Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [62]
“I’m sorry.” I meant it too, but I wasn’t just talking about his band. I felt like I was seeing the real Baz for the first time. The bohemian clothes weren’t retro-cool, or even retro, they were relics of 1985, a refusal to accept that the band was over, time had marched on, and he was rapidly becoming an old man. The studio wasn’t really about mentoring future bands or making a living, it was his way of reliving the role of pop star vicariously, making all the corrections and improvements he never got the chance to make with The Workin’ Firkins. And something told me that Baz was smart enough to know all this too, that in refusing to move on he had come to terms with the desperately held persona, and felt that it was better than any alternative reality.
“Thank you, Baz, for all you do. I’m getting it, I really am.”
He nodded. “I know you are.” He smiled his crooked smile. “Tell you what, leave me your number. If I hear of any opportunities for an up-and-coming band, I’ll contact you.”
“Thanks. Although you could just e-mail me through the band’s MySpace page,” I said nonchalantly, studying him to see how he’d respond.
Baz grimaced. “I don’t do MySpace, or any of those other sites. It’s all too weird, if you ask me.”
It wasn’t the response I was expecting. “But you’ve visited our MySpace page, right?”
He rolled his eyes. “No offense, but I’ve got a million better things to do than trawl through the Internet trying to find your webpage.” There was no hesitation, no turning red. Whoever the heck ZARKINFIB was, it definitely wasn’t Baz Firkin. “You okay?” he asked as I remained rooted to the spot for several more seconds.
“Yeah. I’m just . . . Yeah. Thanks.”
“Okay, that’s three times you’ve thanked me, so we should stop now. I’m not used to it, and it’s freaking me out. Besides, I’m supposed to be meeting my parole officer at four o’clock.”
It was a good exit line. I just hoped I never had a chance to use it myself.
CHAPTER 36
Tash surveyed the aging audience of Seattle Today contemptuously from the edge of the studio. “If one of them drops dead in the middle of our song,” she said, scowling, “do we have to stop playing?”
I snorted with laughter before realizing she wasn’t completely joking. “That’s not nice, Tash.”
“Nice, no, but quite likely,” she countered, pointing to a couple in the front row who had already fallen asleep.
Selina, the stage manager, glared at us and pursed her lips.
Tash leaned closer. “I don’t think that woman likes us.”
“And she hasn’t even heard you play yet.”
Selina hugged a clipboard, her eyes fixed on various people and objects I couldn’t begin to identify. A couple seconds later she directed Dumb to take their places on the studio set, exuding all the warmth and charm of an army drill sergeant.
My heart beat wildly as the quintet took their positions and tuned up. I was suddenly glad the audience looked so comatose—watching the old ladies with their knitting had a calming effect I hadn’t anticipated when I’d signed the contract. I got the feeling the band was pretty hyper too. All except Will, whose hair may have prevented him from noticing that there was any audience at all.
Selina tapped my arm. “I said, ‘They don’t look like their pictures on the website. Those black-and-white photos are misleading. ’ ”
I smiled innocently. “Yeah, well, I had to shoot in black and white because Tash’s green hair screws with the color contrast.”
She rolled her eyes, like my attempt to torment her had actually worked. (Hanging out with Dumb had clearly rubbed off.) Then she left me and walked over to the host, Donna Stevens, who was having her makeup touched up. (She’d only been on air for ten minutes before the first commercial break, and I wondered how on earth she required makeup intervention already.) Donna peered over Selina’s shoulder and raised a pencil-thin eyebrow as she beheld Dumb in all their Technicolor glory. I didn’t like the look of that, and I liked it even less when Selina paused to talk with someone—the producer or director, I guessed