Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [92]
“I get it now,” I said quietly. “I really do.”
He nodded, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. “You must hate me, huh?”
I leaned forward, caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror on the wall. “No, Finn, I don’t hate you at all. How could I hate you for being right?”
A smile crept across his face. “You have to admit, that trip to Hendrix’s house—”
“Was kind of surreal, yeah.”
We both laughed then. And when we stopped and there was nothing but silence, we laughed again. After so much chaos, so much noise, it was sublime.
CHAPTER 50
We never got around to discussing dress codes for the Showbox performance—not that we’d have agreed on one anyway—and as they took the stage, Dumb certainly presented an eclectic mix. Ed looked casual-cool in a tight yellow T-shirt that read “Roll over Beethoven.” Josh had the preppy J. Crew thing down cold. Even Will looked okay in that black-jeans-plus-black-shirt, undertaker-in-training kind of way. Tash had dyed her spikes a freaky purple for the occasion (in honor of Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze,” she said). And Kallie wore an unflattering gray cardigan that looked like it belonged to a man twice her size. She wasn’t even wearing makeup, and her lank hair seemed to be crying out for whatever nourishing product it was used to receiving on a daily basis.
Although they were nothing to write home about individually, together they looked like the real deal. And it had less to do with their clothes than the venue, an art-deco palace with deep red walls and an immense ceiling supported by fluted golden pillars. The decor seemed to inspire Dumb too, and as soon as GBH allowed them onstage, Ed took control and had them up and running without so much as a word of discussion. Instead of being intimidated by their surroundings, they behaved like they’d been waiting for this opportunity to show exactly what they could do. After countless hours of rehearsing, and (most likely) a sleepless night, Dumb’s five flavors were ready to rock.
Or rather, four of them were.
It almost made me cry: Kallie Sims, twenty-first-century grunge girl, hiding at the back of the stage in self-imposed exile, shrinking into the folds of her cardigan like she was hoping no one would notice she was even there. Only, the Showbox stage hadn’t been designed as a place to hide. Instead it showcased her rhythmic deficiencies in all their spotlighted glory. This time no one needed to take the initiative and turn down her amp—she did it herself as soon as the first song was over.
To their credit, GBH had given Dumb more than an hour to run a sound check and rehearse their set. I wanted to celebrate every minute of it too—the seamless transitions, the subtle-but-constant eye contact, the way they seemed to be having fun for the first time in a long time—but Kallie bowed her head throughout. And when it was all over, I noticed someone was waving at me from a seat across the bar table where I was sitting.
In the low light it took me a moment to recognize the lead singer of GBH. He was scary thin, with thick bags under his eyes. He smiled without opening his mouth, but spoke with his whole face when he introduced himself as Joby Barrett. We shook hands, and then there was an awkward but meaningful silence.
“Our manager says you’re deaf,” he said speculatively. He waited for me to show signs of recognition. “Severely deaf, or profoundly deaf?”
I was surprised he knew the difference. “Moderately severe.”
“So you