Stick Boy.
On a Monday afternoon with sweltering heat pushing through the blue Subaru’s thick glass windows, Simon watches Carver tug at his polka-dotted tie at every stop sign.
“Should I hold the wheel or something so you can take it off?” Simon asks finally. “What are you talking about, take it off? I’m not gonna take it off, Simon.”
“Well, I don’t know. It looks like it sucks to wear.” He shrugs within a heap of denim designed to be overalls on someone larger.
“It’s my dad’s. From France. It does not suck to wear. You just don’t know anything about what it’s like to dress well.” Carver exhales sharply out of his nose. “It’s cause you’re still a child, bro.”
“You are too.” Simon says it how a child with hurt feelings would say it. Dejected and defensive. He sits up a little straighter to combat the persistence of this image that he has suddenly become hyper-conscious of. Carver had managed to make child sound like a negative thing. Simon hadn’t thought of it like that before.
“Nah.” He sniffs and tugs at his tie again. “I’m gonna be driving your ass around ‘til you’re senile, huh?”
“Hopefully. I never wanna sit behind a steering wheel. I wouldn’t trust myself. Not with a big machine like this.”
“Doesn’t take a lot of skill,” Carver sighs. “I could do it with my eyes closed, even.”
“I hope you don’t,” Simon says quietly.
They drive for a bit in silence, watching the green of trees and corn husks flash by like streaks of watercolor against a bright blue acrylic.
“Gallery Scissors,” Simon whispers to himself. A sudden movement of the mouth, a blip in the brain. The possible birth of the best band in existence. Beatles status type of shit.
“Carver!” Simon bellows, causing Carver to jump and swerve the car a bit to the left. “Gallery Scissors! Holy shit.”
“Simon, what the fuck bro?” He straightens out the car and tugs on his tie again.
“Gallery Scissors!! Do I have to say it again?”
“What the shit is that?”
“The sickest band name you’ve ever heard! Is it not?” Simon’s eyes are wide now, bulging from the skin pulled taut across his face.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I just thought of it! We gotta use it. It’s too good to not use.”
“How the hell do you mean for us to use it?”
“What do you mean? It’s simple. We make a band. We name it Gallery Scissors.”
“Dude. Think for one second. Do you play an instrument?”
“No. But I’m sure I could learn kazoo. Give me like a few weeks and I’ll be dirty at it.”
“Yo, wait. What? You feel like you need to learn—hold on, that’s a whole other issue. It’ll derail us.” Caver makes a right turn and then says, “Simon, please explain your brain processes.”
“With every great name comes a great band. Everyone knows that.”
“It’s like one crackhead comment after another.”
“And you have good work ethic! You could figure out how to play guitar for sure. I know you could.” Simon is leaning forward, drumming an inconsistent beat on the dashboard with his pointer fingers. “And then we can find a drummer and a singer and maybe a—”
“Simon. I don’t want to be in your band, man.”
“What? Why the hell not?”
“I refuse to be a member of a band led by a rhythm-less, less-than-average kazooist.”
“I told you that in less than a month, I’ll be shredding! I’ll be the best kazooist the world has ever seen.”
Carver pulls into a narrow spot in the school parking lot and turns off the engine.
“Simon,” he says slowly. “I won’t be in your band. You’ve gotta find someone else to do it.”
He steps out of the car and Simon follows closely behind him toward the concrete monstrosities that make up Valston High School. Simon takes notice of Carver’s gait, the way his feet turn in slightly and his shoulders hunch forward just a bit. There’s no doubt that he’d make for a great album cover.
“Okay. But would you just think about it a little bit at least? You could be passing up on the greatest experience of your entire lifetime. I’ve got a good feeling about this one. I mean it too.”
“You have good feelings about stupid things often, Simon.”
“Okay! But this one! I even said I mean it this time!” Simon runs up next to Carver, stretching his legs out far in order to keep his pace.
“Bro, chill. Give it a week and you’ll be bored of all of this. I’m gonna be late to class. See you after school.”
