Words I Might Have Ate

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The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of something else while I shot the bull. I live in New York, and I was thinking about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South. I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go. I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away.

I turn the page, my mouth moving slowly as I scan the words on the dirty, worn page carefully. The paragraph draws to a close and I find my brow furrowing deeply as I think about the ducks on the lagoon in Central Park. I’ve never been to Central Park, though I can imagine it to be a pretty serene place, with ducks swimming lazily on a pond and people strolling about on the pathways leisurely.

So I’m not quite sure why I’m feeling so empathetic towards the ducks in the novel, seeing as I’ve never seen any on that particular lagoon. At any rate, I know there are ducks here in California and I’m pretty attached to them, though they do quack rather annoyingly and shit all over your car if you’re stupid enough to park too close to the water.

Or were those seagulls?

Either way, I rather enjoy the birds here in Berkeley. Luckily enough for all of us, Northern California’s temperatures rarely dropped anywhere near freezing so the ducks and the seagulls were safe for now from winter’s harsh weather.

Sighing a bit, I sit up from my current sprawled out position on my bed and toss the book aside. I had been reading for a good half-hour already and I was ready for a well-deserved break. A bite to eat and maybe something to smoke sounded in order.

I scramble up from the mattress and scratch at my unshaven cheek absentmindedly before padding out into the kitchen in my boxers. The apartment was entirely mine today as Mike was at work until three and Tré had decided to attend his lecture at the community college, despite the fact that he hadn’t been to one yet and he was already a third of the way through the semester.

The refrigerator is depressingly empty and I groan a bit as I realize that this means I’ll have to put clothes on and go out to forage for some grub. My entire body protests at the idea of moving from my current sanctuary. My crash after yesterday evening’s festivities had been particularly brutal.

I had woken at four in the morning with a sweaty, aching body and intense stomach pains. I spent the next hour or so clinging to the porcelain rim of the toilet as waves of crippling nausea swept over me. At about quarter to six, Mike had woken to get ready for his shift and found me curled up in the corner of the bathroom. He had gathered me up and helped me back to my room before bringing me a tall glass of cool water and some medicine for my queasy stomach. After instructing me to call him at work should my condition worsen, he had exited my room and I had been left to my own devices before drifting off to sleep at about seven.

The clock on my nightstand read 12:07 the next time I opened my eyes. Immediately I reached for the now warm water and gulped it down thirstily, not caring that some of the liquid dribbled down my chin and landed on my sheets.

After a particularly vicious inner-monologue, I had decided that since I was meeting David at his house tonight after work, I should at least attempt to read a portion of the book so I wouldn’t embarrass myself too badly. At first, I had been fiercely concentrated, barely registering the fact that Zero was chasing dust-bunnies under my bed or the shrieking guitar solo that blasted through the ventilation system throughout the entire building from someone playing a well-worn record. I had gotten a good bit read before my mind began to wander and I found myself reaching the end of the page and not really knowing what had honestly just happened to the characters.

And so I would start the page over again, vowing to focus completely on Holden. And again, my attention would be elsewhere and so finally, after my rather skimpy reading, it had been unanimous that a break was in order if I expected myself to sit back down before work and read some more.

My itchy, dry eyes spot the worn scrap of paper tucked beneath a half-full wine glass of orange juice and some other random odds and end. I automatically reach for it, pushing the neon orange and green Gilman flyers out of my way. It was the number of the pizza place down the street and my stomach grumbles appreciatively at the thought of take-out. I had the money now that I had a full-time job and the best part was since it was my own house, I didn’t even have to put on pants to answer the door.

Silently thanking whoever invented take-out, I dial the number and lean against the side of the refrigerator as I wait to be patched through to the operator on duty. A particularly cheery pop song rings through my ears and I find myself wincing at the grotesque way the pop star’s altered voice rises to hit a deafeningly high note.

Thankfully the operator cuts in and asks for my order. With a rather talkative stomach, I find myself ordering a large cheese pizza, not really caring that my impromptu meal had just set me back ten dollars. Mike could eat the leftovers when he got home from work. Having food in the house would put him in a good mood which means he could probably be easily persuaded to hand over the keys to his car so I wouldn’t be dependent upon public transit tonight.

