"Chuck, I have time and I have money... Just, allow me." I wanted to pay for his college. I wanted to do anything he needed. I saw more than myself in him. What teenager spends a night - a school night - changing and cleaning a man after his colostomy bag burst all over him.
New band name: Devil’s Piñata.
"Okay, okay," I changed the subject, talking slowly. "When are you guys coming over for practice, again? I am ready to put copy together for you and get some press kits going..."
"I think Friday was the plan. We've been getting together every night this week so that when we came - hey, are you still okay?" My stomach felt a sponge squeezing out green, but I nodded and powered through it. "The idea was that when we came Friday, we'd have a show together and you'd just give us improvements. I didn't say anything because I wanted to be professional about it and come with a whole set."
"Perfect. I could even start to try to get you guys a show. Don't forget that I'm here to take care of anything you need."
The conversation paused, and we looked at the table. Chuck tossed his pencil across the page.
"What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty."
"When did you get here?"
"Four thirty, quarter of five. I texted mom and said I wasn't going to be home until later - that I was here."
"You hungry?"
We ordered Chinese food and Chuck helped change the laundry and clean up my bedroom before the driver came.
We ravenously tore into the delivery. The fatty, caloric food settled my mind and my stomach. It was perfect.
"So if I hear you guys on Friday and everything sounds good, do you want to set up some dates in a week somewhere? Would you be ready?"
"Absolutely."
"...I'll make posters and get the bass head done. Everything will be clean. I already have some logo ideas."
"That sounds great - we have a ton of stuff up on Twitter and Facebook and YouTube already - we have a few thousand followers, but I'm pretty sure they're mostly our classmates. Anyway, they know our sound and our music already. We've been filming everything, taking pictures, editing down our recordings. Can I take a look at your logos?"
I rode over to the desk off the living room and grabbed my notes. I created a logo that looked somewhat like our old one, an octopus with snakes for tentacles and at its center a head with bloody eyes. It was a little Octopussy, a little Oedipus, a little Dawn Ego.
Chuck's eyes lit up.
"It's perfect. I can't wait until they see it!" he took out his phone, snapped a picture, ant tapped on the device. "Can I take this and have a friend get it on the computer and clean it up?"
"Of course!" I couldn't believe the effort he had put into everything. His resourcefulness surpassed mine. My 1994 marketing strategy was no match for what he was doing online. Was I even helping? I was a newspaper advertisement for their appearance on Laurence Welk.
"We'll still come on Friday. I know you'll have some notes, but we want to make sure it's perfect. Really. We want to show you a new set with only a few seconds between songs, and a performance so tight we can say that we have exactly whatever minutes of music. Just like you said.
"We’ll be ready to play a week from Friday, though," he continued. "If you set something up, we can be here every night next week to get ready. Is that okay?"
I smiled and nodded.
We drank the soothing oolong tea bags they sent in the bag. This young man came into my life exactly when I needed him, and perhaps that’s why people have children. If I had a kid in my mid-twenties, he would be around this age. He was a companion, someone to guide and watch over, and someone to teach me things about the world that I knew nothing about.
"I listened to the radio the other day," I began, "and I couldn't believe the junk that was on there. Where do you guys-"
"No one listens to the radio. It's all on the Internet. The radio has always been run by what other people think you should listen to, right? It is old technology. On the Internet, anyone can be successful."
"True. So, an old guy like me? I mean, I went to the library and took out some CDs."
"I’ll make you a CD, how's that?"
I paused.
"You're a really good kid, Chuck.
"When you came tonight, I was... I went to the library today to get a new library card and check some things out, but..." I wasn't really connecting any of my ideas and how to communicate what I was trying to say.
"Before I got into my accident I had a band, and a girlfriend Jenny." He nodded. We had been over this. I choked back emotion. "I found out today...that she was dead. It happened while I was in my coma. So didn't my parents. Everyone I love. So, as I stared down at her head stone... I had some whiskey and made my way home. Drunk. The world spun, and my chair fell in the street, and I didn't give a shit.
"I forgot you were coming over. You're so selfless and for a kid your age to take care of me is just - I was never like that. You are really an incredible young man, Chuck. I look forward to everything."
He listened, and nodded. He was silent. Humble.
We cleaned up from dinner, and Chuck left.
Over the next three days I called around to set everything up. Posters and shirts with a day's turnaround once we had final logos and layouts were all set for Friday. I called possible venues, and set up a show the following Friday at the Shanghai Chinese Food Restaurant and Buffet, a large restaurant that was coincidentally built in a development a block from the bridge of my fateful accident. The Shanghai had a bar with a stage and a PA system, and all we’d have to do is show up with our gear.
I managed to get another gig for them in two weeks at another bar and restaurant called The Strand. I also called three venues in Boise and invited them to the gigs to see if they were interested in a booking.
It was easy selling people on something that doesn't exist when the product is already perfect, especially with a few white lies and the Internet.
On Thursday, Thom and Susan came for my appointment, and the three of us sat around the table in the kitchen.