Carver rushes off to the gymnasium and Simon smiles to himself. He has never felt so sure of an idea until this exact moment.
The bell rings and he feels a finger tap his shoulder. Behind him stands Ellie Taylor, dressed in fire. Red, really, but he feels that if he said the fire comment out loud, she’d like that type of thing.
“You look like you’re wearing fire,” he breathes.
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Simon,” she says. “You heard the bell, right? You’re late to class, you know.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t even planning to go. You look like you were at least planning to go.”
“Well, maybe I wasn’t.” He sees this as the perfect response. The sort of response that has the ability to paint someone as interesting and maybe even a little dangerous. But Ellie doesn’t even seem to hear. She’s digging deep into her bag, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she concentrates.
“Ah!” she says suddenly, pulling a twig from the bottom. “This! I found this stick on the sidewalk earlier this morning. It reminded me of you!”
She holds the stick only a few inches in front of Simon’s face. He closes one eye and squints at it. It’s slightly crooked with two smaller twigs sticking out on either side, like tiny, weak arms. Simon looks down at his own body and then back at the stick. Maybe they do look alike.
“Uncanny, right?” she asks, grinning.
“I guess so.”
“I can make it into a keychain for you. I have my jewelry class at three today. If you lose your keys, everyone will know they belong to you.” She puts the stick back into her bag, implying that no matter what Simon decides, the keychain will still be made.
“Okay. Thanks, El.”
“Oh! And I found this the other day at an antique store.” She pulls out a bright orange felt beret and balances it on her head. “What do you think? I bought it but I can’t tell if it’s stupid or not. I mean, it’s a beret, so I know it’s kind of objectively stupid, but … like … it’s kind of cute stupid, right?” She grins and cocks her head to the right. The beret slips off kilter.
“Right. Cute stupid for sure.”
“Good,” she says, and then turns to walk away without any warning.
“Ellie!” he shouts after her. Her body jolts in surprise and he realizes that she was still much too close for him to raise his voice.
“What?” she turns on her heels to face him.
“You have a band?” she says.
“Well—not yet. I’m sort of compiling one. Carver’s in it.” Simon winces slightly at his own lie.
“Yeah? What does he play?”
“Guitar. Well—he’s learning guitar. He’ll be really great though. He has good work ethic.”
“And what do you play?” she asks, one blonde eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other.
“I’m an aspiring kazoo-ist.”
“Ah. So nobody in this band actually plays an instrument yet.”
“Uh … yeah. I mean, that’s true but …”
“I’m in. You could use a real musician.” When she says the word musician, it’s like her mouth wants to linger on it. Simon pauses just in case she wants to say it again. She doesn’t.
“It’s called Gallery Scissors,” Simon says. “Pretty dope, right?”
“Kinda goofy. But the whole prospect is pretty goofy.” She pulls the beret off of her head and stuffs it into her bag.
“I hate this thing. It was a bad purchase,” she says, looking down at the blinding orange felt. “See you, Simon,” she says, this time before walking away.
“I’ll text you about our first rehearsal!” Simon calls after her, though she’s too far away to hear now.
———
At 3 AM, Simon wakes in a cold sweat upon realizing within a dream that every successful band has four members.
Carver’s phone buzzes him out of a deep sleep.
“Simon, what the fuck?” Carver mumbles into the phone.
“Shit, dude!! I got Ellie today but we need one more!”
Carver pulls the phone from his ear to avoid going deaf. “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, bro. Why the shit are you calling me at 2:30 in the morning?”
“Gallery. Scissors. Bro. Every successful band has four members! Just think about it! The Beatles. The Stones. Led Zeppelin. Probably more. I just... can’t really remember right now.” There’s a pause before Carver answers. He can feel Simon’s deep anticipation through the phone.
“Simon. I’m literally gonna fist fight you at school tomorrow.”
“Be serious, Carver.”
