Wise Young Fool

by Sean Beaudoin

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, both sides of her mouth curled upward. I’ve never seen that before.

  “Um, picking you up for the show?”

  “What show?” Starfighter says, genuinely curious.

  Ravenna yawns. “He’s in a band.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s too bad,” Starfighter says, sounding like he means it. He hooks his arm in hers.

  “Ravenna?” I say. “Seriously?”

  “Oh, grow up, Ritchie.”

  And I do.

  In that second I really, really do.

  “What happens in Sackville stays in Sackville,” she says. “And so should the people who live there.”

  They walk away with these impossibly long and perfect strides, laughing like drawings from a New Yorker cartoon, so classy and unperturbed, so utterly at home in themselves, that I can only stand there and admire it.

  Halfway back across the quad, I sit on a bench and consider crying. I mean, hey, why not? But it just won’t come. Puking also seems possible, but not that glamorous. So I rest my head on my shoulders for a while instead. Students stream by, laughing, joking. No one stops. No one asks me what’s wrong. No one puts an arm around my shoulders and invites me back to the dorm for a hot toddy.

  I want to get drunk.

  I want to get in a fight.

  I don’t want to do either.

  Not too far away is a girl studying on a blanket in the grass. I walk over to borrow a pen, then lie on my back, far enough so that she won’t call security, and write. It’s a song. Or a poem. It all comes out in one torrent, one breath, one exhalation, like breaking the surface and spitting out water for air. It’s cheesy. It’s lyrics. It’s not epic or tough or cool.

  It’s honest.

  It’s the first thing I’ve ever written that’s honest.

  Which means it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.

  “It’s called ‘Teach Me to Reach Me,’ ” I tell the girl while returning the pen.

  She looks confused.

  “I said I was just borrowing it, right?”

  She goes back to her Petrochemicals in Contemporary Society textbook.

  And then I start to run.

  The Saab won’t turn over.

  HORROR.

  It won’t even make a noise.

  I jog down to the gate and ask the guard if he’s got any jumper cables. He gives me a look like, Exactly how far are you prepared to push it in this life, son? I decide to just leave the piece of shit in the lot. Rude can come get it if he wants it. But not before I release the brake, put it in neutral, and push it down the grade a bit, where it rolls sideways and nestles against the rear bumper of a red Mercedes convertible with the vanity plate PARTMAN1, blocking it in.

  On the bus back, I notice this Asian girl. She’s sitting alone, totally cute, dark eyes and tiny smile, lips pursed. She’s looking down at her lap, fiddling with a cell phone. Her hair is long and straight. I can practically see my reflection in it. She’s the anti-Ravenna. She’s a human being. She’s not perfect and she’s not glowing. She’s just there, occupying her own space. I can see the warm blood pulsing around inside her, instead of Freon.

  I tell myself to go over and say hi. Not to pick her up, just to have a real interchange. How’s it going. Here we are, both alive. Communication between the genders. Between the races. Between the species.

  A stop goes by.

  Then two.

  I walk over and plop down beside her. She looks at me warily. I know the people in the seats all around us are listening, dudes watching my play, but I like her smile and so I get encouraged.

  “Hey, look, I hardly ever do this. You know, approach some random girl. Not that you’re, you know, random… I just mean I’m actually pretty shy and mostly just want to be left alone, so I try to extend that courtesy to others. Especially female others traveling by themselves. Ha ha. But I saw you sitting here and I thought, I don’t know, you look interesting. Beautiful, definitely, but more interesting. That’s where my head is at these days, you know? My priorities. Connect with people who actually have something to say. I mean, I’m not smooth, I’m not giving you some bullshit line, but I was looking at you and thinking about my parents, how you meet someone. And end up on a date. And before you know it you’ve moved in and bought a couch and suddenly you’re together for life. Or at least until you get divorced. You entwine your existences. Or you go out to dinner and it sucks and you never see each other again. How weird and random it is that maybe the person who’s your perfect mate is a few rows away and you never said anything. Because you were too nervous to speak up. I mean, I know that sounds ridiculous. I’m not saying you and I… I mean, no pressure here or whatever. It’s just that, wow, it’s been a tough morning for me. And then, there you were…”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry. I know I’m babbling, but I just came over to, you know, invite you to a show. I’m in a band. Called Wise Young Fool. We’re playing tonight and, I dunno, I thought maybe you’d want to come.”

