Chapter 6
Matthew’s phone rang at ten the morning after the party. He was extremely hung over, but didn’t want to ignore it in case it was his sister or mother calling to say something terrible had happened. For some reason, “something terrible” always lurked in the back of Matthew’s mind whenever the phone rang.
“Hey, can I come over?” It was Tom.
“Not now,” Matthew croaked. “I had too much spiked punch last night and my head hurts.”
“I really need to talk to you,” Tom said. “In person.”
“Learn to listen to what people are telling you, Tom.”
“I’ll bring Starbucks,” Tom replied. Then he hung up before Matthew could respond.
Matthew muttered a bitter “Screw you, Tom Beckett” under his breath. He pounded his pillow with his fist and tried to fall back asleep, but already knew this would be impossible. After a few labored exhales, Matthew rolled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Since they were kids, Tom had always led with his emotions. When he believed or got excited about something, he was like a runaway train. Stepping into the shower, Matthew remembered the incident with Tom’s FireScout troop back in middle school. He shook his head, recalling how Tom had thrown such a tantrum, claiming the simple task of building a stupid ship in a bottle was at cross-purposes with his “true self.”
Tom’s insistence on bringing his “true self” to the table for a silly FireScout merit badge had, unfortunately, resulted in long-term disaster…so much so that Matthew still pitied Tom to this day: he’d completed the project, but constructed the sails - which were supposed to be plain and white - out of a piece of Matthew’s crushed velvet violet shirt as an act of rebellion. Matthew regretted having given into his friend’s impulse at the time, but somehow - and this is where Matthew’s memory grew foggy - he’d allowed himself to be talked into Tom’s cockamamie scheme.
Tom’s troop leader assessed Tom’s ship in a bottle as “inappropriate” and denied him the coveted (at least by Mr. Beckett) Panther Scout merit badge. Although the Scouts gave Tom a chance to redo the project, he’d stubbornly refused, ignoring Matthew and his parents’ pleas to reconsider.
Although Mr. Beckett would never admit such a thing out loud, the truth was he’d never worked through his anger towards his son about the incident. The FireScouts were his unrealized dream, and Tom had thrown it all away for some convoluted notion of rock and roll that Mr. Beckett couldn’t even wrap his head around at the time. A cold chill had entered the relationship between Tom and his father, and Matthew had witnessed the unfortunate shift first hand.
Matthew, on the other hand, was a rule follower…at least in public. On top of having an impressive understanding and love of music since childhood, he’d been a top-notch student and moderately talented baseball player. He’d been accepted at Cornell and Brown, but chose to attend college at UC Berkeley because it was closer to his home and the family he loved deeply. After college, he’d stayed on at Cal for a Masters in Social Work, and after a few years working the phones at Child Protective Services (not a fun job), he returned to his alma mater to provide counseling to the newest generation of Alamedians.
Throughout every stage of life until this point, he had maintained a strict distinction between his secret glam rocker identity and Matthew Yin, the nice, unassuming Asian boy who went to a good school and got a respectable job helping others. In spite of the contrast that still lived within him, Matthew had long reconciled that there was a part of himself that was unacceptable to others and therefore would never see the light of day.
In some ways, he felt lucky to have built a bland, average life for himself. He loved Tom as a person loves their best friend of fifteen years, but he didn’t envy Tom’s life: living in a falling-down, Section 8 apartment in Alameda, never leaving the island or achieving any of the literary aspirations he spoke of (poetry readings at faculty meetings at the behest of Principal Louis didn’t count). There was no sugarcoating it: Tom was a slacker and chronic underachiever, but he was still Matthew’s best and most devoted friend…even if he was a huge pain in the ass most of the time.
“Sorry, Matthew,” Tom said when he arrived at Matthew’s front door twenty minutes later, “but I spilled your coffee in the car driving over.”
“So, why didn’t you go back and get me another one?” Matthew grumbled. “That’s what a real friend would do.”
“Do you want my Vanilla Chai?”
“You know I don’t like Vanilla Chai.”
“I would have gone back to Starbucks,” Tom drew in a breath. “But I just couldn’t wait another second to talk to you.”
“Ehhhhh…”
Matthew’s shower had perked him up slightly, but he was still pissed at Tom for inviting himself over. He reluctantly stepped aside and let Tom in. The entire house, particularly the living room and the kitchen, was totally trashed. The party hadn’t ended until nearly four in the morning. It was probably one of Matthew’s most successful parties to date.
“I had a vision last night, Matthew,” Tom said as he swanned into the living room and took a seat on Matthew’s easy chair.
“A vision?”Matthew took a weary seat of his own on the couch opposite his friend.
“Maybe it was a dream. I’m not entirely sure. But I’m telling you this because we’ve known each other since we were kids and I know you won’t laugh at me or judge me.”
“I can’t promise I won’t laugh at you,” Matthew replied, “but I’ll try very hard not to judge you.”
“This dream, this vision…you were in it. And so was Heather.”
“And?”
“We were jamming.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow.
“In a band,” Tom explained. “We were a three piece rock band!”
“Oh.” Matthew was less than impressed. “Big deal.”
