“What kind of feedback?” asks Clarissa, her eyes narrowing.
Blake glances down at his notes. “The first song. ‘Poison-Tipped Daffodil Man.’ During the bridge I feel like you could slow down the drums a hair.”
“She’s not slowing anything down a hair,” I say.
“It’s your call, obviously. I’m not your manager or anything. But as an audience member, I wasn’t quite done being amused by the last line of the verse before you went into this really fast drumming. I think slowing down the beat would make it easier to process what I’d heard.”
“Punk rock isn’t about giving you time to process stuff,” I say. “We’re fast and proud.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I’m not suggesting that you should pause the song for a mediation break. I’m only saying that if you let it breathe a smidgen, it allows the audience to better appreciate your brilliance.”
“Maybe we should try it that way,” suggests Clarissa.
“Now?” I ask.
“Sure, why not?”
“I’ve already opened the garage door.”
“It recloses.”
“Do you want to hear the rest of my comments first?” asks Blake.
“Yeah, all right,” Mel says without enthusiasm.
“Mel, the slush song. After the bridge, decrescendo the third verse and then crescendo into the final chorus. Again, I’m not trying to step on anybody’s toes. I know I’d bristle if you offered constructive criticism about my video game playing. But it’s something to consider.”
“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Mel admits.
This cannot be happening. Our rule with Fanged Grapefruit is that there are no egos. Everybody has equal say. We’re not going to be one of those bands that breaks up because somebody thinks they’re the superstar. But I think it’s important to point out that Blake is not a member of Fanged Grapefruit, and he’s an awful human being! I don’t want to listen to anything he has to say, even if it does sound reasonable.
“Let’s try it,” says Clarissa.
My options at this point are faking a horrific index finger injury that prevents me from pushing the button to close the garage door and then hurriedly making up an excuse for why I can’t use my remaining nine fingers to push the button while also coming up with a reason why nobody else can push the button either…or closing the door and incorporating Blake’s feedback. (I’m sure there are other options, but none occur to me right now.)
I push the button. I wish Blake would give me a smug look so I could point to him and shout, “See that? He’s looking smug!” but he maintains a neutral facial expression as the garage door closes.
We play “Poison-Tipped Daffodil Man,” incorporating Blake’s suggestion. I’m the first to admit when I’m wrong, so I’ll say that…
You know what? I don’t want to admit that I’m wrong quite yet. Let me share some unrelated thoughts first.
Ducks aren’t scary, but I wouldn’t want to walk outside at midnight and find two hundred of them in my yard, each one silently staring at me. I understand why some people hate licorice even if I don’t share their view. Never trust a lumberjack who giggles the entire time he’s chopping down a tree. Sixty people on a trampoline are too many.
Okay. (Deep breath.) The song is indeed better after Blake’s feedback.
“You were right,” Clarissa tells him. “Thanks.”
We play “The Night I Drank Way Too Many Blue Raspberry Slushes.” You’re not going to make me say it, are you? You are? Fine. Yes, our slush song is better after making the decrescendo/crescendo changes that Blake suggested. Are you happy?
When practice is over and everybody is pleased that we’re now .009 percent better, I open the garage door again. Mel leans over to me.
“I hate to say it,” he whispers, “but your cousin is pretty cool.”
11.
Blake asks if he can come along when I drive everybody home. My personal preference would be for Blake to not accompany us, for reasons I don’t think I need to spell out eleven chapters into this tale of woe. But since Clarissa is leaving her drums in my garage until the gig tomorrow and Audrey is riding her bicycle home, I can’t really use “lack of room” as an excuse.
I try not to let this bug me. It’s good that Blake has endeared himself to the other band members. Everybody should get along. There’s nothing to be gained from three months of telling Blake that he can’t ride with us and that we’re going to check the drums for fingerprints when we get back, so the jerk should keep his filthy hands off them.
Still, I find myself weirdly disappointed when Blake doesn’t make any condescending remarks about my automobile in front of Mel and Clarissa. I kind of want to egg him on (“So, Blake, what’s your opinion on the suspension in this vehicle?”) to find out if he’s truly two-faced or if he really was tired and grumpy before. But everybody would see my true motives, and I’d be the bad guy.
I pull into Clarissa’s driveway. “See you tomorrow,” she tells Mel and me as she gets out of the car. “Nice to meet you, Blake.”
Nice to meet you, Blake.
She might as well have said, “Will you be my boyfriend, you great, big, ol’ hunk of man?” How can it possibly have been nice to meet Blake? Meeting Blake is the opposite of nice!
“Nice to meet you too,” says Blake. That part I can get behind. I’m sure meeting Clarissa was very nice for him.
“Hopefully, I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” says Clarissa.
I’m sure she’s being polite. It’s not like they’re gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes or anything like that. She didn’t ask if he wanted to hang out. She said she’d see him at school. Nothing wrong with that. My bandmates are not required to treat Blake with disdain.
“Yes,