  She finally opens her mouth.

  I wait.

  And then she goes:

  “Ting bu dong. Dui bu qi, wo bu hui shuo Yingwen.”

  All the dudes on the bus start laughing their asses off. I mean, seriously breaking up at what a knob I am. A posse of vatos are pointing at me and throwing shit. They’re bumping knuckles and fiving highs.

  I get up and go sit in the back of the bus and think hard about how badly I want to have never existed.

  How much I just want to sweep myself up and throw myself away.

  How I have a little less than an hour to make the show.

  I spread my arms and sing “Teach Me to Reach Me.”

  Softly at first, rising in increments.

  And they actually watch.

  The whole dayroom.

  Having already rushed the stage, they take the time to check it out.

  Conner still lying there on the floor, looking up.

  Peanut, his eyes dark but confused and amazed, the metal at his side.

  And I sing.

  I sing them a song about Ravenna Woods.

  Breaking whatever heart I pretended to have.

  Breaking clichés about my heart in half.

  As smooth as I can.

  As raw as I can.

  Vulnerable.

  I run through it twice, don’t hold anything back.

  No pose, no pretense.

  Just soul and a snap of the fingers.

  Just a song.

  That I have memorized.

  Because I’ve been singing it in my head, on my bunk, staring at the ceiling, for months.

  And because I believe every word:

  Please,

  Go ahead and

  Show me every way you’re not

  Exactly who I knew you were

  All along.

  Fooled myself, lied and denied

  Just to lie beside you,

  Just to hide inside you

  Every stroke a betrayal of

  Anything I ever claimed to be.

  To teach me

  You got to reach me

  Something I don’t know how to allow.

  Breaking through to the other side

  Grab a seat on the liar’s ride

  Angry words over angry chords

  You’re a leather jacket I can’t afford

  A layer of lipstick

  That has no taste

  Every minute we’re not fucking

  A total waste

  Thought I was using you

  Thought I was cruising you

  But I’m the one who

  Watches while

  You walk away.

  Laughing as if

  You had something

  Worth saying to say.

  You got to reach me

  To teach me

  ’Cause I already knew how
not to care.

  You got to teach me

  To reach me

  ’Cause you were never really there.

  Never really there.

  Never really there.

  Never really there.

  I take a cab from the station, tell the driver to please hurry. It’s this ancient Sikh guy with a turban. He scowls the whole way, dark and pissed and bent forward, going ten miles under the speed limit. When we finally pull into the driveway, I realize I don’t have enough cash.

  “Hey, man, I’m really sorry, but I’m a little short on the fare.”

  He eyeballs me hard in the rearview.

  I sit there and wait for him to freak out.

  Call the cops.

  Beat me with his cane.

  “That’s cool,” he finally says, and takes what I’ve got.

  “Really?”

  He strokes his mustache. “Bro, I been there.”

  I almost cry.

  I almost kiss him.

  I don’t do either.

  Not a second to lose.

  Mom and Looper are in the kitchen and Mom is all drawn and weepy-eyed. The TV’s on behind them, but there’s no sound. I walk in and they stare at me. I know whatever it is, it must be horrible. Elliot? It has to be Elliot. He was hurt worse than we thought. An aneurism. The hospital called. I’m about to turn, without a word, and run straight to the ER, when Mom smiles.

  She turns sideways and Looper puts her hand on Mom’s tummy, rubbing it clockwise.

  She hands me a Polaroid.

  Except it’s not a Polaroid.