“It is a big deal!” Tom exclaimed, missing the sarcasm. “Because at the end of the dream I heard this voice. It was like…like the voice of God. And it said to me: The reason you feel like you haven’t done anything great with your life yet is because you’re a perfectionist and you seek approval from everyone but yourself.”
Internally, Matthew scoffed at the idea of “Tom the perfectionist.” Not exactly the word he’d use to describe his slacker best friend…
Tom continued: “But the voice also told me that if I focus on bringing people joy, my life will change completely. Your life will change completely. And Heather’s life will change completely, too.”
“God mentioned me specifically?” Matthew asked.
“Yes,” Tom said. “God mentioned you by name.”
Matthew cocked his head to one side. He still believed in God, though the details had always been a bit fuzzy. Even though he didn’t go to church every Sunday anymore, God was still a part of Matthew’s life, had always been a part of his understanding of the world.
“So do you think I’m crazy?” Tom asked.
“Maybe a little bit. But I’m not judging you for it.”
“Then you’ll be in the band with me.”
“Woah now,” Matthew paused. “You didn’t say anything about making this dream a reality.”
“That’s the thing! It wasn’t just a dream, Matthew. It was a vision. Divine instruction from a higher power. I want you to be in the band with me and Heather. I don’t just want it, I need it. And you need it, too. The voice of God said so.”
Matthew frowned. “Heather already agreed to this?”
“No, I haven’t spoken to her yet. But she will. She gave me her number and I’m gonna recruit her this afternoon.”
“Don’t be so confident,” Matthew replied. “She hardly even knows us. And I’m pretty sure she’s curled up in bed right now cringing from embarrassment at her Shakira debut last night.”
“I actually think seeing Heather lose it last night over that song might have been the missing ingredient that pushed this whole idea into motion!” Tom insisted. “Heather’s so shy and afraid to make a fool of herself…you can tell that just by looking at her! But something made her grab the mic anyway. Didn’t you think that moment was amazing, Matthew? Wasn’t it beautiful how she just…threw her inhibitions aside and stopped caring what other people thought?”
“I did think it was amazing…ly embarrassing.”
“She can’t sing great, but she can get by,” Tom reasoned. “I want her to sing lead vocals. Maybe play the guitar, too. I’ll play bass and you can play the drums.”
“I can’t play the drums. And you never took a bass guitar lesson in your life,” Matthew pointed out. “Heather can’t get by on her own voice, and if I had to guess, I’m pretty sure she’s never bothered to pick up a guitar. She just doesn’t strike me as the type.”
“Well, that’s what my vision said to do,” Tom concluded. “And it doesn’t matter that we can’t do any of this stuff because our band isn’t going to be about how well we play…that’s the brilliant part I haven’t even told you about yet!”
“Oh God, there’s more?”
“Our band isn’t gonna be about sounding good or even being good. It’s about overcoming the fear of what other people think…owning who we really are in all our imperfect, authentic glory!”
Tom’s theory sounded appealing, but Matthew hated the idea of exposing himself to the potential ridicule and derision of others. He’d spent his entire life avoiding this very thing.
“The last time you risked being seen in your imperfect glory, you had a permanent falling out with your dad over FireScouts,” Matthew gently reminded his friend. “And the last time I risked being seen in my authentic glory, I got my ribs kicked in on a playground. It’s not gonna end well.”
“Look, I know you’re scared,” Tom said. “But this is different.”
“How?”
“It’s different because this time we’ll have each other. I’ve got your back and you’ll have mine…and Heather, too! Don’t you wanna stand up to the world and tell everyone we’re not what they think we are? Aren’t you sick of the paychecks and the lesson plans and the weekly faculty meetings? Don’t you want something more than this average life we got scared into settling for?”
Matthew heaved a sigh. He wasn’t sure he wanted it. He was even less sure that Heather would want it. “I’m getting used to the grind,” he told Tom. “Things could be worse, you know.”
“Remember when we were kids and the God told you to give me your Walkman and tapes? If you hadn’t listened to that voice, we never would have become friends.”
“I might have just been a delusional kid, Tom. Did you ever think of that?”
“I don’t care,” Tom replied. “Sometimes it pays to be delusional.”
Matthew hated himself for it, but for some reason he found himself becoming intrigued. He wondered briefly if this was how he’d been talked into donating a piece of his velvet shirt to Tom’s ship in a bottle so many years ago.
“Just tell me this isn’t some backhanded way of getting Heather into bed,” Matthew warned. “‘Cause if that’s the case, I’m not doing it. Period.”
“That never even crossed my mind,” Tom said.
Matthew felt he was telling the truth, but fixed Tom with a hard stare. The idea was insane…sure to be an unparalleled disaster if they pursued it…
…but Matthew had always wanted to be in a rock band.
Of course he had! All his life, Matthew had been adamant about the invisible line between appreciating music and trying to play it. Too many people tried to make the leap and he’d always felt embarrassed on their behalf. The last thing he wanted was to wind up another pathetic cliché. But then, he realized, the fear of being judged had been something he suspected kept him small and afraid for far too long…and in spite of all the comforts of an average, conformist life afforded him, he knew a tiny but persistent part of himself was growing increasingly sick of it. The part of him that wanted to break free. Just like the Queen song.
