Thunderbowl - Lesley Choyce [1]
Alistair Cullen is shorter than I am, but he really tips the scale. He’s a heavy dude in the truest sense. If you call him Alistair and say it funny, he grabs your feet and yanks them out from under you. I made fun of him once. Now I know what it’s like to be kissing concrete. From then on I just called him Al. Al shifts his weight from side to side as he walks. Despite his size, he’s built like a tank.
If you were to look at us, you’d say we don’t look like an alternative band. In fact, Stewy Lyons didn’t let us audition when we first asked for a gig at The Dungeon. But tonight was the Battle of the Bands. Any band could enter. Any band could win.
“My hands are sweating,” Al said suddenly. “I can’t play with sweaty hands.”
What’s going on? I began to wonder. These two were shedding their tough-guy skins before my eyes.
“You drive, Jeremy,” Al said. “I want to just hang my hands out the window and let them dry off.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thunderbowl was cracking up. We were going to be an absolute flop. Al pulled over to the curb and got out. He came around and opened the door on my side.
“I don’t trust Drek driving my van. Last time, he smashed two brake lights. It cost me twenty-five dollars. You drive,” he said to me.
I sat for a second without saying anything. “Uh, guys,” I began, “I have a confession to make.”
Al was shaking his hands in the air. Sweat was literally dripping off. Drek was staring straight into the windshield, his mind fixed on something none of us could see.
“I can’t drive,” I said. “At least not legally. I haven’t got a license.”
“Who cares?” Al yelled at me. “Just drive.”
So I got out and walked around, sat down in the driver’s seat and started the van. I popped the clutch and we lurched out into the traffic. I almost ran over a man walking a pit bull terrier.
“Where’d you learn to drive?” Al grunted.
“I told you, I didn’t.”
“Maybe you should try shifting,” Drek advised in a shaky voice. I was going pretty fast for first gear. The engine was roaring like it was about to explode.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. I shifted, grinding my way into second gear without using the clutch. It sounded like I was trying to cut a battleship in half with a chain saw.
“Nice work, Germ,” Al criticized, still hanging his hands out to dry.
I decided it was time they knew my real age. I hadn’t really lied before. They just assumed I was older. I didn’t ever come out and say anything. I just thought we’d never get to play a place like The Dungeon anyway. They served all kinds of booze. I wasn’t old enough to drink, so I wasn’t old enough to play there. “What I’ve been meaning to tell you…” I began again.
“Brake,” Drek interrupted in a low, uncertain voice.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Brake!” he screamed into the wind-shield.
“Oops.” A stop sign had appeared out of nowhere. It wasn’t my fault. I slammed the middle pedal, hoping that it was the right one.
It was. Nearly half a ton of musical hardware slid forward into our backs as we came to a screeching halt. With my nose squished up against the glass I watched a Pepsi truck squeak by in front of us, inches from the bumper. I figured I had done pretty well.
“I’m only sixteen,” I announced. “They won’t let me play The Dungeon even if we do win.”
Whoever won the Battle of the Bands was going to get a contract to play four nights a week. The money was good and The Dungeon had the wildest audience in town. But now my little secret was out. And now the dream might not come true. Not for me. Not for any of us.
Drek gave me a look of despair. Al just glared at me from across the van. He was rubbing a bump on his head where a flying mike stand had connected with the back of his skull.
“Drive,” Al said in that low, threatening voice of his. “From now on you’re nineteen. And you better play that damn guitar like your life depends on it.”
I wasn’t in any position to argue with him.
Chapter Two
Cars were parked up and down the street in front of The Dungeon. It was dark, but there were bright