Super Fake Love Song

by David Yoon

  That was only partly true; mostly I could not have her knowing Gray was coaching me to be a fake rock star.

  “Oookaaay,” she would say. And then I would watch her pedal away from me as I waved from the bike racks.

  Then, at the end of each day, it would just be me, Milo, and Jamal locked in the music room waiting for Gray to arrive while the school grew quieter and quieter. Everyone else was going home to dinners and homework and television and video games; we were here to work.

  We sat on the amps like they were ours, not the school’s. We tuned our instruments. Milo adjusted his drums a millimeter here, a millimeter there. He had taken the cocktail kit apart and set it in a traditional rock drummer formation. We twiddled knobs to fine-tune our volume and gain and reverb and presence. I did not know what that last knob did. I just liked the idea of having a control to adjust one’s philosophical outlook on life.

  Then we waited.

  “You guys wanna go through it while we’re waiting for Gray?” I said.

  “Waiting for Godot,” said Jamal with a sour look.

  “Hey,” said Milo. “I’m telling you I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  I folded my hands over the neck of my guitar. “What.”

  “Jamal’s being paranoid,” said Milo.

  “Just say it,” I said.

  Jamal held out his phone. “Lady Lashblade gave a like to this other wannabe prop-making clown posse.”

  I squinted. “LARPros? They have less than half the follower count we do. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing,” said Jamal.

  “Their stuff is very low quality,” said Milo.

  “We need to record the episode for Esmeralda’s Veil stat,” said Jamal. “We have to stay on the Lady’s radar if we’re going to get that seat next to her at Fantastic Faire.”

  I sighed. “We will.”

  “We’re slipping,” said Jamal.

  “We are not slipping,” said Milo.

  I sloughed off my guitar and put an arm around Jamal. “Hey. We will get the episode done.”

  “When?” said Jamal. “In our sleep?”

  “I know this band nonsense is eating up our time,” I said. “I am sincerely sorry. I am forever grateful to both of you. Without you I would be dead. Home stretch?”

  “You’re impossible when you get all sincere like this,” said Jamal.

  The door hissed open on soundproof gaskets. Gray entered.

  “Sorry-sorry, work thing ran late,” said Gray.

  “Work?” I said.

  Gray shrugged. “I had a group interview with the entire Trey Fortune gang. Like for real this time.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said.

  “Probably because I didn’t tell you,” said Gray with another shrug.

  “How did it go?” I said.

  “Really great, actually,” said Gray to the floor. “Turns out I can get excited about quarterly tax filings for small- to mid-size LLCs.”

  I said nothing. A really great interview was a far cry from coming home to regroup before returning to a new band in Hollywood. It sounded like Gray might not be going anywhere at all.

  I glanced at Jamal and Milo. It was disturbingly difficult to tell whether Gray was proud of himself or suicidal.

  “All that sounds wonderful,” said Milo.

  Gray wrestled off his blazer and yanked his tie loose. “Whatever. Let’s rock.”

  We ran through “Beauty Is Truth” again and again. At first, we followed Gray as he guided us along with the chord changes on the chalkboard with a broken drumstick as his pointer. When we could make it through with no mistakes, Gray stopped pointing along to see if we would still manage. When we could, he erased the chalkboard altogether.

  We played. We threw eyes. We landed the changes.

  Gray very gently suggested that maybe Jamal did not have to sing his improvised, spontaneous backup, and this made Jamal very sad. Gray backpedaled quickly and told him that backup hoots and hollers—not Elvish—were what was called for, and Jamal was happy again.

  Milo was very sad about his inability to twirl drumsticks until Gray sat him down and showed him the basics. There were three juicy spots in the song for him to spin those chopper blades, and when he managed to hit them all without dropping sticks, he became happy again, too.

  It was very, very important to keep Jamal and Milo happy, and I was grateful for Gray.

  Each night, we would power down and blast off a group high five above our heads, with Gray joining in as our secret fourth Immortal.

