get a little closer. “You ready to tear this town a new one?“

  We all smile and nod.

  “I just talked to Thaler, and the guys are on their way. You should probably go set up and sound check. I think Keith was looking for you earlier.”

  Hilariously, the stage manager for the night turns out to be the same living cigarette that did sound for us at the Odeon, ten years ago. It’s encouraging, in a way, to know that some people can keep on keeping on fuelled only by booze, tobacco, and the spirit of rock ’n’ roll.

  “You’ll set your gear up in front of Mr. Maracle’s band,” he hacks at us. “After we check your levels, I want you to play one song all the way through. Just one. Got it?”

  We say we’ve got it, but by then he’s bent over and coughing up various parts of his anatomy, and I doubt he’s heard us.

  After sound check, it takes me and Deacon about twenty minutes to walk over to the Prince Arthur. We invite Ruth, but she decides that in this case, four’s a crowd. Or five, I guess, technically.

  “Is he really staying under the name Barry Hawkes? That’s so lame. If you’re going to use an alias, it should be something cool like Keyser Söze or Armand Tanzarian, not boring like your high school principal.”

  “I think if you’re already famous, the point is to try to avoid attention.”

  “Whatever.”

  When we ask for Barry Hawkes at reception, the concierge trades her professional indifference for starry-eyed enthusiasm.

  “Absolutely! And who should I tell Mister, uh, Hawkes—” she inserts a little wink “—is here?”

  I realize that, because we’ve got the inside scoop on a Big Deal, she thinks we must be Big Deals too.

  “Tell him it’s Sundell,” Deacon says, butting in. “Jerry Sundell.”

  It’s his turn to wink at me.

  To her credit, she lets the phone ring about ten times before she gives up.

  “Uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Hawkes isn’t answering his phone.”

  I try his cell, but there’s no answer. To quote every Star Wars movie ever, I have a bad feeling about this.

  “Look,” I tell our new friend, “Mr. Hawkes—Barry—is a bit of a deep sleeper. We’re supposed to wake him up for the big, uh, meeting today, if you catch my drift.”

  She does catch it and nods conspiratorially.

  “Do you think you could take us up to his room?”

  She looks around, as though someone might be watching us. “Okay,” she says quietly, “just give me a minute. Ted,” she calls across the lobby. “Can you watch the front desk while I take these two gentlemen up to see Mister Hawkes?”

  Ted nods knowingly. Everyone’s in on it.

  We all smile at each other as the concierge knocks politely on Soda’s door.

  “Let me try,” Deacon insists and proceeds to bang on the door until a shirtless and irritated-looking man sticks his head out a couple rooms down.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Bit of an emergency.”
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  Against what the concierge calls her “better judgement,” she eventually opens the door with her master key. Secretly, I think she just wants to catch a glimpse of Jesse Maracle sprawled out on the bed in his underwear—hungover, strung-out, or maybe even worse. Bottles of liquor, lines of coke, a half-naked teenage girl passed out on the floor. But that’s not what we see at all.

  Instead, the door opens on a perfectly spotless suite. The bedspread is smooth, the closet is empty, there aren’t even any towels on the floor. It’s a nice room with a pretty decent view. There’s just no one in it.

  “Are you sure he said seven o’clock?” Deacon asks, taking a quick glance at his watch.

  “He said seven.”

  The concierge watches us, trying not to look too impatient. Just then, my cell phone screams in my pocket.

  “That’s probably him,” I say.

  But it’s not him. It’s Lovely Rita.

  “Hey, Pete!” she says.

  “Rita? Uh, listen, now’s not really a good time—”

  “I’ll be quick,” she interrupts. “Have you seen Soda?”

  “Uh.” Deacon and the concierge both give me hurry-up eyes. “I saw him on Thursday. We’re supposed to meet him right now, actually, but he’s not in his hotel room.”

  I hear the sound of a straw sucking the bottom of a drink. “Well, I’m at this industry thing, and I heard that Divergent Records just got bought out by this big American conglomerate last week. Apparently, they’ve opted not to extend Jesse Maracle’s contract.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. Deacon and the concierge are watching me now like a television show they can’t quite follow.

  “It means they’re cutting him loose.” More background noise. Someone brays at a joke I don’t hear.

  “How can they do that?” I ask. “He’s huge right now.”

  “Yeah, well, ‘huge’ is relative. He’s huge in Canada. ‘Common Cold Heart’ was the biggest Canadian single since ‘My Heart Will Go On,’ but in the States, Britain, Australia, Europe, he’s pretty unproven. There’re a lot of flashes in the pan these days. The big companies generally tend to be more conservative.”

  I remember Soda saying something about a meeting with his label. “That’s some cold shit.”

  “Yep. That’s show biz,” she says. “In any case, break a leg tonight. And when you see Soda, tell him I’m thinking of him.”

  When I see Soda. If I see Soda.

  Deacon has the good sense to tip the concierge, and soon we’re hurrying back to the Marina.

  “So, what are we going to tell everybody?” Deacon asks.

  I look across the water to the Sleeping Giant.

  “Nothing. For all we know, he just bailed on us. He does tend to do that.”

  “Yeah, or he freaked out and took a taxi to the airport. If he doesn’t show up, people are going to be pissed.”

  “Probably,” I say. “But let’s say we try to shut this thing down now. Best-case scenario? Matty’s fundraiser is fucked, and we don’t get to play the biggest show of our lives.”

  “Hmm. What’s the worst case scenario?”

  “Worst-case scenario? We start a full-scale riot.”

  “So really, we’re just being practical.”

  “Right. Safety first. Hey, does Ruth know the words to ‘Common Cold Heart’?”

  Deacon shrugs. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  When we get back behind the stage, we find Ruth chatting with Matty.

