Struts & Frets (17 page)

“So,” I said finally, “I think my band is breaking up.”

He looked at me with a strange expression, like he wasn't exactly sure what I was talking about.

“I got into a fight with the singer of my band.”

“Did you win or lose?”

“I guess I won. He had to go to the hospital and I didn't.”

“Sounds like a win to me. And so now this joker is sore at you?”

“I guess.”

“So get a new band.”

“But I can't lead a band.”

“Can't or won't?”

“When I have to sing in front of a big crowd, I get so freaked out, I totally freeze up.”

“You just have to get over that.”

“Gramps, you don't understand how hard it—”

He leaned in really close and poked me in the chest with one bony finger. “You serious about being a musician?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You want
easy
, get off this bus right now and go do something practical with your life.”

“Gramps, I'm not going to do that. I don't even think I could.”

“Then you better realize damn quick that it's never going to be easy. And understand that you made that choice. You. Nobody else.”

“But why, Gramps? Why does it have to be hard like that?”

“Because that's an artist's job, Sam. To take this steaming shit pile called life and transform it into something beautiful.”

He jerked his head to one side in a weird way, like he was listening to something. He frowned and shook his head.

“You have to risk everything,” he said. “Do all the things that scare you, learn from them, and then translate them into something for the world.” Then he leaned back in his chair. “They won't appreciate it, of course. Not truly. They'll kiss your ass in that moment because they somehow sense that you're doing something they can't even comprehend, then they'll trade you in for the next hot sound that comes along. Bastards. They're all bastards. But that doesn't matter. You do it because you can't help yourself. Because if you can't make music . . .”

Then suddenly Gramps's head jerked up as if he'd heard a loud noise.

“What now?” he said in a growl, glancing at the pile of records on the floor in the living room.

“What is it, Gramps?” I asked.

His eyes shifted to me, then back to the records, then back to me again.

“Nothing,” he said tersely. “Just . . .” He stared at me for a moment, then stood up so suddenly he knocked his chair over. “Just . . .” He looked worried and his hand was in his bathrobe pocket, fiddling with something. “Just, I think you should go.”

“Oh . . . ,” I said.

“Sorry, kid. You know how it is,” he patted me on the shoulder in a “buddy” kind of way. Something he'd never done before. “Got a lot to do. That's all.”

“Okay, sure,” I said, getting up. It was suddenly like he couldn't wait for me to leave. He practically shoved me to the door.

“Well!” he said with a cheerful voice. “Great seeing you! Tell her hello for me, will you?”

“Her who?” I asked. Did he mean Jen5? My mother?

“Oh!” he said, and gave a forced laugh. “I think you know who I mean!” But he said it in a way that made me question whether
he
knew what he meant.

“Yeah, you bet,” I said, and let him push me out the door. “Good—”

The door slammed closed.

“I'm getting worried about Gramps,” I said to Jen5 that night on the phone.

“Yeah?” she asked. “Well, he's pretty old, Sammy. And it's not like he ever really took care of himself, you know?”

“I know,” I said. “It's just . . . sometimes he's so cool, and then the next minute, he acts like somebody I don't even know. Mom said something about looking at nursing homes the other day. You think he's losing it?”

“My grandma is in a home,” she said. “She loves being there. All her little bingo friends and stuff. She says it was the best thing for her. Maybe it would be like that for him. Maybe he'd be happier in a home.”

“Maybe,” I said, although it really didn't sound like Gramps's style.

“Samuel Bojar!” my mother called from downstairs. “Are you talking on the phone when you should be doing your homework?”

Damn that little green light.

“Of course not!” I called down to her. Then on the phone: “Gotta go.”

“Oh, real quick,” said Jen5.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Don't forget to . . . uh . . . go to the
drugstore
before you come over for our modeling session tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I said. Then I realized what she was talking about. “Oh! Yeah, of—of course . . .”

“Sweet dreams.” Then she hung up.

Condoms. I had just officially been asked to purchase condoms.

It took forever to fall asleep that night.

condoms.

The school day had taken forever to get through, although I couldn't really remember anything that happened. It had all been a blur of anticipation even more intense than waiting for a concert. But finally the last bell rang.

And now I stood in the back aisle of the drugstore and stared at the wall of condoms like they were in a foreign language. Ribbed, lubricated, ultrathin, sensitive, lambskin, flavored, glow-in-the-dark . . . I didn't even know what half of those meant. And there were sizes, too. Jesus, I didn't know what
size
I needed. I stood paralyzed for a full ten minutes as I stared at the many colored boxes that hung in front of me.

