Everything Changes

leaving before the second set.

Chapter 11
    Sam, the bass player, and Otto, the drummer, are reclining on the stairs, still drenched in sweat from their performance, sipping at vodka shots and working out some details on the set list for the second half of the show. Matt’s the songwriter and front man, but he leaves all other decisions in the hands of Sam and Otto, which probably explains why they’re still playing the same clubs they were playing when they formed the band six years ago. They’re fair musicians, but they’re also potheads and overgrown frat boys, and their vague ambitions don’t extend very far beyond playing gigs and laying groupies. Matt, on the other hand, wants to hit the big time, is counting on it more than he’ll let on, but seems unable to break out of the career dead end in which Worried About the WENUS find themselves. Jed’s been talking to Matt about coming on board as manager, and while the boys are wary of an outsider stepping in, I think Jed could bring some much-needed business acumen and funding to the band. But no one’s asking me.
    “Hey, Zack,” Otto says. He’s a short, overweight guy with thinning hair and comically thick-rimmed black glasses. Sam, emaciated and stoned, nods solemnly at me. The bass players are always the quiet ones, pissed at the world, convinced their contribution is being overlooked.
    “Hey, boys,” I say. “You guys are sounding great.”
    “We didn’t suck,” Otto says proudly.
    “Matt’s all freaked-out about something,” Sam says dully as he scribbles a song list onto a napkin.
    “What?”
    “You’d have to ask him.”
    Otto nods agreeably. “Dude, you better go talk to him. He’s acting weird.”
    I step into the dressing room to find Matt sitting on the vanity table, distractedly tuning his Gibson. There’s a cute redhead curled into a ball on the couch behind him, chattering softly into a neon flashing cell phone. I always experience an acute sense of relief when I see Matt alone after he’s been playing onstage, his face finally composed and at rest, no longer distorted by the angry scowl frozen in place when he performs. He plays with such rage and desolation that I fear one day I’ll come backstage and find him a weeping, cursing mess with a gun in his mouth. Baby brothers and punk rock are a bad combination for a sentimental fart like me.
    “Hey, Matt,” I say, stepping into the room. “Great set.”
    “What the fuck, Zack?” Matt says.
    “What?”
    “What are you trying to do to me here?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    He studies my face a moment. “You don’t know?”
    “Know what?”
    He hops off the table and puts down the guitar. “Come with me. You’re not going to believe this.” He hurriedly ushers me to the door, ignoring the girl when she asks where he’s going. Matt leads me to the corner of the stage, just out of sight from the crowd below, and points to a table in the far back corner. “He showed up during the last song.”
    Even in the dim club lighting, Norm’s stout profile is unmistakable. “Oh, shit,” I say. He must have walked in while I was retching in the van.
    “You don’t sound surprised to see him,” Matt says, his voice laden with a range of unformed accusations.
    “I’m not. I mean, I knew he was in town, but I never thought he’d come here.”
    “What do you mean, you knew he was in town?”
    “He came by my apartment yesterday.”
    Matt is stunned. “You invited that asshole over?”
    “He just showed up.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “Why would I lie, Matt?” I say wearily. I can feel a major headache coming on. “Did you invite him here? No. He just showed up. Same shit, different venue, that’s all.”
    “Well, you could have warned me,” he said sulkily.
    Matt, as the baby, and a burgeoning rock star, has the unfortunate tendency to believe that he’s still the center of everyone else’s universe, that I’m still standing quietly like a loyal sentry beside his crib, waiting for him to wake up so I can play with him.
I’ve got problems of my own,
I want to say.
I’ve been looking at crop shots of my bladder, at spots that shouldn’t be there, fucking up million-dollar accounts at work, and falling in love with the last person on the planet I should.
But all I say is “Believe me, if I had any idea he was going to come here, I would have called.”
    Matt was only seven when Norm evacuated, which means it took him the longest to figure out how full of