The Haters (7 page)

“Yeah. But, uh. But, Tim. Who says ‘froond.'”

“Speakers of the lingo known as Ger-manical, my froond.”

“Okay. Well, German. Not Germanical. Second,
in
German, according to every German class I've ever taken, it's
froynd
.”

“F-R-U-E-N-D? Believe that spellifies
froond
.”

“Well, that doesn't, but also, it's E-U. Not U-E. Pronounced
froynd
.”

“Depends on the, uh, dialecticaciosi-
cality.”

“The dialect. No. No dialect has ‘froond.'”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Tim. It's always
froynd
. Everywhere. Also, you're wrong
about women. Women hate being bossed around. That's the whole reason feminism exists. And in general, man, you gotta not talk like that.”

Tim kept smiling, but his face did something between a blink and a flinch.

“Talk like what,” he said.

“Talk, like, this whole made-up thing, where every sentence you're trying to remind people that you play jazz and aren't just some other suburban white kid with orthodontist parents.”

Now his face had gone a kind of ugly blank. But I had to keep going.

“You gotta not try to talk black. Because let's be honest, that's what you're trying to do. You're trying to do blackvoice. So stop. You're not even doing it right. I mean, you just tried to throw ‘froond' in there.”

We gazed at each other.

Then he said: “Well, this is how I talk with the brothers back in South Philly. And they've never had a problem with it. But if
you
have a problem, man . . .” He nodded slowly. “Then I got to thank you,” he said. “For speaking your truth.”

“Oh,” I said, immediately feeling exhausted and stressed out.

“As a person of color, when you speak your truth to me, it helps
me
to grow.”

“Okay.”

“And understand who
I
should be when I'm around
you
.”

“Hmmm,” I said, needing to end this conversation at all costs.

“Because man. When you think about it, language is such a powerful thing.”

“It really is. It really is powerful. Hey. I gotta go. But . . . good talk.”

“Come on, man. Rap with me five minutes. I'm digging this back and forth.
Language
.”

“No, yeah, but, I have to take a call, but, great talk.”

“All right, but come find me after, all right?”

“Yup. Sure thing.”

“Because this is the
realness
right here.”

A conversation with Tim was never going to be good. But it would have been way less painful if he had gotten mad at me and said, fuck you, don't tell me how to talk. Because that was what
should
have happened. I had been a dick to him. But he was white, and I was visibly not, and so it became this whole other thing that happens with white people that a lot of the time I just don't have the energy for.

I was so out of sorts that I went inside to the rec room and let myself just stand there for another ten minutes while another white dude talked at me. This time it was Steve, the ponytailed bassist, and it was a little more chill. He was giving me a scouting report of himself as a ping-pong player.

“My weaknesses are all psychological,” Steve told me. “By that I mean, if I had to play myself, I'd lose every time.”

Corey and I got the text around midnight.

meet me in parking lot 2am. dont get caught. bring cloths

We knew who it was. But we didn't know what she meant with the cloths. And when we asked for clarification, she didn't write us back.

I figured “cloths” had to mean bring a change of clothes. Corey thought it was bring washcloths. So we brought both.

She smiled when she saw us, and it wasn't a smile I had seen her do before.

COREY: so what's going on

WES: yeah what did bill say

[
ash shrugs
]

WES: did you get kicked out?

[
some kind of nothing flickers through ash's eyes
]

ASH: yeah

WES: damn

COREY: fuck that guy!

ASH: sshhhh, shut up, don't make noise

COREY: i'm just pissed!

WES: corey, shut up

ASH: it's fine. i basically gave him no choice. he had to kick me out or else look like a huge pussy. but listen

[
ash ushers us closer, and whispers
]

ASH: here's the deal: i'm not going home. i'm going on tour.

COREY:

WES:

ASH: i'm going to drive south and find some places to play. and i think you guys should come with me.

She said this, and I realized that she actually wasn't really one of us at all. She was completely different from us.

“I think we could be a great band,” she whispered to us. “But not if we stay here. Summer camp is not where bands get good.”

By “different” I mean she actually was an adult, despite what Russell said. And we weren't. That really was the entire difference right there.

“Out on the road is where bands get good. That's where they figure out who they are. They need to play tough crowds and figure shit out the hard way. And I think if we do that, we have a shot at being great.”

You become an adult when you decide you don't need anyone's permission to do things. That was Ash. That was definitely not us.

“But we'd have to go tonight. We'd have to go right now and swipe into the practice spaces and load your stuff into my car and be out of here ASAP.”

I mean, Corey and I couldn't even give ourselves permission not to play jazz. It took Ash to come along and do that. I was thinking all of these things and my mouth was puffy with spit and my heart was hot and shaky.

“Do you guys want to do this?” Ash asked us.

Corey was nodding.
What is wrong with him
, I thought. Then I realized I was nodding, too.

There was no one in the practice spaces. Load-out went quickly. Corey and I were so keyed up that we couldn't stop accidentally smashing into walls and doorframes with our drums and amps, and then shout-whispering
FUCK
. But no one heard us, or if they did, they didn't care.

We left a note where Corey's drums had been in practice space G:

GOING ON TOUR

BACK BY END OF CAMP

A/C/W

Then Ash put her phone next to the note.

“Put your phones here,” she told us.