"What the hell happened to your face?" Thom was rightly concerned as he examined my fresh bruises and lacerations.
"I was trying to navigate my way on the sidewalks to the library. My chair tipped and I face planted into the pavement. Those sidewalks are terrible, but I was already on my way back, so-"
"Why were you doing that?" Susan replied. "I am supposed to bring you wherever you need to go."
"I can't rely on everybody all the time, Susan. I’m here alone most of the day. But, I’m grateful. Thank you."
"Honestly Todd, we could set you up with the Trans and their handicapped shuttle. The state pays for all this."
"I'm fine. I just want to learn how to manage."
"You are stubborn as hell, you know that?" She paused. "I brought your groceries - I put them on the landing there when I came in. Do you need anything else, or do you want to just start seeing how many shopping bags you can pack onto your chair before it tips over and you hit your head and kill yourse-"
"I'll be fine, Susan. Thank you for the groceries. I don't think I need anything else."
"It smells like liquor," Susan said to me as Thom looked at the ceiling.
"I'm sure it does."
She stood, collecting her purse and her windbreaker.
"Well, I will see you next week, and in the meantime don't kill yourself? I guess I'll call you every day to see if you need anything, and we can go from there. I need a record that you are taking care of yourself and that at least I'm trying..."
She turned and made her way out.
Thom's bulk at the small Formica table in the kitchen was comical. I would almost need to remodel the entire house to get it out of the seventies, but it was utilitarian, and it worked.
Thom started to put the groceries away for me.
"Did you drink all of that whiskey I brought over?"
"I - I had a bender the other day - on Monday - but I have an excuse
.
"Remember when you told me to write letters, especially those I didn't plan on sending? When you brought the mail in the other day, you brought in my letter that I sent. It was returned.
"I went to the library. The librarian looked my parents up and told me the funeral home where they were taken, and then she was able to take the envelope and look Jenny up. I learned Jenny was dead. The love of my adolescent self was dead, and then everyone was dead around me, and everything was shit.
"So I got drunk. I fell over. I promise, the sidewalk part was real." I tried to be honest and forthright.
"No, I believe you on that."
"Yeah, the only thing is that when you land on your face, this happens."
"So what are you doing besides trying to kill yourself?"
"Did I tell you about the kids in the band?"
"A little."
"Coincidentally one of them came over after my chair crash and helped me get my shit together, literally. My bag broke, and Susan would have been a lot of help cleaning the shit off of me, but..." Thom laughed. "Thankfully, the boy from the band is this really nice kid. He cleaned me up and got me together - which was fate considering he accidentally left something at my house. I bought us some Chinese food and we had a good night after that.
"I'm getting them ready to play a show. I would love you to be there if you aren't busy. It’s a week from Friday at the Shanghai."
"I think I'll do that. Friday and Saturday are the music nights in the bar?" Thom asked.
"Exactly. Friday night at eight. Bring everyone."
Thom slowed down and looked at me as if to ask everything was really, truly, okay. I hope I communicated back with my eyes that it wasn't, but that I would survive.
"Well, at least you have someone to keep you in bourbon for a while," he finally said.
"True." The sneaking suspicion that I shouldn't be drinking as much as I have rose in my gut. I wasn't much of a drinker for my first forty or so years. Thom's approach to taking care of me as a man and a peer was much more effective than what everyone else did. I had a spinal injury two decades ago, not a brain injury.
"You're taking the initiative, man. Following your passions again," Thom continued. "That’s the quickest way to normal that exists. Your spirit is stronger than ever. You want to survive, and you are proving it by taking up your work again. That works better than any of the exercises and skills I am paid to do with you, and way better than any treatment, medication, or chemical. Passion."
"I'm trying," I responded.
"If you feel like I am too much, just let me know."
"Susan is a bit much. She'd be fine if she didn't talk."
"I know."
"You are great, Thom. I look forward to our visits. You have a lot of great things to say."
"Thanks."
"Can I ask you an easy favor?" I continued. I handed him the obituaries. "Do you think you could swing by here and ask about my parents, where they are buried, whatever information they have? Tell them they can call me at their old number if they need permission, or anything. I don't think I can bring myself to do it."
"I will. I need to leave, but I’ll call you if I need anything for your parents." Thom stood and put his jacket on. "You probably learned more in that one field trip to the library than I could teach you in six months."
"I think you're right. I learned a hell of a lot."
"Take care, Todd. Don't hesitate to holler if you need anything else. I'll see you and your boys at the show on Friday."
Thom left.
Silence.
There was so much to do, and all the time in the world to do it.
That was one major difference between my adolescent and modern self. In my teenage years I had the optimism, drive, and creativity of a thousand men, little time and money to execute everything. In adulthood, I had the time and money to follow my passions to the end of the earth, but my creativity and drive was as dead as any fortysomething.
While I drowned in adulthood as a paraplegic rocker, it was time to sow the seeds of my boys and help them reap the success I never had in this world that I knew so little about.
