Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [94]
I paced back to our greenroom, just for a little peace and quiet, but Kallie was already there, perched on a stool in the corner. (I guess I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stomach the thought of eating.) She had her back to me, and was clearly engrossed by something on my laptop. Every few seconds she paused to scribble on a scrap of paper, then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan. I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure she’d been crying.
She didn’t hear me padding through the room, and it wasn’t until I sat down beside her that she noticed me. Even then she didn’t say a word, just smiled bravely and returned her attention to the laptop.
It looked like she was watching an old home movie on You-Tube—a kid about our age in front of a graffitied wall, then another kid waving a kite from a roof, the footage suddenly in black and white. It was all very strange. Then there was another image: two older guys playing guitar in a room that resembled Baz’s studio, although they seemed oblivious to the camera, like this was a performance for themselves, not for anyone else. Eventually a third guy came into view, a drummer I was sure I recognized. Above the movie the title read: “Nirvana—Seasons in the Sun.” And that’s when I realized that the drummer was Kurt Cobain, only I was sure he’d been the band’s lead guitarist. The other two guys had swapped instruments too.
“1993,” said Kallie, turning to face me. “The year before he died.” She ran the sleeve across her nose again. “Look at them. They weren’t so different from us—just screwing around on each other’s instruments, feeling like there was a place they actually belonged.” All the while her head nodded slightly, propelled by a beat I couldn’t really hear. “There was pain in his voice even then. Just . . . anguish, you know?”
I didn’t really know, but I nodded all the same.
She restarted the song from the top, a black-and-white title screen followed by footage of the men when they were boys, as earnest as Kallie, as gawky as Ed. Even the film of them playing in the studio in 1993 had a similar quality, their movements ever so slightly awkward, like they were surprised to find the wrong instruments in their hands.
Still gazing at the screen, Kallie reached out and took my hand and squeezed it. With her free hand, she picked up the scrap of paper and handed it to me. It was worn, creased, like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred thousand times. Some of the ink had bled in the perfect circle of a teardrop. I took a deep breath and read the words at the top: “Seasons in the Sun.” Slowly, painstakingly, she’d written down every lyric to the song:
Good-bye my friend, it’s hard to die
when all the birds are singing in the sky
and all the flowers are everywhere.
I stopped reading and looked at the screen again, and the three guys fooling around with each other’s instruments like they knew this whole crazy trip was nothing but a magic carpet ride, something they needed to cherish now because all dreams die eventually.
Kallie took the volume down and turned to me. Even with tears running down her face, she was still beautiful.
“My parents used to fight,” she said finally. “A lot. I heard it in my bedroom, even when I closed the door, even when I played music on my stereo. Nirvana was the soundtrack of my parents falling apart.” She blinked and fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. “One day he . . . he threatened her. And I said he was wrong, and I meant that he was wrong to threaten her, but maybe he thought I meant he was wrong about everything. And, I don’t know, maybe I did mean that. And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, like that was the final straw. He could take it from Mom, but not me. So he left. He left, and we never heard from him again. Not once. Not ever.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d figured Kallie had a story to tell, just like the rest of us, but certainly not that kind of story. “I’m sorry, Kallie. I’m so sorry.”
“If I’d