The Bad Decisions Playlist (29 page)

When I played with Shane, it was like a dream where you're flying. This is every nightmare you've ever had where you forgot about the test or didn't learn your lines or you're naked onstage.

Going into the third verse, I play the wrong chord and have to readjust. I'm looking forward in my mind to the upcoming parts of the song, but it's like a road vanishing into the mist. I'm going to run out of words any moment​—​here it comes, here it comes, I can't remember, it's gone​—​and my voice falters and I stop singing and just strum the guitar, and then I stop that, too.

I restart from the beginning of the verse and stop again.

Start again. Stop.

Everyone's attention is back on me, but for the wrong reason. Now people are turning away, embarrassed for me, embarrassed for this child onstage, too painful to watch, one guy actually half covering his eyes with his hand, a car wreck playing out in front of him.

A dreadful moment when I just stand there, not moving, not playing, exposed. My darkest fear of the worst thing that could ever happen onstage.

“Sorry,” I say, too far from the mic for it to pick me up properly. I unstrap the guitar and grab it by the neck and jump off the stage, not bothering with the case, who cares, and I shame-trudge my way through the crowd as fast as I can, head down, ignoring Shefford saying “Kid! Kid!” I'm gasping for breath as I stagger outside, and suddenly I'm so angry it feels like all my cells are exploding, and
SMASH
I slam Shane's guitar on the sidewalk
SMASH SMASH SMASH
until the body shatters and breaks off
SMASH
and all I have is the neck, the strings still connected to the bridge and a ruined remnant of guitar, and then I hurl the whole mess away from me and stand there panting and wild-eyed.

“Okay, that one? You can't blame that on me.”

I spin around.

It's Todd Malloy.

Stay an angry young man / as long as you can /

the trick is knowing how and when / to come back down to land

I want to flee. I want to sit on the ground and sob. I want to start gibbering and giggling and tear my hair out. I want to run into his arms.

Instead I just stand there, stupefied, slack-jawed.

The first thing that comes out of my mouth: “I swear I thought you guys broke up.”

When he just cocks his head and looks at me, confused, I say, “Todd, what the hell are you
doing
here?”

“I stole my dad's credit card and got a plane ticket.”

“Nice!” says Shefford, who must have followed me out of the bar.

“Are you
nuts?
” I say.

“Dude, you stole a friggin'
car
and
drove
here.”

“This is
fantastic,
” says Shefford.

“Who is this?” says Todd, jerking his thumb at Shefford.

“I'm Shefford,” says Shefford, sticking out his hand.

“Could you give us a minute?” says Todd.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Shefford says, and retires to a spot approximately three feet farther away.

“How did you even know I was here?”

“Josephine called me, asked if I'd seen you, told me what happened. I thought, damn, if he's going, I'm going.”

It's taken me this long to process that Todd has an impressive new shiner under his left eye.

“Yeah,” he says, noting my gaze. “That helped. And now I'm here, and
you
have to get back in
there.
”

“What?!”

“Not my business, but he's right,” says Shefford.

“Would you please?”

“Sorry.”

“Todd, I'm not going back in there.”

“Oh, you're going back in there, and you're getting on that stage.”

“I can't!”

“You're going to. You're gonna get on that stage, and I'm gonna play drums, and you're gonna strum your guitar and sing.”

“I don't have a guitar,” I say, pointing to the wreckage on the sidewalk.

“You can use my electric,” volunteers Shefford.

“You can use his electric,” seconds Todd.

“You don't have a drum set.”

“There's a house kit all set up,” says Shefford.

“Todd, I was a complete disaster in there!”

“Uh,
yeah.
I saw. I got in there just as you were crapping your pants. Look, I was in a game once, and this guy hit me with​—”

“Oh, God, don't give me a sports metaphor.”

“You
can't pussy out.
You can't.”

“I can. I did. I'm done.”

When I start to walk away, Todd runs around in front of me and blocks my path.

“Todd, don't. Please let me go.”

“Methune, you remember that party with your dad? Down in that basement?”

“Yes. What.”

“That guy? He would have kicked my ass. He would have kicked. My. Ass. But there's two things I can do well. I can play drums, and I can stand my ground. I won't back down. You can't back down now. Don't you get it? You're so . . . you're so goddamn
good,
Methune. You can't back down in front of these assholes.”

“Are you complimenting me?”

“Yes. Don't make me do it again.”

I try to push past again. He stops me with a hand on my chest.

“Todd, you can't make me do this.”

“No. But
you
can. Methune, you
got
this.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do.
We
got this.”

∗  ∗  ∗

As Shefford and Todd are frog marching me back into the venue, Shefford says, “Look, just play loud.”

“What if I screw up again?” I say.

“Play louder.”

∗  ∗  ∗

Hasty last-minute planning as Shefford steers us through the crowd to the stage, Todd going through the set list. “And no namby-pamby Simon and Garfunkel crap. We're going hard, straight-up Jack White, Black Keys, whatever. Got it?”

Everything moving very quickly. Shefford playing roadie, plugging in his guitar for me and fiddling briefly with the amp settings; Todd thumping on the bass pedal and rearranging some things; me adjusting the guitar strap and not looking at the crowd, and just as I say to Shefford, “I don't think I can​—” he grabs the mic and bellows into it, “What's up, mofos! Please welcome to the stage
Austin Methune!
” And everyone's turning toward us and there's an explosion behind me as Todd assaults the drums, and screw it, I hit the opening chord, the amp erupting like a volcano, and as Shefford goes airborne, diving from the stage, I hear a howl come out of my throat I've never heard before and oh, it is
on.