  It’s a sonogram picture. It’s a little being, a little thing hunkered there on its side, about the size of a lime. A tiny little foot.

  Amazing.

  Terrifying.

  “Is it a girl?”

  “Nope.”

  “A boy?”

  “You have a third suggestion?” Mom asks.

  “A boy,” I say. “Huh.”

  “A brother.”

  “An as-yet-unnamed Sudden male.”

  “Except he’s named,” Looper says.

  “He is?”

  “Lincoln.”

  “Link?”

  “Lincoln Richard,” Mom says.

  “Link Sudden,” I say. “Kid’s gonna have to be a badass to live that down.”

  “He’ll have a good teacher,” Mom says.

  I shake my head. “No way. The only thing he’s getting from me is Barbies and chocolates and soft pillows. The tough-guy routine officially ends here.”

  Mom hugs Loop.

  Mom hugs me.

  Loop hugs me.

  “I need a favor,” I whisper in her ear.

  She doesn’t even respond, just palms me the keys.

  I pull up at the Black Widow’s in the Perfection Pools van and everyone cheers. Even Chaos cheers, loading his bongos into the hold. Elliot exhales hard, rubbing his wet scalp in disbelief.

  “Cutting it a little close, eh, Sudden?”

  “Dude, you would so not believe the day I’ve had.”

  Something in my expression is fuck yeah convincing.

  He just nods.

  Lacy does a scissors kick, howls, laughs. She looks amazing. In full purple leathers, no less. Her Mohawk matches her outfit, even purpler, with jet-black tips. She’s smoking hot. I tell her so.

  “Easy there,” Elliot says.

  “Thanks, Ritchie,” Lacy says, kissing me on the cheek.

  She’s glowing. She’s beaming.

  Elliot is amped and absolutely ready to rock.

  Chaos is Chaos.

  We all laugh, giddy.

  I am cranked on a pure nervous high.

  “Wise?” I say. “Highly debatable. Young? Certainly. Fools? Right down to the last man.”

  Lacy puts her hands on her hips. “Down to the last woman. And this woman is proud to be a fool.”

  “Too right, too right,” I say, locking eyes with her. “I’m sorry.”

  She knows what I’m sorry for, knows exactly what I mean.

  “That’s the last piece!” Chaos yells, slamming the bay doors. “Let’s go.”

  “To hell or to Hollyrock,” Elliot says.

  And so we do.

  Parking space: check. No problem.

  Huge bouncer dude in front: check, we’re on the list, Wise Young Fool. “That’s you?”

  “That’s us.”

  Sound check: check. Pro gear, pro sound guy, crisp and clean and full. Dice’s compressor is plugged into Dice’s preamp, fueling The Paul, right out front where anyone can see. A dare. Go ahead and say something. Besides, mother of all that’s both metal and holy, The Paul is now insanely loud.

  Press: lots of local reporters, cameras, cords, equipment. Also, some slick dudes who are obviously part of the Real Godz of Hollyrock crew.

  Backstage posse: connected scenesters, club guys, bar owners, promoters, velvet-ropers, and various minor deal makers.

  Emcee: tight black pants, tight black shirt, too cool to live. He looks like he just walked out of a catalog for steak cologne, except he’s got a goatee. “You lames have twenty-five minutes exactly. Don’t go over. I’ll introduce you, and then the clock’s running. After, if the crowd is limp, you’re done, period. If by some chance they actually dig it, I’ll signal you back on for an encore. Then you got an extra five to really flaunt your shit. Got it? Once I signal off, you’re off, period.”

  Other bands are loading in, everyone eyeballing one another up the yang, chests out, showing off leather and ink. Elliot hands us each a piece of paper.

  “Learn it. Live it. Love it.”

  SONG LIST—Wise Young Fool

  RockScene Twenty Thirteen

  Ignition Bloody Chrysalis

  The Big Book of Little Genocides

  Necro Feel You Up

  Archer Fires Arrow, Flesh Takes Point

  Today’s Duplais Display

  Mack the Spoon

  If encore: Disguster

  I stop singing.

