Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [46]
“Oh. So what exactly is grunge, anyway?”
Kallie folded her arms, cocked an eyebrow. “You know—the Seattle sound.” She gave me a moment to express appropriate recognition, which of course didn’t happen. “It was this musical style that started in the mid-eighties. Heavy guitars, angsty lyrics, generally hardcore. You’ve heard of Nirvana? Pearl Jam? Soundgarden?”
“Nirvana, yes. Not sure about the others.”
Kallie’s eyes grew super-wide. “Just for the record, I don’t think anyone else should ever hear you say that, you being the manager of a rock band and all.”
“Point taken,” I said, and Kallie smiled.
The park was called Viretta Park, a small, grassy hillside surrounded by woods. We were alone as we traipsed up the hill, the grass lime green from the recent rain. Patches of clover shared the ground with a few stubborn dandelions, leftovers from a summer that was already a distant memory. And in the middle of the park was a Douglas fir, its trunk spray-painted with the letters “RIP.”
Beside the tree, two benches had been subjected to the same treatment, every inch of the warm red wood covered in tributes to Kurt Cobain.
“So apart from Cobain, what made Nirvana special?” I asked finally.
Ed turned around. “They took indie rock mainstream.”
“Which means?”
“They broke musical boundaries. Their music was only supposed to appeal to a niche audience. They weren’t supposed to make it big. But somehow they ended up speaking for their generation in a way that bigger bands just couldn’t seem to.”
Kallie smiled. “And they had energy. They just . . . rocked.”
I looked at Kurt Cobain’s house, clearer from the park, and gawked at the size of the place. It was a beautiful house, too, with patterns in the red brick and latticed windows looking out over the lake and mountains. It must have been worth millions of dollars. Suddenly I wanted to get away, leave all that wasted wealth and misdirected adoration behind me.
“I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it,” I said. “All these people visit this park just because he lived next door?”
Kallie looked puzzled. “No. They come here because that’s where he killed himself.”
I waited for her to laugh, to cry gotcha, but she didn’t. “What?” I mumbled. “How?”
“He shot himself,” she said. “Didn’t you know? He went alone to the greenhouse above the garage and shot himself.”
I felt my breath catch, my eyes drawn back to the house magnetically. It looked the same as before, but somehow different too.
I took in the view again, the mountains fast disappearing, the inky black lake stretching into the distance, rimmed by amber streetlights on the other side. “But it’s so beautiful here,” I said.
Kallie and Ed stood silent, regarding me.
“It’s just . . . how could you see such beauty and not find a reason to keep living?”
Kallie stepped forward and took my hand in hers. “He was depressed. He was addicted to heroin. And I think there comes a time when all the beauty in the world just isn’t enough.”
“But he had so many fans, so much money.”
“It’s not enough,” said Kallie sadly. “I don’t think anyone who’s motivated by fans or money will ever get it.”
“Get what?”
“Music. It’s not about those things. It’s about a feeling. It’s about expressing yourself. It’s about letting go.”
I couldn’t help but stare at Kallie, Dumb’s weakest link—the one who couldn’t play in time or in tune, whose superficiality had left me speechless for years. Did she really believe a word she’d said?
I sat down on one of the benches, stuffed my hands inside the sleeves of my fleece jacket. On the seat, to my left, someone named Tom D. from Minneapolis wanted Kurt to know that he was gone but not forgotten. Dakota and Phil from Sydney, Australia, told Kurt that he’d live forever. Someone had even left three daisies, wilted and withered now, but a touching gesture all the same.
Ed sat down too, but he didn’t speak, just stayed with me as I studied the bench and our breaths condensed in the air. He seemed to know I needed to be quiet, but I was still grateful to feel him there beside me.
In