The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [5]
As she stood there, naked from the waist up, while the extras and crew and her costar and just about every single person involved in the movie all stared at her, Annie told herself that it was all about control. She was controlling the situation. She was totally, without a doubt, in control.
the sound and the fury, march 1985
artists: caleb and camille fang
Buster was holding his drumsticks upside down but Mr. and Mrs. Fang thought this made it even better. The boy spastically pressed his foot on the pedal that operated the bass drum and flinched with each percussive note. Annie strummed her guitar, her fingers already aching not five minutes into the concert. For two people who had never learned to play their instruments, they were managing to perform even more poorly than expected. They shouted the lyrics of the song that Mr. Fang had written for them, their voices off-key and out of sync. Though they had only learned the song a few hours before their performance, they found it easy to remember the chorus, which they sang to the astonished onlookers. “It’s a sad world. It’s unforgiving,” they yelled at the top of their lungs. “Kill all parents, so you can keep living.”
In front of them, an open guitar case held some coins and a single dollar bill. Taped to the inside of the case was a handwritten note that read: Our Dog Needs an Operation. Please Help Us Save Him.
The night before, Buster had carefully written down each word as his father dictated it to him. “Misspell operation,” Mr. Fang said. Buster had nodded and wrote it as operashun. Mrs. Fang shook her head. “They’re supposed to be untalented, not illiterate,” she said. “Buster, do you know how to spell operation?” his mother asked him. He nodded. “Then we’ll go with the correct spelling,” his father said, handing him another piece of cardboard. When it was finished, he held up the sign for his parents to inspect. “Oh, good Lord,” said Mr. Fang. “This is almost too much.” Mrs. Fang laughed and then said, “Almost.” “Too much of what?” asked Buster, but his parents were laughing so hard they didn’t hear him.
“This is a new song we just wrote,” Annie said to the audience, which was, inexplicably, larger than when they had started. Annie and Buster had already played six songs, each one dark and unhappy and played so inexpertly that they seemed less like songs and more like the sound of children having a tantrum. “We appreciate any change that you can spare for our little dog, Mr. Cornelius. God bless.” With that, Buster began to tap his drumsticks against the hi-hat cymbal, tit-tat-tit-tat-tit, and Annie plucked a single string, producing a mournful groan that changed its tone as she moved her finger up and down the neck of the guitar but never lost its intent. “Don’t eat that bone,” she warbled and then Buster repeated the line, “Don’t eat that bone.” Annie looked into the crowd but she could not find her parents, only face after face of sympathetically cringing people too nice to walk away from these cherubic, earnest children. “It will make you ill,” Annie sang, and Buster again echoed her. “Don’t eat that bone,” Annie said, and then, before Buster could follow her, a voice, their father’s voice, yelled out, “You’re terrible!” There was an audible gasp from the crowd, so sharp that it sounded like someone had fainted, but Annie and Buster just kept playing. “We can’t afford the bill,” Annie said, her voice cracking with fake emotion.
“I mean, am I right, people?” their father said. “It’s awful, isn’t it?” A woman in the front of the crowd turned around and hissed, “Be quiet! Just be quiet.” At this moment, from the opposite direction, they heard their mother say, “He’s right. These kids are terrible.