24.
We're driving home.
Clarissa is in the passenger seat up front because she needs the most leg room. Mel is behind her. Blake is behind me. Sure, why shouldn’t I have a monster behind me, staring at the back of my head while I try to concentrate on driving?
I suppose you’re wondering how the show went. Let’s just say that there were parts of it that went well and that there were parts of it that didn’t go quite so well. As an example of a part of the show that went well, I’ll direct you to Clarissa’s drumming. She did a superb job. You won’t hear any complaints from anybody about that. If you came to the show exclusively to hear Clarissa drumming, by golly, you got your money’s worth.
Now if we switch gears and discuss the parts of the show that went less well than Clarissa’s drumming, I guess we should touch upon the lackluster performance of Mel during the bridge of “I Shouldn’t Have Had That Sixteenth Energy Drink.” Not his best guitar playing by any stretch of the imagination. He was a little off-key. He was out of synch with the drums, and his vocals were—let’s be honest—subpar.
I’m not sure why Mel flubbed that part. He’s usually extremely professional. If I had to guess, I’d say that he was slightly distracted by the fact that I had completely screwed up that song.
Oh, yeah, another element of the show that didn’t go so well was me. It’s my book, and I can make up anything I want. But a lot of people whipped out their cell phones when I started to mess up, and the videos are out there for the world to ridicule. I don’t know what happened. Yes, I was exhausted. Yes, I was hyper-focused on trying not to make a mistake while at the same time keeping vigilant for Blake’s sabotage. Yes, I had a moment in the second song when it suddenly hit me that Audrey had broken up with me and I felt sad and alone. Yes, I kept hearing Blake’s voice in my head, and I kept seeing little floating transparent Blake-heads, and…actually, I guess all these elements, put together, explain pretty clearly why my performance was so wretched.
If I’d done this badly the first time Mel or Clarissa heard me play, there never would have been a Fanged Grapefruit. The interaction would’ve gone like this:
[I play and sing.]
ROD: Wanna form a band?
MEL/CLARISSA: Oh, goodness, no!
At least the manager of the club paid us. Oh, wait. He didn’t. He explained to Blake that he’d taken a chance on an untested band like Fanged Grapefruit, and now many of the club’s patrons who’d been there tonight would choose other venues when they were in the mood for musical entertainment. We were welcome to try to sue him for our fee. But if we did, he’d play a recording of our performance for the judge, and the judge would issue an order forbidding us from ever playing music again. We knew that the courts didn’t really have the authority to end our musical careers, but we also knew that we weren’t getting our cash.
Anyway, we’re driving home, and as you might expect, it’s a bit awkward.
Finally, Blake speaks. “So who wants to go first?”
“I don’t want to hear anything from you,” I tell him. “Not one single word out of your mouth. My car, my rules.”
“We can’t keep our heads in the sand.”
“I can shove your head in the sand if you don’t stop talking. I’ll do a Google search for the nearest patch of quicksand. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Very well.”
“This is all your fault.”
“You’re right,” says Blake. “I played horribly tonight.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I never set foot on the stage. I didn’t say a word during the show. In fact, I left halfway through because it was too painful to witness.”
I remember that moment clearly because when Blake walked away, I thought that it must be when he was preparing to strike. He didn’t. Or maybe he was ready to but simply decided that I was doing such a good job of sabotaging myself that further efforts were not necessary on his part.
I want to bellow, “This is your fault! Your fault! Your fault!” over and over at him, but no matter how many times I shout this, it will be difficult to make the case with my bandmates. And I have to admit that I should’ve been less susceptible. If Blake was able to undermine my self-confidence like that, maybe I’m not cut out for the life of a professional musician. Maybe I should start shopping for ties for the office job I’ll have after college. Trade in my lyrics for spreadsheets. Practice saying, “TGIF,” by the water cooler.
Uh-oh, is there a tear trickling down my cheek? Please don’t let Clarissa glance over and see it. Should I wipe it off, or will that draw more attention to it?
“You don’t have to cry,” says Blake, who can apparently see my tear-stained face in the rearview mirror.
“I’m not crying,” I say.
“Leave him alone, Blake,” says Clarissa. “He can cry if he wants to.”
“I’m not crying,” I say.
“I can see the tear,” says Clarissa, “but that’s okay. I’d probably be crying too.”
“At least he didn’t cry onstage,” says Blake. “That’s one positive thing we can take from this experience. The show would’ve been way worse if he’d started bawling. I hope we never have to find out how that would look.”
“I’m serious, Blake,” I say. “I will track down some quicksand.”
“I apologize,” says Blake. “You won’t hear another word from me. It’s all my fault for setting up big shows before you were ready. I should have gauged it better.”
“That was fifteen more words,” I say.
“It was more than fifteen. No wonder you can’t keep time. You can’t count.”
“Blake, I asked you to leave him alone,” says Clarissa. “One more word, and