Friday approached.
As much as I wanted to indulge, I avoided my computer journals and the bottle. I just focused on doing my best work with what time I had. Chuck and I used his tablet to send some incredible poster designs to the printer. He also showed me his work on the internet. There were certain websites and social sites that were imperative. Everything with the logo and the band photos looked sharp, and close to fifteen thousand followers kept tabs on them between the Facebook, the YouTube, the Twitter, SoundCloud, and a variety of other platforms.
"They are mostly from the high school, though, and they overlap," he commented.
"I don't care - that's a real number, man."
"I would love to bring you your own tablet and give you access to all of this so you can post updates and stuff - that is the real key. Update and stay relevant."
"I could write copy forever, and I have the time to do it, but you don't need to do that."
"Perfect. No worries, Todd. I’ll get you one. They're cheap."
The rest of the guys arrived, and I had Chuck help me down to the basement. I had a schedule for the week planned out.
I told them for the first rehearsal that they should pretend I wasn't there, and just run through their set.
They played magnificently. It was tight, and the only immediate worry was to curate the songs by editing them from the nineteen they had down to a manageable ten or twelve and keep the entirety of the set at a little bit less than an hour. We’d plan an encore, whether there was one or not.
The first show was fifty-six minutes of music, with just under fifteen minutes of encore. We wrote it out...
1. Intro.
2. Vascular
3. Slap shop.
4. The Defeated I Know
5. My Heart is A Finch In The Dusk
6. Disease
7. Fishing for Breath
8. Lights
9. Nothing to Do
10. 42
11. Conclusion.
---------------
Encore 1: Just For Me
Encore 2: Belief
Encore 3: A Day / The End
Their assignment for Saturday was to practice through the list and to think through where they could find a spot to surreptitiously tune throughout the set. They would also pick up the shirts and posters, and plaster the city on their way over.
Before they arrived on Saturday, I called The Shanghai and convinced them to switch the show to eighteen-plus and charge a cover to the minors. They asked to keep the cover money. I asked to keep all merchandise profits. We made a deal.
Saturday night's rehearsal was perfect. The band played through their entire set, and the only issues I saw with the actual show was their execution two tune up areas. We solved those with a bass and drums loop while the tune up happened on the stage. Only seconds separated each song. Everything was clean.
I asked them to arrive to the next rehearsal in what they were planning on wearing at the show. They also had to bring a few different pieces along in case they didn't cut it.
Sunday was for style.
While I knew nothing about contemporary style, I tried to take a page from what they brought to manufacture an edgy look to their brand. They wouldn't cut it with flannel, as much as I wanted them to. There was no doubt, however, that picking the tightest fitting jeans for each of them would still make a good base no matter what era this was.
They came in fluorescent red and yellow pants, and they insisted on wearing bright, lens-less wayfarers. Geek hard rockers seemed to work. I combed their hair over their faces. Chuck grabbed an old black eyeliner pencil from my bedroom.
We pushed back to the nineties in a fashion that was applicable, tasteful, and provocative to such an extent that I couldn't take my eyes off of them.
Their show was somewhat boring, though, and Monday's rehears
al we would be for working through the technical performance. I taught them body language, stances, and basic choreography to engage the crowd.
Monday and Tuesday were awash with suggestions, emotions, how to talk, and carriage for on and off stage. I had to teach them what it means to be in character, what it means to rock, and define what it means to be Oedipussy.
The played, and I cut them off.
Once, it was "put your foot on the monitor, there, and show the audience note bending by wiggling your hand just so," and often I found myself shouting over their music, "You know the song! Stop looking at your guitar!"
When we began, they performed as awkwardly as they carried themselves.
"You are not robots, you are rock stars. Fuck the man, fuck the police - you aren't children! You're the captains of the world! The leaders of the universe! You're holding on to the vibrations and the sound of everything! Play like it!"
I forced them to play a song three times, and at other times I would take the camera they used to record everything and play back what they just did in front of them.
"Look at this shit! Does this look exciting? Do you look like you are owning this? Or is it more like you aren't sure if mom is going to come downstairs and tell you to turn down?"
They improved drastically.
"Your audience is going to have as much energy and excitement as the show they are going to see. If you play a sit down show, they are going to be a sit down audience. If you bring the electricity - truly bring everything you possibly can and get people on their feet, smiling, and excited for what you are doing, they will meet you there. Even if there’s only two people! That is your mission Friday night."
I hammered them for hours, and they had one job for Wednesday. They had to show me the show they were planning on playing on Friday without any feedback from me. We were going to film it, and they could watch it on their own. They had forty-eight hours before the show, and they could watch it forty times.
The only instructions for Thursday were: meditate, reflect, focus, and prepare.
Wednesday was magical. It was momentous, strong, and they clearly worked on their image and performance between rehearsals. I was sure there would be many minute things that the boys were going to take care of after watching the video, but at the same rate I could find very little about their performance that I would change.
Oedipussy Page 19