∗  ∗  ∗

TAP TAP TAP.

Here's another really bad way to be woken up: Lawyer Rick rapping a key on the driver-side window of the car in which you're sleeping. The car that belongs to him that you stole and drove to another state.

TAP TAP TAP.

The driver's seat is leaned all the way back, and I prop myself up on my elbows to goggle at Rick. He's standing right outside the door, hands on hips, bent at the waist, peering into the car like a traffic cop. His expression like a cop's too: unreadable, blank.

Oh, crap.

∗  ∗  ∗

The show.

The show is a distorted white-hot blur. I only remember snippets: yowling through the songs, the gunshot reports of Todd firing off accent notes, glimpses of faces looking at me in surprise. Looking at me with respect.

Jumping off the stage afterward, Shefford saying, “Yeah, mofos!”, beers shoved in our hands, drinking, more drinking, Shefford's band playing an ear-crushing set.

When Todd and I stumbled out of the bar, I said, “That was awesome! You were awesome!
We
were
awesome!
”

“No,” said Todd. “We
sucked.
But who gives a crap? You got up there, Methune,” and he punched me in the shoulder, ow, and I LOVE TODD MALLOY.

Plans were made: Todd's got a return flight at nine a.m. We're gonna stay out all night. We're in Brooklyn, right? We're gonna PARTY! But first, let's just head back to the car for a quick disco napzzzzzz . . .

∗  ∗  ∗

TAP. TAP. TAP.

“Okay . . . sorry, wait a . . . second . . .”

I start fumbling with the door, too sleep clumsy and muddled to figure out if I'm supposed to be rolling down the window or opening the door, or how to do either of those operations. Rick observes me for a few seconds, then concentrates briefly on something in his hand, and​—​
bleepBLOOP
—​the door unlocks. I guess he has his copy of the key fob.

I open the door about six inches, just so I don't have to let reality come flooding in all at once. Rick rests his left hand on the top of the door and his right on the roof and leans forward and we contemplate each other, Rick going in and out of focus.

“Car's got a LoJack on it,” he says finally. “Vehicle locator.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Whuzzah? What's going on?”

Todd, sitting up in the passenger seat, doing some drool control with a forearm dragged across his mouth.

“Oh, crap,” he says. Then, “Who are you?”

“I'm the guy who owns the car,” says Rick.

“Oh, crap.”

“Yes,” says Rick. “Oh, crap.”

We all ponder the
Oh, crap
ness of the situation.

“Cool car, though,” says Todd.

∗  ∗  ∗

“Out,” says Rick to me. “You too,” he says to Todd.

We both comply, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk. Rick does a circle around the car, checking it for damage in the illumination provided by the streetlight overhead, then nods to himself, apparently satisfied. Then he walks directly up to Todd, hands on hips, regards him impassively for a moment, then proceeds to prosecuting-attorney the living hell out of him.

“State your full name.”

“Todd Patrick Malloy.”

“Place of residence?”

And so on, a rapid-fire line of interrogation that Todd answers without a hint of attitude or resistance, obediently spilling every last detail as if he were under oath. I have to hand it to Rick. It's . . . impressive.

“Please tell me you're eighteen,” says Rick.

“I'm eighteen.”

“You're not, are you.”

“Uh . . . no. No, sir.”

“I imagine your parents have no idea you're here.”

“I've stayed out all night before.”

“But not, presumably, in an entirely different state, without permission.”

Todd doesn't say anything.

“Right,” says Rick.

He sighs and rubs his eyes, no doubt envisioning potential legal liabilities.

“What I should be doing,” he says to Todd, “is informing both the authorities and your parents of your presence here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Todd waits. I wait.

“Ah, screw it,” says Rick. “Both of you, in the car.”

∗  ∗  ∗

What is Rick feeling as he pilots the car through the late-night traffic over the Williamsburg Bridge to Manhattan? I haven't the foggiest. He's silent until we reach a stoplight and he fiddles with his phone, then hands it to me. “Tell them we're in suite 442 and we want to order room service. Get what you want. I want a burger and fries. Medium on the burger.”

I take the phone, moving like I'm underwater, and tell the voice on the other end that we're in 442 and would like to order room service.

∗  ∗  ∗

So now it's two a.m. and Rick and I are sitting at a table in a suite in a fancy Manhattan hotel eating burgers and fries. Todd's food is sitting untouched on the tray under its metal cover, Todd already out cold on the sofa after saying he was just gonna close his eyes for a second. Rick still hasn't said anything. He seems content to sit and eat like there's nothing particularly unusual about, well, everything.

“Um . . . my mom . . .” I finally say.

“Yeah, your mom. She's very relieved that I found you, although she didn't express it exactly in those terms. By the way, I met your friend Josephine.”

“What?”

“Around the time I got back and realized the car was gone, she came by the house and told us what happened.”

“She hates me.”

“Cared enough about you to try and help. Anyway, I told your mom I'd go fetch you and went to the airport.”

“I stole your car.”

“No kidding.”

“It's a crime.”

“Yes. It's grand theft auto, which is a felony. Plus you transported it across state lines, which makes it a
federal
crime. That's the kind where the DOJ, the Department of Justice, gets involved, and you get a visit from folks who refer to themselves as special agents. By which I mean they're FBI.”