Chapter 8
The band’s first practice was held in Matthew’s living room. Tom arrived fifteen minutes early to set everything up.
“Where did you get all these instruments?” Heather asked upon arrival.
“Well, I’ve always had a guitar,” Tom explained, handing it to her. “But I never actually played it. The drums belonged to my cousin. He played them for a year and then quit. I think everyone in the world has a cousin who played drums for a year and quit.”
“What color are these drums?” Matthew inquired, taking his place on the seat behind them. “Gold?”
“In the musician world, we call it Gold Champagne Sparkle ,” Tom emphasized.
“What about the bass?” Heather asked, pointing at the rocker blue Ibanez slung across Tom’s chest.
“This, I got off Craigslist. Only ninety dollars!”
Heather and Matthew exchanged dubious looks.
“I can’t believe you already invested more than a nickel in this no-name band,” Matthew lamented. He scanned his living room - the one his best friend had managed to turn into something resembling a disaster zone with amps, blank sheet music and and other musical accouterments strewn about – all while Matthew had been taking a ten minute shower in the other room.
Matthew hadn’t even wanted to hold band practice at his house, but Tom begged him, saying they couldn’t have it at his shitty apartment because…well, it was shitty: the walls were thinner than papyrus and the neighbors - whom they both suspected were drug dealers due to various previous incidents that are better left undisclosed - would complain. Heather’s house was an in-law and had barely enough space to fit her and all her belongings, let alone two more people. Matthew knew if he agreed, he’d regret allowing band practice to happen at his place at some point - he just hadn’t realized how quickly that point would arrive.
“Tom, I know I told you this on the phone last week,” Heather said. “And I know I repeated it to you a couple of days ago when I saw you at the English department staff meeting. And again when I sent you a text message last night. But I just want to reiterate for the fourth time: I can neither sing, nor can I play a single note on this guitar.”
“I know, I know,” Tom said. “And I’m fine with that. This band is not about talent.”
“Is it about skill?” Heather asked. “Because I don’t have any of that, either.”
“Me either,” Matthew shook his head.
“I know you both have concerns,” Tom responded. “And I know you don’t want things to fall apart and blow up in our faces like some unstoppable terrorist anthrax bomb. But I also know that the three of us were meant to do this together. And deep down, I know it’s gonna be okay. Maybe even better than okay.”
Tom plugged his bass guitar into an amplifier. The amp was already turned on, so the feedback that ensued was teeth-rattling.
“You see what I’m talking about?” Matthew rolled his eyes at Heather.
“Don’t focus on the big picture,” Tom advised them, still recovering from the ringing in his ears. “Focus on what’s right in front of us, right now. The first thing we have to do is write a song, so that’s what we’re gonna work on today.”
“Songwriting is yet another arena in which I have no talent or skills,” Heather lamented. “Have either of you ever written any songs before?”
Matthew and Tom thought about this for a minute. Suddenly, Matthew snapped his fingers.
“Remember when my sister was really little and used to love Barney the Dinosaur?” he said to Tom.
“Who could forget?” Tom chuckled. “She played that stupid Barney tape every single night before you guys went to sleep. You wanted to stab your eyes out with an Exacto knife.”
“Well,” Matthew continued. “I got so annoyed that I, like everyone else in the world at the time, made up my own Barney hate song just to torture her.”
“Let’s hear it,” Tom said.
Matthew cleared his throat and sang:
I like you, you like me
Together we will kill Barney
With a great big knife and a chopstick up his butt
Maybe that will shut him up
“Never heard that version before,” Heather said.
“Maybe it would be a good idea to discuss our musical style, inspirations, and mission statement as a band first,” Tom said.
“That’s easy,” Matthew boasted. He looked directly at Tom. “What’s the best band in the world?”
“Queen,” Tom responded instantly.
Matthew clapped his hands together in agreement. “Say no more!”
“But I don’t know any songs by Queen,” Heather murmured.
Tom and Matthew gasped.
“Tell me this is some kind of sick joke!” Tom exclaimed.
“Everyone knows We Will Rock You ,” Matthew said.
“Yeah,” Heather replied. “As some testosterone-and-beer-marinated ode to overweight men who take off their shirts and paint their chests green and blue at football games.”
“How dare you?” Matthew cried in mock (but only slightly) outrage. “Heather, Queen is our religion. Yes, I’m technically a Christian and have been since I was a kid, but my religion is Queen.”
“Queen is the essence of the crazy, liberated, wacky spirit that drives the very core of rock and roll itself!” Tom added. “I know for a fact that I would be dead without them!”
“Sorry, geez!” Heather said. “Didn’t know you guys were so fanatical about it. I’ll listen to some Queen, I guess.”