“What,” Corey said.

“I've been thinking about it,” she said. “And I think we need to leave our phones behind.”

I frowned thoughtfully and pretended to consider this insane and terrible suggestion.

“What,” I said.

“We can get tracked with our phones,” she said. “After a couple of days, if people really want to find us, they can figure out where we are, and come get us, and then the tour's over.”

Corey was nodding.

“But also, if we don't have phones, it's more old-school. It's just us. It just feels right to do it the way bands used to have to do it.”

“Makes sense,” said Corey. And he put his phone on the floor next to Ash's.

Ash looked at me.

“Uhhhh,” I said.

Ash waited for me to say something.

“No, yeah, but it's just, maybe we should have one phone—”

“Nope,” said Ash.

“—that we can sometimes use just for maps or something, because we're gonna get super lost without our phones, I think—”

“No phone,” said Ash.

“—which, okay, if you're sure, but we won't be able to call anyone, or contact places to set up shows for ourselves, or anything. Or listen to music. Or play Garfunkel. Or do a whole lot of kind of basic things that we might need to do.”

“I'm not too worried,” said Ash.

“Okay, but it is gonna make things harder for us, like maybe a lot harder,” I said, but I realized as I was saying it that that was the whole point.

“That's the whole point,” said Ash.

No one stopped us. No one even seemed awake. It was sort of terrifying how easy it all was.

“What's up with the washcloths,” said Ash as we pulled out of the parking lot.

10.
AIR HORSE

By 3
A.M.
we were across the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. I was still having trouble getting comfortable with the phone situation.

“So, just to go over the plan,” I said. “The plan is, basically, drive at random into the South.”

Ash nodded, not looking over at me.

“And show up at places without calling first.”

“They'll let us play somewhere,” she said.

We all sat with this for a while.

“Corey's parents are going to have a massive panic attack when they find out he's missing and doesn't have his phone,” I said.

“They'll be fine,” yelled Corey from the backseat, sounding pissed. I felt bad for bringing it up. But it was true that this was going to cause them a possibly life-threatening panic attack.

“I don't know about ‘fine,'” I said.

“They just need to chill out,” he said.

“What's wrong with Corey's parents,” murmured Ash, not looking away from the road.

She drove between seventy-two and eighty-seven miles
per hour and had no philosophical issues with passing on the right.

“They're kind of clingy,” said Corey finally.

“They don't want to give up control over your life,” suggested Ash.

“Sure. I mean, yeah.”

“Great. So what you have to do is take it from them.”

“No, yeah, I know.”

“That's what this is. You're taking control of your life. For what sounds like the first time ever.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, no, I know, and that's why I'm on board with no phones.”

“They're never going to just give you control. They've been running your life since the beginning, and it makes them feel big.”

“Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah,” muttered Corey, trying to get it to stop. “Yeah yeah yeah.”

“Ash, is that what your parents are like,” I said.

“My parents stopped giving a fuck about what I did a long time ago,” she said.

“
Nice
,” I said.

We were all quiet.

“Are they dead,” said Corey.

“No,” said Ash.

Then on instinct, I reached for a phone that was not there. It would be the first of literally thousands of times that this would happen.

Ash noticed and kind of grinned.

By 4
A.M.
we were in Virginia and discussing band names. Ash wanted us just to be the Ash Ramos Three.

“That might be a little boring,” I said.

“It's not boring,” said Ash. “It's classic.”

“Yeah,” I said, “it's sort of classic but the problem is, it's not memorable. It's just your name, plus how many people are in the band. A band name needs something mysterious about it that makes you think, huh. What even is that.”

“Agree,” called out Corey from the backseat.

“I guess we could just bill ourselves as Ash Ramos,” said Ash.

“No no no. We need a band name. And we need a name where, if you've never heard of the band, the name makes you go, holy crap, I need to find out who this band is immediately.”

“So give me a name like that.”

I knew this challenge was coming, and I was ready for it. But I pretended not to be, so it would have more impact.

“Oh man. Uh . . . let's see. Just off the top of my head, I mean . . . oh! Well, what about this. Air Horse.”

“Nope.”

I was dumbfounded at how quickly she dismissed Air Horse.

“Wait,” I tried to reason with her. “Come on. Sit with it for a second. Air Horse. That's actually really good.”

“Air Horse is not good.”

“Corey? Air Horse?”

But Corey was clearly influenced by the crazy swiftness with which Ash decided to hate on Air Horse.

“I guess I like the ‘Air' part,” said Corey doubtfully. “But
the ‘Horse' part is making me wonder: Is each song going to be about a horse? I don't like horse songs.”

“Okay,” I said. “Horse songs aren't a thing.”

“It's like how the name Band of Horses makes me imagine that all the members are horses and the lead singer's voice is the voice of a horse, and you know. Ugh. I hate thinking about that. It fucking sucks.”

“Okay. That's idiotic. Ash, you seriously don't want to go see a band called Air Horse?”

“Nope,” said Ash. “Look. I already know what that band is. That band is two pasty bearded men in skinny jeans. They both play vintage synthesizers and sing in falsetto. Their songbook is basically just eighties-type ballads about how no one will fuck them because they're too sensitive.”

Immediately, it was impossible to think of Air Horse in any other terms.