With a new-found bounce in my step, I stroll into my room and grab some crumbled bills from my wallet before returning to the living room and flicking on the television. I click through the channels mechanically, flying past a news anchor and some talk show host before the tiniest snatch of Tom and Jerry catches my eye. I find myself grinning stupidly as I backtrack and slouch down into the cushions just as Tom gets smacked in the face with a frying pan.

I don’t know what’s more sad about this situation. The fact that on a Wednesday morning, I could be found in my boxers, waiting for my take-out and getting sucked into old-school cartoons or the fact that I was twenty-one and still rooting for the cat even though he always lost and never ended up catching the rat anyway.

The doorbell rings and I break my gaze from watching the mouse outsmart the cat yet again before rising to my feet and trudging towards the door. I peer through the peephole and brighten instantly when I realize that the spotty teenager on the other side of my door was carrying my lunch.

I open the door and grin a bit at the sullen look on the delivery boy’s face. Something tells me he’s not too thrilled about having to deliver blazingly hot, greasy pizzas to half-naked customers at the height of the Californian heat. He mumbles the total at me, not meeting my gaze before shoving the box at me and grabbing for the cash. I count back a tip before thanking him and kicking the door shut with my heel.

The bottom of the box is hot in the palm of my hand and as I pad into the kitchen, I lift the box into the air to see a dark grease circle soaked into the cardboard. I toss the food onto the counter and lift the lid up, breathing in the aroma of fresh tomato sauce and doughy pizza crust. Though I know my arteries should be screaming bloody murder at the sight of such a heart-attack waiting to happen, I can’t stop myself from throwing a third piece down onto my plate and shutting the cardboard box tightly.

I’m in a considerably better mood by the time my food is consumed. My head has stopped with the incessant throbbing at the temples and my stomach has ceased with the threats of mutiny. With a cigarette between my lips and the familiar course of nicotine rushing through my veins, I feel like a brand new person. All I need now is a shower and I should be doing fucking cartwheels through the kitchen.

However before I can rouse myself out of the nest I’ve made amongst the sofa cushions, the phone rings from in the kitchen where I had left it on the counter. A muffled curse slips from my mouth and I resist the urge to say fuck it to the phone and continue with my Wednesday afternoon cartoons. The phone clicks over to the machine and I breathe a sigh of relief as peace descends upon my abode once more.

And then it rings again.

This time the swear words aren’t muffled as I climb to my feet and lumber towards the phone, all traces of drowsiness and content slipping away completely. I wrench the phone from the cradle and bring it up to my ear, a scathingly sarcastic remark biting to be unleashed upon whoever’s on the other end.

“BJ?”

Fuck, it’s Mike.

“Hello?”

“Hey man,” I clear my throat, riding myself of the hoarse, raspy voice that I had acquired. “What’s up--I thought you were at work?”

Mike’s voice is grainy because of the crap connection and in the background, I can hear shouts from the cooks and the clatter of dishes. “I am, I’m on a quick five minute break to use the phone so I could call you though.”

“Oh,” I pucker my lips thoughtfully. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Mike continues like I hadn’t even spoken. “I know we were planning on just jamming tonight at Tré’s place but I think I just booked us an excellent show.”

We had practice tonight? I shake my head and clutch at my blue hair tightly. “What kind of show?”

Mike’s silent for a moment and the noise from the restaurant dies away slightly. I can imagine him stretching the cord out on the phone as long as it possibly could go and hunching down around the receiver to block out any intrusive noises to his conversation. “It’s at Mario’s down on Ghent; they’re looking for a live band to play for their college night.”

“College night?” I find myself asking dubiously. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a special for college students. They get a discount off of their meal if they show up with their student ID,” Mike pauses and I can practically see him chewing on his lower lip anxiously. “All of their other attempts at boosting their percentage of younger patrons failed and so the owner’s daughter suggested he bring in a live band. Evidently he asked around and someone pointed Green Day out to him and he came in and asked me if we’d be willing to play.”

“Is it paying?” I question slowly, my mind scrambling to retrieve all of the information being thrown at me. “I mean the fact that he’s—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike cuts in breathlessly and I can hear someone shouting that his five minutes are up and could he please refill table seven’s drinks. “Fifty bucks a piece and as if that weren’t enough already, if he thinks we’re any good, he says that every Monday and Wednesday evening, the stage is ours for the night. And he’ll be willing to pay us every time we take the stage.” He finishes up triumphantly.