Matthew and Tom exchanged looks. Heather was beginning to notice that whenever they locked eyes it was like they got into reptilian mode and could read each other’s thoughts.
“Wembley,” Matthew said.
“Wembley,” Tom repeated. “Give her the tape.”
Matthew leapt to his TV console and dug through a collection of DVDs. He quickly located the one he’d been searching for and tossed it to Tom, who handed it to Heather. Heather examined the front cover:
Queen: Live at Wembley
“This will be your homework,” Tom instructed Heather. “Tonight when you get home, the first thing I want you to do is put on this DVD and watch every single minute, including the credits. No bathroom breaks and no snacks. Is that something you can promise me?”
“Sure,” Heather muttered under her breath.
“Just a minute,” Matthew interrupted. He cocked his head and looked at Tom. “Maybe Heather doesn’t have to love Queen as much as we do in order to be a positively contributing member of the band, Tom. I mean she obviously loves Shakira. What’s the point of music, anyway? It’s not to be the best or the most artistic or the most intelligent or the most insightful…it’s about bringing other people joy. And Shakira clearly brings Heather a great deal of joy. Maybe we should be listening to Heather’s favorite artists, too.”
“Can we please, please never bring up the Shakira incident ever again?” Heather grimaced.
Matthew turned to Heather. “Just answer one question: When you listen to Shakira, does her music make you feel alive again?”
“Yes.”
“That there’s a side to you that no one else knows?”
“Yes.”
“A side that even you, perhaps, never knew existed…until Shakira came along and-”
“You said it was supposed to be just one question!” Heather protested. “It’s none of your business, but fine. I love Shakira!”
The entire little house rattled as though a small earthquake had just erupted in the middle of it.
“I don’t know why I love Shakira so much,” Heather continued, “but I do! She’s magic…lightning and electricity all rolled into one. Her music helped me survive… everything . It still does. I know you said you’d be dead without Queen, Tom…but I happen to know for a fact that I would be dead without Shakira.”
Matthew and Tom exchanged a meaningful look. To Heather, it appeared they were doing that lizard mind reading thing again.
At the same moment, they nodded and smiled at one another.
“Well, Heather,” Tom said. “That’s exactly how Matthew and I have felt about Queen since we were kids. I think you just proved that you have exactly what it takes to be in Die Trying .”
“ Die Trying ?” Matthew raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious about that name?”
“Yes. It came to me in the vision.”
“Not these visions again…” Matthew rolled his eyes.
“It was the same vision I told you about!” Tom insisted. “I just didn’t wanna tell you the band name earlier ‘cause I thought you wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, you were right about one thing…” Matthew grumbled.
“It’s a little bit morbid,” Heather said.
“What are you talking about?” Tom said. “The name ‘Die Trying’ fully encapsulates the spirit of what the band represents!”
“That sentence doesn’t make any sense,” Heather frowned.
“Gimme a day, I’ll come up with a better name,” Matthew added.
“Fine,” Tom said. “But until you do, the band’s name remains Die Trying. You can’t have a band without a name. It’s bad for morale.”
They practiced for two hours, during which Tom, Matthew and Heather managed to cobble together the beginnings of what might possibly - in some obscene and strange reality - resemble something akin to an actual song.
“I think our work here is done,” Tom proclaimed.
“Thank God!” Matthew huffed. “I thought you’d make us stay here and practice till dinnertime.”
“I didn’t want to overwork you guys too much, considering we’re gonna be performing at an open mic soon.”
“Tom…” Matthew fixed him with a dubious glare.
“Don’t get riled up!” Tom held up his hand. “Trust me, it’s the most laid-back open mic in town: The Blue Danube Coffee House on Park and Alameda Ave.”
“I didn’t know they had an open mic there,” Matthew said.
“Every other Friday night.”
“We can’t go there,” Heather interjected. “I know people who hang out at that coffee shop.”
“Who?” Matthew asked.
“Actually, I don’t know anyone. I just don’t want to do it.”
“I’m not saying we have to go this Friday,” Tom explained, “But by the beginning of October, I think we owe it to ourselves to play our first gig.”
Matthew threw up his hands. “We don’t even have any songs yet!”
“Um, what do you call the thing we were all just working on together over the past two hours?” Tom countered.
“ That piece of crap?” Matthew raised his eyebrows.
“Hey, hey,” Heather said. “Maybe it’s not as good as your Barney hate song, but I think we should give ourselves a little more credit. Besides, according to Beckett over here, we’re supposed to be shooting for shitty songs.”
“The shittier the better,” Tom nodded. “The more embarrassed we get, the more we fail in the most publicly-humiliating way…the more we desensitize ourselves to failure. And that’s where our freedom lies.”