  I’m out of breath and out of words.

  For the very first time ever, the dayroom is dead silent.

  The chairs creak below me, wobbly as shit.

  I’m ready to jump down, see what’s coming.

  Whatever it is.

  But I don’t have a chance.

  Because someone yells, “Five-O,” and then the doors clang. Meatstick and some other counselors rush in.

  Everyone turns, pretending to play Twister or sullenly eyeballing their sneakers.

  The counselors see Conner on the ground and figure there’s a fight. They see Peanut, who tries to ditch his shiv, standing over him. Not metal. Plastic. A Colgate medium bristle, sharpened to a mean point. Yunior zips over like he knew it was there all along, grabs Peanut, and wrestles him to the floor. The Basilisk grabs Conner, who doesn’t resist, and they drag the pair of them out of the room.

  It’s like a breeze coming in off the sea, washing away the industrial stink of the city and the sour thoughts of small men.

  Maybe that’s a bit much.

  But things do seem to change in the room, a slight shift.

  I climb down.

  And slowly begin to unstack the chairs.

  The legs clang together, vibrating.

  The metal pads click against the floor.

  I can feel eyes on my back, but I don’t hurry.

  When I’m done, for the first time in eighty days, there is no throne.

  It’s been deconstructed. Decommissioned. Deflated.

  I turn and start to pass the chairs around, sliding them toward different kids. They just stare. Or flinch.

  I keep sliding them.

  All of them.

  One stops in front of B’los.

  He shrugs and actually sits down.

  So some other kids do, too.

  A bunch of them sitting.

  Not standing.

  Comfortable.

  Not posturing.

  Reclined.

 
; The hierarchy of plastic furniture.

  Is a hierarchy no more.

  Ass to seat.

  Ass to seat.

  Ass to seat.

  Ass to seat.

  A place to rest and put up your feet.

  It’s an amazing thing.

  The Question Mark is packed to the gills. People are pouring out the front, out the windows, shoved against every possible inch of wall. Astonishingly, half of Sackville High is representing, plus packs of teen dudes we’ve never seen before. Rocker girls of every stripe laugh and pose, single, spoken for, slutty, shy. Püre Venum fans glare at people the other bands have brought. Cleverly, and like the promo kings we are, we’ve brought no one but ourselves. Or maybe it’s just that we have no friends. In any case, we catch a break as they draw numbers from someone’s Slash top hat for playing order.

  We go on second to last.

  The first four or five acts are all different: a hippie jam thing, a singer-songwriter type with backing harmonies up the yang, a Krautrock/electronica hybrid with turntables and weak-ass rapping, dudes doing classic-rock covers somehow under the impression they’re doing originals, and some super-screamy arty deal with slides projected in the background and a lead singer who wears nothing but bunny slippers and a diaper.

  The crowd takes it all in stride, everyone’s posse going nuts when required, but no one seems blown away on the whole.

  Diaper Dan warbles through a final coda and takes a bow.

  There’re cheers, but not enough for an encore.

  Emcee Badass makes a few announcements, says to tip the servers, talks up the sponsors, tells a few jokes to zero laughs, and then says our name.

  Finally, finally, finally Wise Young Fool clambers onto a real stage.

  I shoulder The Paul.

  Look out into the lights.

  The crowd is wound up. Sweaty and pissed and drunk and doubtful and expectant. A mob. A pack of hyenas. A murder of crows. Ready to tear meat off the bones of lameness.

  I swallow a sudden rush of pure, unadulterated fear. It’s like one of those freezing-cold swigs of milk you can feel all the way down to your kneecaps.

  Lacy gets right up on the mic, says some sultry lines. A few dudes in the crowd whistle and then Chaos counts it off. There’s a wash of noise I am somehow part of, dead-handed. The first song is pretty much over before I even realize we’re playing.