A huge smile breaks out on my face and I fight to stop myself from punching the air in victory. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’d have to check our schedule to make sure we were clear,” Mike replies smoothly. “He’s still waiting for me at a table out front. But Bill man, honestly, we’d be morons to pass this up.”

“I know, I know,” I prattle wildly, chewing on the skin around my thumb anxiously. “We’re in. Of course we’re in. When does he want us to play?”

“Tonight,” Mike answers quickly. There’s a crash and someone yells for Mike, sounding furious. “Shit Bill, I’ve got to go. You’ll call Tré up and let him know, right? I can pick you up from work, just try to see if you can get off a bit early. We’ll want to take the stage before the crowd leaves.” He swears under his breath and rattles off a reply before turning his attention back to me. “See you in a few hours!”

He clicks off and I’m left with the dial tone in my ears. Slowly, mechanically, I lower the phone and press the off button before setting it down on the counter. My brain is reeling as I try to figure out what the hell just happened to me and my perfect state of nirvana.

My band has just been offered a standing paying gig from a pretty popular restaurant, which would not only put some more money in our pockets, but also introduce our music to a whole new crowd. The publicity that this would generate for Green Day would be undeniably fantastic. We needed this boost right now. We’re just about to head back into the studio to record our sophomore album.

So why was I so bent out of shape about this entire thing? Because accepting this gig would mean cancelling on David tonight. And by skipping out on our meeting, I’d be put even more behind on my deadline. My stomach rolls uncomfortably at the idea of picking up the phone and calling my brother. He wouldn’t think of Green Day playing a gig as a solid enough reason to skip out on my education.

But, a little voice inside my head nags, you’re only going back to school because it’ll be better for Green Day in the long run. You’ll be able to get a better job and more money to invest in your band. All of this is for Green Day. So you’d be stupid to pass up this money opportunity.

I shake my head as if that’ll clear my pesky thoughts and rub at my temples, suddenly drained and ready to crawl back into bed to sleep for a few more hours. I glance up at the clock and note the time, realizing that David would still be at the school, preparing for the upcoming year. So if I call the house and leave a message, by the time he receives it, I will already be at work. And when he returns my call, I’ll be in the car on my way to Mario’s to play for a bunch of college students. I’d get his reply when I got home that night and by then, it’d be too late to change anything.

A sudden thought cuts through my mind with such clarity that I’m rather frightened. David wouldn’t consider Green Day getting a paying gig a good enough reason to skive out on lessons tonight, but he would think that me pulling a double at work would merit me an absence tonight.

And suddenly, I had a built-in excuse. With a guilty smile cautiously hovering on my lips, I picked up the phone and dialed David’s home number. When it clicked to the answering machine, I punched my fist into the air—a silent victory on my behalf.

“Hey Dave, it’s me, Billie. Listen I’ve got some bad news about tonight… someone’s called off and their extra hours tonight are being offered to me. I’m going to take them because hey, who am I to pass up money? So obviously I’m not going to be able to make it tonight to our meeting. I’m really sorry,” I cross my fingers behind my back—a childish habit that has yet to die. “I’ve been reading the book you sent home with me and it’s really interesting! I can’t quite wrap my head around it completely. Anyway, give me a call back and we’ll reschedule, I guess. Talk to you later, bye.”

-X-

The clock on Mike’s dashboard reads six fifteen as we rattle down Hopkins Street with Operation Ivy blaring at top volume. Mike is reclined in the driver’s seat, the wheel lazily gripped in two fingers and the other hand knocking ash from his cigarette. Tré is in the back-seat, wedged in between his snare drum and his cymbal kit with his drumsticks beating a rapid tattoo out on the thighs of his pants. His mouth is hanging open slightly in concentration as he changes tunes and begins to drum along with the song.

I inhale deeply one last time before flicking my filter out the window and exhaling slowly, the smoke seeping out of my nose a bit. I’m straddling my guitar case rather awkwardly and so I shift, my feet resting up on the dashboard as Mike turns the stereo down and glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Are we playing our normal set list?”

Tré leans forward so his face is between our seats and within a frightening proximity of my own. “I think we should. It’s what we play the best, it’s what we’re used to.”

“He has a point,” I mumble, running my hand over my smooth chin. “We’ll have to stick with the normal set tonight and we can practice—if things go well, we can always play our new song.”