Matthew had to leave at three to meet his parents at La Pinata. His sister Rachel was having a birthday dinner at six, and he hadn’t gone shopping for a gift for her yet. Thoughtful gift-giving had always been of major importance in the Yin household, and showing up empty-handed wasn’t an option.
“I’ll leave you two to finish up here,” he called from the front door. “Just be sure to lock up before you go.”
“He sure rushed out of here in a hurry,” Heather said.
“Matthew’s family takes birthday presents very seriously,” Tom said. There was a pause. Heather appeared to be looking at her phone. “Speaking of taking things seriously,” he began tentatively, “I wonder how seriously you plan to actually watch that Queen concert when you get home.”
“What?” Heather said, looking up from her phone, disoriented. “Oh, you mean Live at Wimbledon?”
“ Wembley ,” Tom said, submerging his inner outrage.
Heather slumped her shoulders and shot Tom a sarcastic look.
“I actually haven’t seen it in awhile myself,” Tom reflected. “Maybe we could watch it together.”
“What, you mean right now?”
“Unfortunately, Matthew’s DVD player is out of commission. Coach Redfield fell on it in a drunken stupor the night of the party. We could go to my house.”
Heather shot Tom a skeptical look. “How far away is it?”
“Just a five minute drive.”
Heather looked at her watch and then glanced at the back of the DVD.
“I have to be somewhere at six,” she said. “So we’d have to move quickly.”
“Great!” Tom smiled. “You can follow me in my car.”
Heather was surprised to find that Tom Beckett lived in one of the shittiest apartments she’d encountered since moving to the island. Why he lived in Section 8 housing on a teacher’s salary (it wasn’t much, but he could have afforded something better) made no logical sense. She kept her confusion concealed as she followed Tom through the gates that surrounded the large, white-stucco apartment complex and waited for him to unlock the door to the main entrance. Upon entering the building, she heard the sound of a baby crying. Once she entered the dark hallway, Heather saw a woman holding a baby up with one arm and gripping a cell phone in her opposite hand. The father, significantly shorter than the baby’s mother, hovered anxiously by the woman’s side as the baby screamed, its face growing redder with every passing second.
As Tom and Heather passed the threesome to call an elevator, the strap that secured the diaper bag around the man’s shoulder suddenly gave out, spilling diapers across the hallway. He scrambled to pick them up while the woman shrieked what sounded like Russian into her phone. Heather bent over to help him with the diapers and he nodded at her frantically, gratefully.
“Kinda loud in here, isn’t it?” Tom said as the elevator doors closed. At the fifth floor, Heather followed Tom down what seemed like endless corridors of identical red doors, until they reached number 5155. He unlocked two deadbolts plus the knob lock and let Heather inside.
She was pleased and somewhat relieved to find that the interior of Tom’s apartment was nothing like the rest of the building. All her life she found herself surrounded by filth, and there were very few people who understood why she detested it as she did. She could tell by looking around the apartment that Tom was a very tidy person. That, or he just didn’t have a lot of stuff.
“Have you lived here long?” Heather asked.
“About five years,” Tom replied. He stopped and scratched his head. “Jesus!” he said more to himself than to her. “Has it really been that long? Want something to drink?”
“Sure. Do you have any soda?”
Tom shook his head.
“Actually, I only have water now that I think about it,” Tom answered sheepishly. “Just a habit, offering a guest something to drink. I should probably stock up on an array of beverages before I ask that again.”
“Oh,” Heather said. “Well, water’s fine too.”
She lowered her body onto the couch, facing the television. Tom disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of tap water.
“Here you go.”
As she peered more closely, Heather saw that the water was slightly brown – or perhaps even slightly gray. She didn’t want to appear rude, so she forced herself to take a sip. It tasted metallic. Maybe even a little grainy. Heather squeezed her eyes shut, trying to swallow without making a face. When she opened them, the sight of a large, overweight, gray-striped tabby cat that had appeared like magic on the sofa between Tom and herself made Heather jump.
“I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“Oh,” Tom chuckled slightly. “I hope you’re not allergic. Feel free to push Squishy out of the way if it makes you more comfortable. He doesn’t bite people. Well, he used to, but I broke him of that habit. Well, most of the time, anyway.”
“Squishy?” Heather stared at the feline, its hypnotic, green eyes fixed on her as well.
“Oh my gosh,” Heather murmured. “He looks just like Jackson.”
When Heather was ten, her mother had inadvertently managed to adopt a feral gutter cat by leaving it canned tuna fish on their back porch for two nights in a row. The cat soon came to expect food every night, and would return at the same time on a daily basis to be fed. Gradually, Crystal allowed the cat to come into the house. Heather had longed for a pet to come home to, someone to ease the loneliness that plagued her. She knew Jackson wasn’t a pet in a traditional sense, but she hoped that by loving him enough, she could turn him into one…and in many ways he did transform into the loving companion Heather had wished for.