Tom had a point. If Matthew hadn’t listened to his vision, voice, whatever you wanted to call it, they would have never become friends. What if Tom had actually received a telegram from a higher power? And if so, who was he to deny Tom an attempt to live out his vision, the same way Matthew had executed his own?
Matthew sighed. “This will likely go down in history as the stupidest thing I have ever done with my life…but…okay.”
“Okay?” Tom exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Really?”
“I’m in. But I reserve the right to back out if things start getting stupid.”
“You won’t regret this, Matthew!” Tom grabbed his friend and pulled him in for a suffocating embrace. “I promise.”
“Is it bad that I already do?”
As a child, Tom Beckett always imagined he would grow up to become somebody important. Surviving the blood disease and getting a second chance so early on in life cemented this belief in him. Now in his mid-twenties, however, he questioned how special he truly was. Growing up, all his teachers told him he had potential but never applied himself enough to realize it. To Tom, potential was a double-edged sword: a privilege he enjoyed as a kid that became the burden of something unrealized as he aged. The FireScout incident from middle school still haunted him, more than Tom liked to admit. His father had never looked at him the same and they’d never spoken about it again. After moving out of his parents’ house for college, the rejected ship in a bottle remained sequestered in the Becketts’ attic: a painful reminder of preteen rebellion and dashed paternal dreams.
In college, Tom decided he wanted to become a writer, specifically a novelist. He’d been attempting to write one for years, but it was always the same cycle: Tom would start in on an idea that captivated and infatuated him, but when the bloom inevitably fell off the rose, he’d get frustrated and another captivating, infatuating idea would capture his imagination, causing him to switch gears entirely. Then the cycle would repeat. Every time this happened, Tom hoped his newest idea would become the one he’d finally be able to see to completion.
Returning from Matthew’s house that Saturday afternoon, Tom entered his apartment complex, The Buena Vistas (known among Alamedians as “The BVs”). The BVs had been built in the late 1960s, and looked as though they hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint since – inside or out. It was the least desirable place to live on the island, and Tom could afford to move elsewhere, but there was something romantic about a misunderstood writer living in a dank, falling-down apartment complex where neighbors screamed through the walls and babies screamed in the halls. It was the struggle, the constant cacophony of pain that he hoped, someday, would inspire his greatest literary work.
Tom opened the door to his unit and Squishy howled. The stray tabby cat he’d adopted two years ago never communicated politely, but in tones that perpetually shoved and demanded. He’d been a tiny kitten - surely the runt of his litter - but now he weighed almost seventeen pounds. When Tom lay on the bed and Squishy jumped on top of him, it felt like someone had dropped a dictionary onto his chest.
“Okay,” Tom told the cat. “I’m coming, just a second.”
The last vet visit, Dr. Pruitt had informed him that Squishy was overweight. Tom put Squishy on a diet of Weight Control dry food - one small cup of dry food twice a day. Now he scooped some of Squishy’s food into a little glass cup. Squishy howled again with anticipation.
“Jesus, Squishy!” Tom cried. The cat’s voice was so loud, it actually hurt his ears a little. “The weight control food is supposed to reduce your cravings!” He poured the food into Squishy’s dish and the cat immediately began eating it with a voracious hunger, gasping every time he opened his mouth to take another bite.
Tom sighed. Squishy would come back to his senses eventually. By the time bedtime rolled around, the cat would remember his owner and want to sleep in the bed with him. He was so big and he liked to spread out his entire cat-body, so Tom would often wake up and realize that an entire half of the bed had somehow been appropriated by Squishy during the night.
Tom went to his desk and turned on his laptop. The computer screen illuminated. On his desktop was a single folder titled “Starts.” He drew in a breath and opened the folder, revealing a long list of abandoned novels.
Thirty-seven to be exact.
Thirty-seven starts. Zero finishes.
A chilling thought gripped him: What if this band was just another “start” that would someday be filed into the folder of his unrealized aspirations? It had already happened thirty-seven times. What was going to make this one different? Sometimes, when Tom wrote, he would be chugging along when suddenly it felt as though he no longer had the words to tell the story. He would literally freeze, his entire body a block of ice, his fingers poised above the black keys of his laptop, unable to move. This awful, sinking feeling of the well running dry was the one thing he had come to count on in his creative process.
His mind flashed to Heather and the way she’d grabbed the microphone at last night’s party. Then he thought about Matthew giving him the Walkman and all those tapes when they were kids. In both of those instances, something bigger than themselves had compelled both Heather and Matthew to act. Now, for the first time in Tom’s memory, the same thing had happened to him.
He closed the folder, staring at the name. “Starts.”
This time, Tom vowed, things would be different. He’d promised Matthew. He’d promised himself. This time he would finally complete something. And there would be a new folder on his desktop that read: “Finished.”
Tom stood up from the chair and made his way to the phone on the kitchen wall. He picked up the receiver and dialed Heather’s number.