“No, actually what the fuck? Why would you wake me up to tell me that? I’M NOT IN YOUR BAND, SIMON. Holy shit.”
Carver hears Simon exhale loudly. “Well, damn,” he says.
“Good luck with it,” Carver says. The line clicks.
Simon stands up from his bed and walks to his desk. He drums his fingers on its wood surface.
Carver’s dad, Mr. Carver, teaches at VHS and has a corkboard outside of his classroom. Seeing that the two of them are good friends, Simon figures that Mr. Carver wouldn’t mind if he put a poster up. Mr. Carver speaks four languages, knows everything about everything, is one of the most active philanthropists in Valston, adopted Carver as a single father and is one of the smoothest lady killers Simon has ever encountered. Simon is fairly certain that he likes Mr. Carver more than Carver.
Simon pulls out a red piece of construction paper and a sharpie. He writes, “GALLERY SCISSORS AUDITIONS!!” out in big capitalized, block letters. At the bottom of the paper he writes his phone number.
The red is bold but Simon scowls at the sign itself, seeing it as too plain to be associated with a band that is as soon-to-be influential as Gallery Scissors. Simon adds a peace sign in one of the corners and a doodle of a skull in another. He sticks it into his bag and flops around, sleepless in his bed, for the rest of the night.
———
Magenta Socks.
Against cork the red pops even more, Simon thinks. He stands back to admire the poster beside the other, duller ones Mr. Carver already has hanging up. One for astronomy club, another filled with community service opportunities and a third with sign-ups for the end of the year talent show.
“Wow. That’s obnoxious.” Simon turns to see Mr. Carver, arms crossed.
“Okay if I hang this sign up?” Simon asks, pointing at it.
“You already did.”
“Okay cool.”
“What does it mean?” Mr. Carver asks, squinting at the poster’s blinding red.
“It’s for my band. Carver—uh Charles is in it.”
Mr. Carver furrows his brows, as if he’s contemplating what the word “band” could mean in this context. “So the two of you … you’re self-proclaimed musicians now?”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Carver rubs a hand across his face. “I learn new things every day, huh?” he exhales. “You should be more descriptive in your poster, Simon. Nobody will know what ‘Gallery Scissors’ means.”
“Oh. I thought it was clear. Do you have a pen?” Simon asks.
Mr. Carver pulls one from his pocket and hands it over begrudgingly. In parenthesis beside the word Scissors, Simon writes, (this is a band BTW).
“And do you think I should put a trademarked symbol next to Gallery Scissors? Just so no one takes the name?” Simon’s hand hovers over the poster.
Mr. Carver chuckles and shrugs. “You know, that’s really up to you and Charles, kid. If you wanna take the precaution, I say go for it. It never hurt to be assertive. Especially with something as precious as a band name.”
“Especially with this band name!” Simon scratches a TM next to the last S in Scissors and then stands back to admire his work.
“Right.” Mr. Carver scratches his head and nods slowly. “Get to class, kid.”
“Thanks, Mr. C,” Simon says. “Oh, are you making dinner tonight?”
“Scallops. You’re welcome to join us.”
“I just might,” Simon says, grinning.
Oswald Jackson sits next to Simon in history class. He’s skinny, allergic to a lot of things, and incredibly quiet, but Simon notices him drumming softly on his desk with his pencil. It seems like he’s got fairly good timing, not that Simon knows much about timing. He is nonetheless left with a good feeling about Oswald and his potential to be the best drummer the world has ever seen.
Simon has never said a word to Oswald. Today is the day. He leans in close to Oswald’s ear and whispers, “You wanna be in a band?”
Oswald jolts in his chair, causing it to squeak violently. Everyone in the class turns to look at him. His face goes a bright cherry red and he focuses his eyes on the floor until everyone looks away.
Simon tries again, a little less abrupt this time. “Sorry about that. Wanna be in my band?” he says, a bit slower.
“… What band?” Oswald whispers back.
