Chad snorted. “We’re way past second. I don’t think I can count high enough to figure out how many chances we’ve given you. This is your last chance. I want you to acknowledge that I’ve told—-”
“All right, all right, I get it. Just get on with it, will you?”
Chad’s voice changed, excitement leaking through the cracks of his hardline pose. “Disregard the 9 is going to open for Autopsyturvy at the Uptown in Kansas City eleven days from today on Monday the twenty--seventh.”
I stopped breathing. Was this a dream?
“Hello?” Chad said.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’m just not sure I heard you right.”
“You heard me. See, our new, better, more dependable drummer who doesn’t steal shit from bandmates broke his wrist skiing, and we don’t have time to teach the whole set to some new guy.”
New. Better. More dependable. Doesn’t steal shit. Each descriptor hit me like a two--by--four with a rusty nail in it. Especially since it was all true.
“So it’s up to you,” Chad continued. “This is your very last chance. Ever. This is it. You either get it together and get up to Kansas City eight days from today for rehearsals, or that’s it. We’re done.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Chad clicked off.
This changed everything.
Because just four months before, the administration at Kansas State University had strenuously encouraged me to leave and never come back after just one semester on campus. Good thing my dad had taken off when I was in elementary school, or I’d never have heard the end of it, though the old man was a high school dropout himself. Here I’d spent three years commuting to Brown Mackie College in Salina so I could transfer to K--State for junior and senior year, and I’d blown it. I’d been delivering groceries to pay for tuition for five long years, and until thirty seconds ago I’d thought delivery boy would be my permanent vocation.
But suddenly I was the drummer for Disregard the 9 again. Good thing I hadn’t sold my drum kit after all. But I needed to set it up in the shed and get practicing. I lay back, set my shitty flip phone down, and smoked with my eyes closed, glad to be alive for the first time in months.
The door banged open and my grandma Oma cycloned into the room.
I opened one eye just as she snatched the cigarette from between my lips. She dropped it into a soda can and threw the whole mess into my wastebasket.
“Aus dem Bett holen,” she said, dashing aside the heavy curtains to reveal the anemic spring sunshine.
“Nein,” I said.
“Ja. We’ve got somewhere to go.” She slapped my blanket--covered butt. I was still a six--year--old to her, and ever would be. My face flared.
“I’ve asked you not to do that,” I said, rolling away from her. “It’s weird.”
“What, waking you up at two o’clock in the afternoon? I told you. If you’re not going to go back to college, if you’re going to live here, you’re going to live by my rules. Which doesn’t include sleeping the verflucht day away.”
She didn’t know the details of my departure from K--State. She assumed I’d dropped out, and I let her.
“It’s my day off,” I said, stretching. “I was up late last night. And anyway, I just got some amazing news. I’m going to—-”
Oma yanked the sheets up, threatening to make the bed with me in it, and I knew she’d do it. Her massive, floppy upper arms swayed as she extracted the pillow from under my head.
“Don’t be a Waschlappen,” she said. “I need you to go with me.”
She would not be interested in my good news. She would be unimpressed, so I didn’t bother telling her. I sat up and dropped my feet to the floor, scratching my head with both hands.
“We’ve got to get that washing machine out to the dump by four o’clock.”
“You mean the one that’s sat in your backyard since the Ford administration?” I stood and pulled on the jeans and Gangstagrass T--shirt I’d left on the floor the night before.
She didn’t answer, just continued to bustle about the room.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. Why do we have to get the washing machine to the dump by four o’clock?”
Oma turned to me with a delighted smile on her face beneath the gray Berber carpet of her permed hair. “Charlie Moshen passed yesterday.”
“And this makes you happy because . . .”
She moved to slap my scalp but I ducked her.
“I made his girl a ham and spaetzle casserole and a Jell--O salad. We need to take them to the dump.”
She needed to say no more. I knew, like everyone else in Niobe County, you didn’t drop by the Moshen place unless you wanted to be plugged full of buckshot or shredded by their legendary attack dogs. Rumor had it their property was booby--trapped with punji sticks and trip wires.
“Can I eat something first?” I said.
“Hurry.”
I used the toilet, then headed into the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. Oma put her casserole and salad into a grocery bag and stood by the counter, waiting.
“I hate it when you stand and watch me eat. For God’s sake, Oma, would you sit down?”
She didn’t, of course, so I ignored her. When I was finished, I put my bowl and spoon in the sink.