  Each night I’d ask him what percentage our progress was.

  “I’d say another five percent,” Gray would say.

  “That’s it?” Jamal would cry.

  “I think you’re just saying that to make us work harder,” Milo would grumble.

  “Actually maybe only four,” Gray would say, wincing ironically. After being beaten with padded timpani mallets, he would relent. “Okay, five.”

  Five or four, we were making steady progress.

  To prove how far we’d come, Gray showed us a video he’d secretly shot from the hip last week. We looked like toddlers on a playdate playing in clueless parallel. We didn’t look like that anymore. The latest video proved we were well aware of one another and communicating like an actual band.

  To prove how far we still had to go, Gray showed us a video of himself performing with the Mortals taken years ago. It wasn’t “Beauty Is Truth,” but it got the point across. Gray performed. By contrast, we were still just knocking out notes with all the grace of dockworkers.

  Each night, Team DIY Fantasy FX would promise ourselves we’d go set up at Jamal’s after band practice to put together the Esmeralda’s Veil episode, but each time, we’d find we were just too exhausted. There simply weren’t enough bars left in our batteries.

  Before bed, Jamal would report on his obsession with those LARPros interlopers.

  They are still idle, no new episodes, no updates, he would write. But for how long?

  Friday came. We’d been practicing for more than four weeks now.

  “How ready are we?” I asked.

  “Let me see your hands,” Gray said. Jamal’s fingertips were nicely callused, as were mine. The insides of Milo’s index fingers were sandpapery now from his basher grip on the sticks.

  “There goes my hand modeling career,” said Milo.

  Jamal batted our hands away from Gray and gripped his shoulder. “How ready are we? Spit it out, man!”

  Gray sighed, blew out his cheeks like he did every night. “Eighty percent.”

  “That’s like a B!” said Milo.

  “I will take a B!” said Jamal. “Does that mean we can stop early?”

  Gray made a reluctant face: No. When Jamal and Milo turned to look at me, I was making the same face.

  “Come on!” said Jamal.

  “Just a little more,” I said.

  “Well, it’s Friday, and I’m starving, so I’ll smell you guys later,” said Jamal.

  “I’m gonna go to bed,” said Milo with a yawn.

  “It’s barely eight,” I said.

  “Said the boy in love,” said Milo.

  “Bring it in,” said Gray. “Excellent work today. You remind me of me when I was your age.”

  “Stop being momentous,” said Jamal.

  We brought our hands together, lowered them, and thrust them skyward with the help of our voices uttering in unison:

  “To metal.”

  Four of us, four devil horns now held high.

  * * *

  —

  At home, Gray ran interference with Mom and Dad while I scampered upstairs to change back into my Sunny-garb. I flopped onto my bed, exhausted.

  My phone buzzed, and my heart flipped.<
br />
  Come down and hang out man, wrote Gray.

  I stared at the phone. Gray was inviting me to his basement lair.

  Ok, I wrote.

  I headed down, and the air grew thick with the smell of food as I approached the game room door.

  “Just made some frozen samosa things,” said Gray.

  There was a small fridge in the basement now, and a microwave. The piles of clothes were put away; the luggage was gone. A little candle waved hi from the room’s single windowsill. The place looked tidy, bordering on cozy.

  I sat on the plush carpet—freshly vacuumed into neat Ws—and dug my fingers in.

  My phone buzzed. I looked. Everything went soupy as blood suddenly pounded in my ears.

  Guess what came in the mail today, wrote Cirrus.

  There was a photo of a cardboard box bursting with brand-new black cloth.

  Shirts.

  Shirts bearing red letters artfully formed from razor slashes:

  THE IMMORTALS 2020

  ONE NIGHT ONLY

  SUNSET STRIP, HOLLYWOOD

  There was even a logo: the ring of Satan.

  I ordered a hundred, wrote Cirrus.