Jackson had been dead now for three years, but he remained a rare bright spot in Heather’s murky childhood memories.
“Jackson?” Tom’s voice broke into Heather’s thoughts.
“My old cat. My mom named him that because she loves Michael Jackson. Even went to see him at the LA Forum when she was pregnant with me.”
Heather hadn’t heard from her mother and it had been a week since she’d gone to her house. Mentioning Crystal out loud flooded Heather with sadness in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
Suddenly, Squishy leapt onto Tom’s lap, letting out the loudest, most demanding “meow” Heather had ever heard from a cat.
“Stop it, Squishy!” Tom groaned. “You know it’s not dinner time yet.”
Squishy continued to yowl with increasing volume.
“Sorry,” Tom said. “He can be kind of a handful. Yells and screams for food all day long. And he walks around with his mouth open sometimes.”
“With his mouth open? Why does he do that?”
Tom shrugged. “I guess he just forgets to close it sometimes.”
“How long have you had Squishy?”
“A few years. I walked into a pet adoption agency one afternoon to kill some time before meeting a friend in the neighborhood. This crotchety old lady who worked there came up to me holding Squishy. She practically shoved him into my arms. I told her I was just looking, but she said: ‘No, honey. This is your cat.’ I wasn’t expecting him to come into my life that day, but there he was. And here he is.”
The concert wasn’t half bad. In fact, Heather thought she might grow to become a Queen fan with time, though of course they could never betray her real queen, Shakira.
She keeps Moet et Chandon
In her pretty cabinet
'Let them eat cake' she says
Just like Marie Antoinette…
Freddie Mercury had just opened with the beginning lines to Killer Queen when Heather felt something pulling at the back of her head. At first the pull was slight – almost nonexistent. Then, with some alarm, Heather thought it was Tom’s fingers stroking her hair. Without warning, the gentle tugging switched into a full-on yank. Heather screamed and leapt to her feet.
“Squishy!” Tom yelled. “What are you doing?”
Squishy jumped off the couch and scampered down the hall.
“Sorry!” Tom apologized. “He has a bit of a hair fetish. I probably should have mentioned that. He’ll just reach out and bite anything that grabs his attention. Must’ve been attracted to the blonde.”
Heather rubbed her stinging scalp.
“What, so he has a blonde fetish, too?” she snapped.
Tom looked confused and Heather paused, remembering that any remarks about the color of her hair tended to throw her into an irrational tizzy.
“Sorry,” she sat back down next to Tom. “I just…I know this sounds stupid, but I don’t like it when people talk about my hair being blonde.”
“But it is blonde,” Tom observed.
“I know that!” Heather sighed, exasperated. “Trust me, when I was a kid, people used to point it out all the time. They loved to make fun of me for it.”
“Why would they do that?” Tom asked. “Don’t blondes have more fun?”
“Not in my case,” Heather grumbled. “I’m Mexican American…or at least, my mother is. The other Latino kids said I was too blonde to play with them…that I wasn’t Mexican-looking enough for them. The Santiago twins were the only ones who played with me, but no one liked them because they were gross and never showered.”
“ You’re Mexican American?” Tom exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah, well my father’s white,” Heather muttered. “That’s where I got it from.”
“No wonder you love Shakira!” Tom said. “You’re blonde, she’s blonde…or is that her natural hair color?”
Heather blinked in disbelief at Tom.
“I don’t love Shakira just because I’m Mexican ,” she corrected him. “And anyway, Shakira’s from Colombia. It’s a whole other country.”
“I didn’t mean it as a criticism!”
Heather rolled her eyes and stood up as though she was about to storm out of the apartment…which she was.
“Wait, are you pissed?” Tom asked. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I say the wrong things. Please don’t be upset with me.”
“I’m not upset,” Heather paused as she collected her purse. “I mean, I am…but if I stay, I’m probably gonna go off on you. Trust me, you don't want that.”
She pushed past Tom and began unlocking the door.
“But we haven’t finished watching the concert yet!”
Tom stood up, following her. He knew it was extremely inappropriate timing, but in that moment, he found himself fixating on Heather’s long, blonde hair as she flung the door open and glided down the hallway towards the elevators. Tom watched her from the doorway; her hair seemed to flash and sparkle beneath the glow of the dim fluorescent lights.
She looked beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the night she sang karaoke at Matthew’s party.
“ Hey !” he called after her. Heather didn’t turn around or respond. She disappeared into the elevators.
Tom slumped his shoulders as his ears registered the closing lyrics of Killer Queen :
Recommended at the price
Insatiable in appetite
Wanna try?
You wanna try.