“It’s called Gallery Scissors. We need a fourth member. A drummer. You drum?” Simon motions to Oswald’s pencil, still clenched tightly in his right hand.
Oswald squints down at it and then looks back up at Simon. “I’ve never touched an actual drum set before,” he says.
“But you have rhythm. I think you could be a sick drummer.”
“That seems like a pretty unreasonable assumption.”
“Wanna try at least? We got some cool people in Gallery Scissors. That’s the name of my band, by the way. Gallery Scissors. Cool, right?”
“I … I mean … I don’t know how much time I have to … like sit there and try to learn the drums. Maybe you should find someone who already plays?”
“Hey, come on. It’ll be great. You’ll be great.”
Oswald shrugs and says begrudgingly, “Okay.”
At 3:45 PM, Simon meets Carver in front of his Subaru. Carver notices Simon’s posture and cocky grin and immediately readies himself for a conversation he has no desire to be involved in.
He loosens his tie and says, “What is it, Simon?”
“Got Oswald Jackson today. You know, the kid who almost died cause of Lucy’s peanut butter sandwich in fourth grade? Well, he’s the drummer for Gallery Scissors now. And it’s gonna be sick.”
“Simon, I can promise you right now that Oswald Jackson has never even touched a drumstick.”
“And you’d be correct. But it doesn’t matter because soon he will touch a drumstick. And it will be glorious, Carver.”
Carver exhales sharply through his teeth and unlocks his car. On the drive home, he plays Pink Floyd loudly, in hopes that Simon won’t talk over the music. Of course, he does.
“It’ll be amazing. You don’t wanna have regrets about this for the rest of your life, do you?” he says, his face becoming red with excitement.
Carver groans and turns the volume up.
“Seriously!” Simon shouts over Another Brick in the Wall. “Seriously, man! It’ll be legendary!”
“Talk about anything else, Simon!” Carver screams back. Simon seems to get the message and sits silently in the passenger seat until they pull into Carver’s driveway behind Mr. Carver’s red Honda Pilot.
“I’m staying for dinner,” Simon says softly. “Your dad’s making scallops.”
At the table, Simon pokes at the scallops with his fork. They’ve turned out to be much more intimidating than he had expected.
“Lemon and garlic, Simon,” Mr. Carver says. “And the texture is an interesting one, but I think you’ll be able to get past it.”
Simon pops one into his mouth and grins to himself. Mr. Carver grins back.
“There you go,” he says. “So, tell me about this band you two are in.”
Carver chokes on a scallop and shakes his head violently. “No,” he says, his mouth full of food. “It’s not a thing. We do not have a band.”
“Yeah! We got two more members today. Oswald Jackson and Ellie Taylor.”
“Oswald’s a good kid,” Mr. Carver says, nodding and pushing his thick-framed glasses farther up his nose. “What does he play?”
“He will play drums. Soon.”
Carver buries his face in his hands and lets out a muffled groan.
“I was in a band in high school,” Mr. Carver says, ignoring his son’s noises of distress.
“Oh yeah?” Simon says, eyes widening. “What was it called?”
“Graves of Solace. I played keys. We had a lot of gigs in high school. It was a great time, too. We weren’t even very good but it was a great feeling. You get really close with your band mates, meet tons of cute girls … awesome experience.”
Carver lifts his head from his hands. “For real?” he asks.
“Absolutely. Ladies love musicians.” Mr. Carver cuts into a scallop.
“Hell yeah they do!” Simon says.
“I … I’ll do it,” Carver says softly.
“What?” Simon looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.
“I’ll be in Gallery Scissors. I’ll learn guitar.” Carver keeps his eyes on the table. For a moment, nobody speaks.
Mr. Carver picks up his wine glass and raises it toward the ceiling. “To Gallery Scissors. May they be successful in their efforts in becoming the best band this world has seen.”
“To Gallery Scissors,” Simon and Carver say in unison, mirroring Mr. Carver with their water cups held up toward the ceiling.
Mediocre Issue | November 2019