  A hundred tee shirts. A hundred people wearing a hundred tee shirts. A night at Miss Mayhem in front of an audience of a hundred people wearing a hundred tee shirts. Me onstage with a mic performing at night at Miss Mayhem in front of an audience of a hundred people wearing a hundred—

  “You all right, dude?” said Gray.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  You are amazing, I wrote, flubbing every word along the way. Thank you.

  I’m your number one fan! wrote Cirrus.

  I could not think of what else to write, so I sent a few emojis panic-chosen at random. Emojis were the makeshift poetry spackled in the gaps between words, and if you didn’t look too hard, you didn’t even notice the seams.

  “You sure?” said Gray.

  “Nn,” I said.

  “So I lied earlier,” said Gray. “You’re almost at ninety percent. Don’t tell the guys, shh.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Really?”

  “It’s kinda true that rock is mostly three chords and an attitude,” said Gray. “Most anyone can get the chords right. What they don’t get is the last ten percent. That’s the attitude part, or showmanship. That’s what we work on next.”

  “Uh,” I said.

  “We have to,” said Gray through a hot samosa. “Think about it: We really only have three more practices left. We gotta cram in some style.”

  Gray abruptly straddled the recliner and clawed an air guitar before him while whipping his necktie around in wild ellipses. I could almost see the flames of hell licking at the pale skin of his exposed Adam’s apple as he cackled before the burning sea of the damned.

  “Like that,” he said, flopping back into his chair.

  I sucked in my lips. “Cannot. Do not have skill.”

  “You do,” said Gray. “You will. Because you guys already have the discipline to do the work. It’s good habits from all your nerd prop making. It’s inspiring.”

  “You’re saying you’re inspired by me?” I said.

  “I keep coming back to coach you guys, nn?” said Gray.

  I dared myself to say it: “It’s been nice to see you in your natural habitat.”

  Gray smiled, but there was some sadness there.

  “To provide a belated answer to your question,” said Gray, “what happened in LA was people . . . producers . . . kept telling me I wasn’t authentic enough. Which is their flaky Hollywood way of saying I wasn’t good enough.”

  I nodded. I lowered my head. People never said what they actually meant, in my experience. “Why didn’t you stay there and keep trying?”

  “I ran out of money.”

  I understood. It killed me that people had to cancel their dreams for endless toil, unless of course we somehow managed to pull ourselves out of these late-stage capitalist dark ages and into a Star Trek (TNG) future blessed with a universal basic income and sweet jumpsuits.

  “Why didn’t you just ask Mom and Dad for more money?” I said.

  Gray shot me a look before he caught himself. He jabbed his fingertips at his heart. “LA was all me. I needed to know if I could do it. Me.”

  I understood this as well. Imagine Mom and Dad funding DIY Fantasy FX—and now imagine all the advising that would come with such an investment. The thought was so preposterous I almost laughed out loud.

  “Anyway,” said Gray to the floor, “I’m gonna take that Trey Fortune job. I’m staying here in Rancho Ruby. I’m not going back to Hollywood.”

  “Hey,” I said. “What if you tried again? What if—”

  Gray shook his head. “It’s better this way, trust me.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  For a moment we just sat. Gray handed me a samosa.

  I took a bite and made a face: Pretty darn tasty!

  We ate without saying much of anything. Gray thumbed his phone. He noticed something, peered at it, and chuffed. An idea seemed to occur to him.

  “You know what,” said Gray. “I think I will go back to Hollywood.”

  My eyes got big. “What?”

  “Not for me,” said Gray. He stood.

  “Huh?” I said.

  Gray tossed me a samosa for the road. “We’re going to Hollywood for you.”

  Pathetic

  The Inspire NV crested a hill and sailed into a black ocean glittering with pinpoints of gold and red and green.

  “Angel City, baby,” said Gray.

  Los Angeles.

  Everything Rancho Ruby was not.