  “How’s Soda?” she asks.

  I try not to look at Deacon. “Good.”

  “Just good?” Matty asks. “I bet he’s fucking psyched. That crowd is insane! I was just telling Ruth how Soda’s bringing me up on stage to sing ‘Low Rider.’ It’s going to be awesome. I can’t wait.”

  “Yeah. That’ll be great,” Deacon says unconvincingly.

  “Super cool,” I add with equally forced enthusiasm.

  I’m just starting to second-guess our whole strategy when Mrs. Wheeler appears in a whirlwind of fabric.

  “Oh, good. You’re all here,” she says. “Listen, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind going on just a little bit early tonight. The crowd’s starting to get excited, and the stage manager—quite a wretched little man—suggested that we might start a titch sooner.”

  “What time were you thinking?” Ruth asks.

  “Well,” she looks at her watch more out of habit than anything else, “now, I think would be good.”

  Lightning bolts of fear shoot through me. Ruth smiles. “No problem, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  As we walk toward the stage, I hear a voice call my name.

  “Hey, Curtis!” it says. “Can I get an autograph?”

  I turn and see Molly Pearson standing against the security fence. When I get closer, I can see that her skin is already summer brown and her freckles have multiplied exponentially. She looks happy—happier than I’ve seen her look before. When I give her an awkward hug over the fence, she still smells like oranges.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t Ruth tell you?” Hearing her name, Ruth turns and waves at us. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised. “Trimble offered me contract work for September. They basically gave me Ellis’s old job. I brought Charlie up for the summer so we can start looking for a house.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah! Holy shit!” Those words had never sounded prettier. “So, if I don’t see you later because you’re too busy being a rock star—”

  “Pete!” Deacon calls at me from the side of the stage, his bass already strapped to his stomach. “We’re on.”

  I turn back to her and open my mouth to say something more, something probably embarrassing, but she stops me.

  “Go,” she says. “Do your thing. We’ll catch up later.”

  As I climb the stairs to the stage, I wave at her. She waves back, and just before the crowd swallows her up, I think of that old, unfinished mixed tape I found in the Pizza Pop box. Maybe the reason I never finished it was that I needed someone to finish it for—someone who appreciated a good mixed tape.

  In a daze, I sit down at my Uncle John’s bright orange 1978 Ludwig Vistalites. Beside me, Deacon plugs in his bass, Ruth checks her guitar, and they both tap their vocal mics. I look at my friends and they smile back at me. Already, the crowd has started to surge against the giant metal barriers. Below us, bouncers pace like caged leopards. In his ridiculous hat, Todd Farkas charges out from the wings and asks the crowd if they’re ready. Are they ready to rock? Are they ready for the biggest party of the year? Are they ready for Ruth Kipling and her Gentleman Callers? I half expect them to say that, no, as a matter of fact, they’re not, that they wouldn’t mind waiting just a little longer for the main event. For Jesse Maracle. For Sodapop Koskinen. But instead, they say yes. They say yes the way an ocean says yes. The way a newborn baby says yes. Yes, we’re ready, whether you are or not. The sound is frightening and reassuring.

  It stays light out late in Thunder Bay. The sun was still hanging in the sky when we got up on stage, but it’ll set behind us as we play and remind everyone that this moment is temporary. That soon, this will be over and time will push us all in one direction or another.

  It’s a good view from behind the drums. Like Levon Helm said, it’s the best seat in the house. From up here, all the faces swirl and blur together in the heat of the evening. Kim’s out there somewhere, probably with her brother. Vicky Greene—or Gauthier—is out there too. Evie and Rotten. Andy Thaler. Mark Zaborniak. Jeannie Drew. Toby Watkins. Wayne Trimble and his son. Even Howlin’ Mad Murdock will honour us with his presence once again, and I bet if I wade into that sea of people afterward and swim around in their good will, I might just find his daughter ditching work to catch our set. Past the crowd, I spot an enormous black SUV glinting in the sun. It’s rental shiny and making its way across the parking lot. I wonder if Soda’s inside, but one way or another, he’s out there too.

  For the first tim
e in a long time, I don’t know what’s going to happen next. In a month, I could be recording in Los Angeles, or swimming in the summer-freezing water of Lake Superior. I want to figure it all out as soon as possible. I want to see the future stretch out like a straight line into the horizon.

  But first, there’s something I’ve got to do.

  And that’s the great thing about stage fright. When you’re terrified, everything else falls away. You’re completely cut off from your past lives and potential futures. All you can do is live in the unmitigated present and hope your timing is dead on. Now. Now. Right now. I pick up my sticks and count to four.

  This book wouldn’t exist without the following awesome humans:

  Sarah Wyche, Cara MacMillan, Amanda St. Jean, Wilma Aalbers, Meaghan Mazurek, Dave Harvey, Douglas Davey, Mark Rhyno, Kate Lee, Justin Armstrong, Robert Green, Cheryl Misener, Alex Richman, Vish Khanna, Mike Nelson, Sloan, Kathy Olenski, Bill Hanna, Leslie Vermeer, Claire Kelly, Matt Bowes, Mom & Dad, the Wyches, and last but not least, the Lockharts, without whom there would be no Thunder Bay.

  GREG RHYNO was born in Toronto, Ontario, but grew up in Thunder Bay. His work has appeared in PRISM international, Vocamus Press, and he is a recipient of the J. Alex Munro Prize for Poetry. In addition, Rhyno has toured and recorded with such rock n’ roll outfits as Phasers On Stun, the Parkas, and Wild Hearses. Currently, he works as a high school teacher and lives with his family in Guelph, Ontario. This is his first novel. Find him online at gregrhyno.com.