The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion (11 page)

It was a depressing scene, though the fans who were there were quite loyal—wearing T-shirts bearing Skark's face, singing along with every lyric, shouting out song requests.

But halfway through the show, something went wrong.

The incident occurred while Skark was finishing a song called “You Can't Hide,” a hard-driving dance number about visiting different planets in search of the perfect girl, which Driver had told me was one of the band's biggest hits.

For most of the song, the fans were rapturous—dancing wildly, singing along, using face tentacles to make out with each other. But as the song was ending, somebody shouted at the stage.

“Play something
new
for once!”
said the heckler.
“This is the same set you did five years ago. You think I don't remember?”

“Who said that?” said Skark, putting his hand over his eyes to block the lights.

“I
said it
,” said the heckler.
“And you know it's true.”

“I can't
see
you.”

“Then apparently the song you just sang is wrong,”
said the heckler.
“I guess I
can
hide.”

“Coward,”
said Skark. “Insulting me and then refusing to show yourself. Where
are
you?”

No response.

“It
better not
be Ferguson out there harassing this band,” said Skark. “Is it Ferguson? I know it's Ferguson.”

Ferguson?

“It's not Ferguson,”
said the voice.
“But the band was better when Ferguson was in it, if you ask me.”

“
Cower
in the crowd all you want, poltroon,” said Skark. “But this Friday afternoon we're playing the Dondoozle Festival, and we'll have a whole new
set
of material.”

Cad and Driver looked at each other. The idea of having a new set of material by Friday seemed to be news to them.

“Who the hell plays the opening slot?”
said the voice.
“Didn't you used to
close
festivals?”

Skark climbed an amplifier at the front of the stage, holding the mike at his side and staring into the crowd, searching for his accuser.

“
Somebody
has to open the festival,” he said. “It's an
honor.
”

“Nobody cares about the opening act,”
said the voice. “
You guys
suck.”

“Tonight is a warm-up for our
true glory
,” said Skark. “A warm-up you don't deserve, based on these outbursts.”

The crowd grumbled.

Cad leaned into his microphone and tried to do damage control.

“You actually do deserve it,” said Cad. “We love you. Sorry about Skark. Let's move forward and give you a good sho—”

“Don't you
dare
apologize for me,” said Skark. “If you want to continue the show on your own, you're more than welcome to, but I'm done.
Good night.
”

Skark kicked down his mike and stormed away from the stage, grabbing his Spine Wine off an amplifier as he disappeared into the wings, the audience booing him in his wake. Food and beverage containers rained down on the stage. Cad watched Skark go, then turned back to his microphone and spoke again, dodging cans and tubes of meat.

“I'm
sorry
,” he said. “I'm as angry as you are. Full refunds will be offered at the door….”

Driver shook his head at Cad.
We can't do that.

“Full refunds will be offered
eventually
,” said Cad. “We're running a little tight at the moment.”

I saw audience members working in teams to rip seats from the floor, pushing and pulling until the chairs broke free. They lifted them above their heads, and furniture poured onto the stage as Cad and Driver bolted for the wings. If ever there was a band that needed to break up, it was this one. I just hoped it didn't happen until I found Sophie.

Getting probed would have been better than dealing with these guys.

Backstage, Skark and Cad were screaming at each other as the roadies and Driver stood around bored, having seen this display many times before. I lingered off to the side, munching on an appetizer that tasted like a crab cake but looked a bit like a marshmallow Peep. I was annoyed with myself for not possessing any culinary talent—if I had kitchen skills, maybe I would have been able to reverse engineer some of this food and open an artisanal small-plate restaurant if I ever got back home. Another employment opportunity if and when I didn't get into college.

I licked the crumbs off my fingers and waited for the drama to settle so I could get back to the business of finding Sophie.

“You
cannot
keep stopping our shows to yell at hecklers,” said Cad. “Especially one who is telling the
truth.
The last time we were here, we
did
play the same set list, and the crowd
knew
that fact because these are the only fans we have
left.
And what about telling the crowd we'll have an entire new
set
of material at Dondoozle? You haven't written a new song in
five years.
”

“It's not my fault if I'm still waiting for inspiration's gentle touch,” said Skark. “It will come, it always does. I wrote my first album in a weekend.”

“Yeah, but you were
good
then,” said Cad. “Your head was clear. And what was that crap about Ferguson?”

“Ferguson sent me a letter threatening to sabotage our
shows,” said Skark. “Don't pretend like I'm being unreasonable with my security concerns.”

“Ferguson hasn't been in the band in
nine years
, and he's been sending us threatening letters the
entire time
,” said Cad. “He never does
anything.
” Cad pointed to the open bottle of Spine Wine in Skark's hand. “Your
habits
are making you paranoid, man.”