Mike makes a noise in the back of his throat as we roll to a stop at a light. “We’re not one-hundred percent on that one though and I feel like we need to be one-hundred-and-ten percent tonight. A lot rides on this, guys.” He looks at the both of us, his blue eyes calm and serious even in the dim lighting.

“No pressure,” Tré groans, flopping back against his seat again. “I had just convinced myself that we were playing at Gilman’s tonight and not to some different crowd.”

I laugh softly and look out my window as we begin to drive again. “It had to happen sometime, Tré. It’s not like we could continue playing to Gilman’s gang for the rest of our careers.”

Tré doesn’t get a chance to reply as Mike pulls the car into the parking lot of a long, low building that’s brightly lit with plenty of people milling about, talking and laughing. Even from inside the car, the smoke and scent of alcohol is strong and I find my stomach rolling at the sight of these people.

But I somehow manage to mask my nervousness as I climb from the car and shoulder my guitar before moving the seat forward so Tré can clamber out. Mike busies himself with grabbing his bass and an amp while I carry Tré’s cymbals to the door.

We attract some strange glances as we filter through the door, our arms full of instruments and wires. And as we hesitate awkwardly on the outskirts of the crowd, trying to ignore the startled hostess, a tall man in a crisp gray suit comes barreling down on us, a wide smile plastered to his cheeks.

“Mike, you came,” He calls out, waving us forward with one pale hand. His gold watch glints in the light and I find myself staring at the cigar hanging from his thin lips delicately. He’s like the very anti-thesis of every Italian man I have ever seen in any movie in my life. “Come on, come on. Here’s the stage,” He leads us through swinging doors and we almost collide with a waitress carrying a tray full of steaming dishes.

I murmur a quick apology and attempt to flatten myself against the wall as best as I can with a guitar and half of a drum set in my grasp. She brushes by me without another word and I hurry to catch up to Mike and the Italian man.

He leads us up three steps and we finally spill out onto an empty stage framed with inky bottle green curtains and a worn old piano pushed up against the concrete wall at the back of the stage. The man is talking a mile a minute to Mike, instructing him where to plug the amplifiers in and whatnot.

I turn to Tré and make a bit of a face. “Let’s start on your drums then, shall we?”

He nods and while he begins to assemble his stool, I set up his cymbals. It takes us only a few moments to get his entire station set up next to the piano and we decide to leave Mike with the man while we drop off the stage and return to the car for the rest of the equipment.

I shove my hands deep into my pockets as we exit the restaurant once again, the cool night air refreshing against my already warm face. “So,” I begin slowly, drawing out my word. “How do you think it’s going to go?”

Tré makes a wry face as we pull the last of our equipment from Mike’s trunk. He kicks the door shut and I check to make sure it’s locked before we begin to walk back inside. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to judge this crowd… it-it makes me nervous,” He stumbles a bit on his words and I nod understandingly.

By the time we rejoin Mike on stage, the man has left us to our own devices and Mike has successfully set up his bass and amplifier. Luckily for us microphones had been provided. Our two microphones were such pieces of shit that I oftentimes forewent it altogether and resorted to screaming my lyrics out to the crowd. It wasn’t the easiest on my voice but it got the point across.

“So that was Anthony Frusciante,” Mike explains unnecessarily. “He’s really excited about this. Apparently word got around that we were playing here and it’s drawn in quite a good crowd.”

At his words the three of us glance out at the rather crowded dining room and a fresh wave of nerves sweep over me. I can’t make out much beyond the third or fourth table because the restaurant is so smoky but I can still feel their eyes on me as I drop to my knees and pull Blue from the case.

My fingers fall into place with ease as I quickly play a few chords to make sure everything is set. I had tuned the guitar back at the apartment but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I stand back on my feet, bringing my black and red strap around my neck and fastening it to Blue securely.

We were ready.

I hesitate a bit, unsure of whether or not to introduce myself or launch right into a song but apparently, Anthony decided for me. He strolls out onto the stage and walks right up to my microphone, slipping it from the stand and turning it on.