  A grimy endless tumble of sagging dingbat apartments next to gleaming taco trucks next to million-dollar condos, all flanked by mile-long rivers of homeless encampments. Everyone driving too fast and playing music too loud and wearing too little, boys and girls and everyone in between. As we glided along, the maze of downtown’s deserted skyscrapers helplessly gave way to the vast autonomous regions of Koreatown and the Byzantine Latino Quarter, which in turn gave way to the inscrutably hip drag strips of Third Street, Beverly, Melrose, Fairfax, and so on, with all their cryptic signs and signifiers.

  I loved LA. I was terrified by LA.

  Gray reached out to close the mouth that I’d left hanging open in awe. “You’ll catch flies,” he said.

  I smiled. It was ten o’clock, and me and my big brother were going to Hollywood on a Friday night. There was no other word to describe this except cool.

  Gray thought so, too. “It’s so friggin’ cool here. I can’t stand it.”

  I nodded. “It’s a total city planning nightmare built upon greed and excess.”

  “You’re so cynical,” said Gray.

  “No, but, I’m just being honest,” I said.

  “Don’t get any of your cynical honesty on me,” said Gray. He smiled. “And stop saying No, but.”

  We watched the city kaleidoscope by: diner, dealership, temple, taqueria.

  Finally Gray parked. He lifted the gull wing open and stepped out into the hot night. I peered outside. A modest line of young Gothic enthusiasts stood before the infamous Miss Mayhem stage, under an incandescent marquee bearing the name of the band Gray had noticed on his phone back at the house: THE REPUGNANTS.

  Dazzled, I set foot onto the exotic shore of Sunset Boulevard.

  Gray led me to the front of the line and received an immediate dap and hug from the bouncer there.

  “So you’re back?” said the bouncer.

  “Long story,” said Gray. “Good to see you, man.”

  The bouncer gave him another hug and unhooked the velvet rope. He pointed the brass end at me. “Please don’t let me catch you drinking, little brother.”

  Gray led me
into the velvet-hued cavern and headed straight for the empty bar, where he got a beer for himself and a club soda—the classic choice of sober gentlemen throughout history—for me. The club was half empty; we easily scored a high-top in the darkness at the back of the room.

  Gray lifted his glass. “To memories. Memories, god.”

  “When did you play here last?” I said.

  Gray gulped, then pointed with his beer. “You’re gonna be up there soon.”

  I gulped, too, but out of rising terror. “I’m realizing that.”

  “You need proper orientation before your big night—that’s why I brought you here,” said Gray. “And you’re gonna learn a thing or two about showmanship from this band. They’re pretty wild.”

  “Wild how?” I said.

  Gray just smiled, somehow psychically triggering an eruption of sound. The show had started. Then he settled in and watched—studied.

  Up close, I could see how Gray’s eyes danced; how they caught every dot of light from the stage; how they noticed even the smallest twitch of the guitarist’s fingers there.

  “System of a Down meets LCD Soundsystem,” said Gray right into my ear, like a secret. “Disco dressed up as metal, very, very smart.”

  I could hear it now. “No, but, they’ve got everyone fooled.”

  “It’s not a trick,” said Gray.

  “So more like a schtick.”

  “Stop judge, judge, judging,” said Gray, exasperated. “Just watch.”

  I shook my head at myself. What Gray was saying was Stop thinking. Start being.

  So I watched. The lead singer, his eye sockets blacked out with makeup, groaned and howled into the mic. He sawed away at his guitar. He pointed at the crowd. The crowd pointed back.

  At one point, he slung his guitar behind him and flung the mic in tall arcs, like chain whip tricks just above the heads of the audience. He reeled it in just in time for the next verse. Then he summoned his guitar back around his torso and led the band charging in to thirty seconds of solid headbanging that commanded all before him to do the same.

  “How is he doing this?” I said.

  Gray leaned in. “They believe in him. Once people believe, their minds open up to just experience everything.”