Skark grabbed Cad by the neck. Cad might have been in excellent physical condition, but Skark was far taller and built like a powerful, wine-fueled insect. He squeezed Cad's throat.

“After all this time together, it
appears
you still think this band is a democracy,” he said. “If I say we will have a new set of material by Friday, we will
have it.
Until then, keep your mouth shut and play your bass.”

Skark released his grip and Cad fell to the ground, gasping for air. A roadie tried to help him up, but Cad waved him off.

“If I wanted to play with a washed-up singer, I would have stayed in Atlantic City,” said Cad, wiping spittle away from his mouth with his arm.

“I
hate
to interrupt you while you're re-creating your normal scene,” said Driver. “But the bus needs to leave
now
or we're going to be late for our next gig, so if you have more fists to throw, I suggest you get it out of your system….”

“Leave without me, I don't care, I'm out,” said Cad, climbing to his feet and walking away.

“Good Lord, you quit the band every week,” said Skark.

“
And why
do you think that is?” said Cad. “Maybe it has
something to do with me wanting to
leave the band.
Imagine that.”

Driver sighed and shrugged and headed back in the direction of the bus, while the roadies put their heads down and tried not to make eye contact with Skark as they packed up gear, placed instruments in cases, and loaded amplifiers onto their trucks.

When Driver's drum set rolled past, Skark grabbed a polished cymbal and held it up to his face like a mirror. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his makeup, which was smeared from the confrontation. He looked at me.

“Would you
please
stop staring?” said Skark. “You're like a pestiferous canine looking for a handout.”

“I saw my prom date on the All-Universe Nature Channel,” I said. “She's at the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species, and everyone there is chasing her. If I don't get to her before they do…”

“Let me
once again
make this clear, because you're having trouble understanding,” said Skark, placing the handkerchief back in his pocket and staring at me. “Even if Jyfon was
on the way
to our next gig, we wouldn't stop this tour to get your prom date. What we are doing now is
calculated preparation
for the Dondoozle Festival. We can't afford distractions.”

“You sure seemed distracted out there tonight,” I said.

Skark poked his fingernail into my chest and pushed. He could have broken the skin if he wanted.

“Mind your mouth or I'll make sure you find yourself
burning up in some distant atmosphere,” he said. “You wouldn't be the first stowaway I've had to dispose of when he became too conspicuous a presence. I should have seen through your cheeseburger scheme, using me for cheap transportation and a way to the stars.”

Skark walked back toward the bus, crushing a soda can under his foot and booting it a hundred feet with a frustrated kick.

I didn't want to follow him. I asked a roadie where Cad had gone, and the roadie responded with a plump finger pointed outside. After a short walk, I was in the stadium parking lot, which was packed with equipment trucks and other grunts finishing up disassembling pieces of the set.

It felt odd to be strolling normally in such a strange world. Comets zipped through the atmosphere above me, beyond which I saw green spiral galaxies and hot pink nebulae that looked like they'd been poured from a paint can into the sky. I followed a copper-colored river that ran along the perimeter of the parking lot until I reached a clearing, where Cad was sitting on a bench with a half-consumed bottle of Spine Wine. I sat next to him and waited for him to finish downing a long gulp.

“I'm sorry you had to see the fight back there,” he said, wiping the liquid from his lips. “I don't like arguing in front of guests, but if you haven't already figured it out—this band is breaking apart in a real way.”

“Did you mean what you said about quitting?”

“I mean it every time I say it,” he said. “Not that it matters.
We haven't gotten along with each other in forever. Nobody takes anybody seriously anymore.”

“Have other members left?” I said. “I don't know much about the history of the band.”

“Everybody leaves, eventually.”

Cad took me through the litany of musicians whom Skark had fired since he started the band—a pair of bassoonists back in the eighties, a beatboxer in the early nineties during Skark's brief hip-hop phase, a pan flutist who might have actually been the god Pan, along with dozens of bassists and keyboardists whom Skark had used for a moment and then summarily dismissed.

In fact, at this point, Skark and Driver were the only original members of the group, having met each other while incarcerated in a juvenile prison, which Skark was in for multiple counts of shoplifting—starting with lip gloss and skinny jeans, but eventually moving up to microphones and guitars. Driver was constantly in trouble for putting his fists through walls or pounding on school desks until they broke. That one of them would become a singer and the other a drummer was a natural progression.

Cad explained that the original lineup had also included an arsonist from the detention center, who was kicked out after three years for using a suitcase bomb to light his bass on fire at the end of a gig, necessitating the evacuation of a large city. He was followed by a never-ending rotation of bongo drummers and clarinetists and whip dancers, with Skark constantly
trying to assemble the correct lineup to replicate the music in his head. Now they were just a trio. As long as his voice and his guitar were part of the sound, the audience didn't care who was backing him.