Why was buying condoms so embarrassing? It wasn't like
there was something to be ashamed of, right? If anything, I should be able to walk up to the register and proudly place them on the counter and say,
Yes, I'm going to get laid tonight! And since I am a responsible person, I plan to use a condom!
So why could I already feel a slow blush creeping into my face? Why was I tempted to actually steal them just so I didn't have to take them to the counter? Honestly, the only thing that stopped me from swiping them was the possibility of an even worse embarrassment: being caught shoplifting condoms. I could picture being held back in the manager's office until my mom showed up and I had to tell her. I couldn't imagine anything worse than that.

But I couldn't just stand there and stare at them forever, either. So I took a deep breath, grabbed the one that seemed the most standard, and headed to the counter.

There was some old lady at the register. Of course. It
had
to be an old lady. I tried to place them on the counter confidently. Like it was no big deal. But I think my hand might have been shaking a little. And my face was so hot, I'm sure it was beet red.

The lady was used to this kind of thing, though. She didn't even blink. Just scanned them and told me how much they were and I paid.

“Thanks,” I said. My voice was shaking a little too.

As I drove over to Jen5's house, I suddenly remembered the “real” reason I was coming over. I was supposed to be her model. The idea of being a model seemed a little strange, but I knew she preferred to paint portraits and still lifes from living things, and I guess if you wanted to paint a real person, it would be weird to ask someone you didn't know and almost as weird to ask someone you did know. I guess asking your boyfriend was probably the least weird. And while I'd never tried to sit completely still for an hour or two, how hard could it be?

When I pulled up at Jen5's house, she was already waiting for me, just sitting on the front stoop. She was wearing her painting gear, which was overalls and a tube top. On anyone else it might have looked trashy, but somehow on her it transformed into some kind of funky, dirty artist look. At her feet, she had a boom box.

“You ready to be immortalized?” she asked as I climbed out of the Boat.

“As I'll ever be,” I said. “What's with the stereo?”

“Entertainment for you,” she said. “This could take a while.”

“Could?” I asked.

“Yeah, well, I never know. I don't plan anything ahead of
time. Like, I purposely don't. So this could be a simple little sketch or it could be a five-hour painting marathon.”

“Five hours?” I said.

“Don't worry, I'll let you take breaks. Now, come on. Let's get started.”

We walked back behind her house to her studio, which was an old wooden shed. Her dad wasn't really into yard work or home improvement, so it had just sat empty until Jen5 asked her parents if she could convert it into a studio. It was a small rectangular space, with bare wood floor and walls. All of her art supplies were on shelves on one side, and a big white canvas backdrop was on the other. It was a little stuffy and there weren't any windows, so she had to a run an air filter all the time to clear out the paint fumes. But it was her own space where she could work in complete privacy with her CD player blaring and everything just the way she wanted it.

As soon as we got inside, she said, “Take your shirt off.”

Then she went over and started mixing paints.

I felt vulnerable as I took my shirt off, especially the way she just commanded it to happen. I was kind of a skinny guy and always felt even skinnier when I was shirtless. Of course, it wasn't like Jen5 had never seen me with my shirt off before. We'd gone swimming tons of times over the years. But things were a lot different now. Obviously. And Jen5 was totally in
painter mode. She was so focused on setting up the equipment and everything that it almost didn't even feel like her.

“Sit on that stool,” she said while she set up her palette and a canvas.

I sat down, but that didn't help my nerves. If anything, I felt even more like some kind of specimen to be examined.

She came over and adjusted the folds in the backdrop behind me.

“You're nervous,” she said.

“I guess,” I admitted. “I just don't know what to do.”

“You don't have to do anything,” she said.

“Yeah, that's the problem. I like having something to do.”

“Here,” she said. Then she switched on the boom box and a mellow, spacey jam started playing.

“Mercury Rev?” I asked.

“Huh?” she said. She was back to fixing the backdrop and adjusting the clip lights that hung from the ceiling.

“The song,” I said. “It's Mercury Rev. I didn't know you liked them.”

“Oh, I don't know. It's some mix you made me a few years ago. When you were trying to get me out of my classical music groove.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I remember that.”

I listened to the song as she continued to set things up.
“Car Wash Hair,” one of my all-time favorites. It had the feeling of a lazy summer, both sad and happy at once.

“Mixes are funny,” I said.

“How's that?” She was still messing with some kind of lighting thing.

“Well, you pick songs, you know, and most of the time you aren't really thinking about why. You're just thinking about that person and then thinking, ‘Oh, this would sound great next.' But maybe there's some kind of subconscious thing at work. I mean, this song . . . then I think there's that Cure song, ‘Just Like Heaven.' Then that Pixies song, ‘La La Love You.' And I think there's even a Magic Numbers song in there . . . I mean, come on.”