He clears his throat once and all of the chattering falls to a dull roar as he now has the restaurant’s complete and undivided attention. “Welcome to Mario’s. Tonight’s college night, as if you didn’t already know,” An appropriate chuckle ripples through the room before he resumes. “All meals tonight are ten percent off if you present your waiter or waitress with your student ID. Here at Mario’s, we’re proud of our ability to make your dining experience with us as pleasurable as possible. And so I thought to myself, what can I do for my guests that will ensure that they have a wonderful night here at Mario’s? And I realized that aside from a friendly staff, excellent food and a comfortable atmosphere, all we were missing was a rock and roll band. So without further ado, I present to you, fresh from Gilman’s Street, Green Day!”

There’s a polite smattering of applause as the majority of diners return to their conversation. I grin weakly at my two band mates before stepping up to my microphone and smiling sheepishly out at the crowd. I pull at the skin on the back of my neck in discomfort as I laugh softly into the microphone. “Thanks for having us here tonight, Mario’s. Like Anthony said, we’re Green Day and this first song is called At The Library.”

I take a step back from the stand and count lightly under my breath before launching into the song, both Tré and Mike blending in with me seamlessly as we come up to the first verse.

“Hey there, looking at me, tell me what do you see that you quickly turn your head away? I tried to find the words I could use, don’t have the courage to come up to you, my chance is looking a bit gray. Staring across the room, are you leaving soon? I just need a little time.”

-X-

Our first fifteen minute break came an hour later. We trooped off the stage, sweaty but pleased with our performance so far. We were presented with cups of water and a complimentary basket of breadsticks that Tré promptly attacked with such ferocity that one would have thought he had never seen food before. A pink-cheeked waitress had informed us that we were doing well so far and that she had never seen Anthony look so thrilled at the sight of his dining room so packed.

During our second set of the night, we picked things up a bit with faster songs. Two songs into our set, we had gathered a respectable handful of people around the lip of the stage and between Mike and myself, we managed to start a wave at the right side of the room that spread across the room to the left side, garnering cheers and whistles from the audience. Tré even launched into an impromptu drum solo, somehow managing to snap his one drumstick in half. He had managed to play the rest of the song with the stub before he was able to retrieve another set from our equipment in the back.

By the time we finished up our last song of the night—a cover of Sheena Is A Punk Rocker—it was closing in on ten and the crowd had thinned out considerably from earlier. Anthony had flipped the open sign to closed nearly thirty minutes ago but there were still people drinking coffee and finishing up their meals leisurely.

He greeted us in the tiny alcove between the kitchen and the stage stairs with such a frighteningly wide smile that I was a bit tempted to remind him that his face might freeze that way if he didn’t change it. He threw his arms up and cuffed Mike lightly on the arm.

“Never have I seen the dining room so full,” He exclaims, his eyes glittering wildly, motioning for us to follow him down the hallway. “Not even when my grandfather first opened the restaurant. After your first set, I had people calling their friends to come on down to listen to you guys play. I’m going to make a fortune off of you guys! I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.” He shakes his head as he chuckles again to himself, pushing open a heavy oak door.

We are in the office of the restaurant. Anthony throws himself into his leather chair and pulls out a thick wad of money from a cashbox on his desk. “Well fifty dollars apiece,” He laughs and counts out six crisp twenty-dollar bills and three ten-dollar notes before handing us the bunch. “Money well earned, boys. The stage here is yours every Monday and Wednesday. What do you say?” He looks at us expectantly and I can’t contain the giddy smile that springs to my face.

I glance back at Tré and Mike who are both looking excited and the tiniest bit in awe at the wad of cash in Mike’s hands. “Do we get paid every time we perform?”

Anthony nods immediately. “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? Tell you what, I’m willing to pay you lot fifty dollars every time you play here at Mario’s and I’ll split the tip jar with you.”

At the mention of more money, I find my heart speeding up excitedly but then I’m only reminded of the fact that my mom waitresses and the one thing she hates more than anything else about her job is when tips were crap. Because when tips were shitty and she had to split them between all the other waitresses, she barely made enough to make it worth her time.

“But the waitresses,” I begin slowly, my mind screaming at me to just shut up and take the money. But my conscious wasn’t so nice. “They won’t want their share of the money—“ Behind me, Tré roughly jabs a drumstick into the small of my back, a not so subtle warning to keep it quiet.

Anthony laughs, standing up from his desk and herding us out of the office. “The tips tonight, from all the tables we’ve managed to serve so far, are so astronomical thanks to you guys that I’m sure they won’t mind three more cuts into the profit. So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

I waste no time in reaching out and shaking his hand firmly. “Absolutely.”