Chapter Text
I stepped out into the autumn atmosphere, wrinkling my nose as the frigid air practically assaulted my face. At least it would serve to wake me up a bit, snapping me out of an all-consuming state of fatigue. It didn't do much to alleviate my shitty mood however, only amplifying it as I stormed my way down the leaf-strewn sidewalk.
The main reason for my bristling irritation was the fact that the sky was still an early morning shade of charcoal, taunting me as it made me more aware of my groggy head and muscles that were heavy with the desire to crawl back into my warm bed and doze off for a few more hours.
The recently concluded summer break had given me an opportunity to sleep in as late as I possibly could until my father pounded on my door and barked "Craig, you lazy piece of shit, get out of your bed right now or you'll be in a whole world of pain!"
My father already thinks I'm a good for nothing slacker. His idea of a "proper" job for a man is something involving lots of physical labor, and that exemplifies stereotypical masculinity, like a construction worker or mechanic. The career path I aspire for does not fit that mold.
When I was in the eighth grade, I was just getting out of my Red Racer phase (not that I don't frequently watch reruns to this day, much to the chagrin of my friends who look like they want to blow their brains out whenever I flip on a classic episode when they're over at my place.) This meant that all of my starry-eyed aspirations of being a race car driver dissipated like smoke in a breeze, and were replaced with a new obsession - good old rock n' roll.
My father raised me on mostly country music, but my buddy Token's parents have practically brought me up as their own considering I'm at their "house" (sprawling five story mansion) seemingly more frequently than I am at my own, and they were constantly blasting Elvis and the Beatles, with the ocassional song by an 80's hair metal like Skid Rowe or Whitesnake.
My nostalgia for the music they constantly played throughout my childhood in addition to my ever-growing angst as I began puberty lead me to seeking out even wilder and heavier rock music, starting with radio-friendly gateway bands like Avenged Sevenfold, Breaking Benjamin and Three Days Grace. This lead me down a pipeline to the greats, sludgy 90's grunge like Alice in Chains, progressive innovators like Rush, and guitar gods like Steve Vai and Joe Satriani.
This fascination with an eclectic assortment of artists in the same genre lead to the spontaneous decision in 8th grade that I should start a band of my own, an idea I casually proposed to my buddies Token and Clyde at lunch.
Token was not having it at first. "No dude, nothing good ever comes out of being in a band. You think it's all about the music and artistic expression, but it's more about the money than anything. I'm not selling out again."
This "again" he was referring to was the time in fourth grade when Eric Cartman roped him into being the bassist of a Christian rock band called Faith +1, where he feigned being a proponent of Christianity to win a stupid bet with Kyle Brofloski.
"This will be different," I pleaded with Token. "We're making music for the passion of it, not to get a platinum album. It'll just be a fun hobby."
Truth be told, part of the reason I was so adamant about Token being in the band was that his parents had plenty of spare cash to fund the project, and their spacious home with 10+ spare rooms indicated a pretty good chance we could set up our very own recording studio.
Token remained unswayed, however, so I had to tap deep into my brain recesses to conjure a convincing argument.
"Remember in elementary school, Stan, Kyle and Kenny's shitty band Moop? They never even got around to releasing music, because they were too busy arguing about genres and creating discourse about piracy. They had talent and potential and threw it all away. You don't want to be a quitter like those jackasses do you? You're a very good bassist - and not just because you're black," I tacked the last part of that sentence on quickly so Token wouldn't assume I was stereotyping him just as Cartman had four years prior.
Token crunched on a carrot, deep in consideration. I bounced my leg in anxious anticipation.
"Fine," he caved after an agonizing few moments of silence. “I'll join your fruity band. But only because my dad has already been up my ass about how I let his authentic Carl Thompson bass collect dust in the basement."
I suppressed a grin. That rich bastard! But at least he finally relented.
Clyde was instantly on board with the idea, because "chicks dig musical men." Unfortunately, unlike Token, Clyde has no musical talent. Or any talent whatsoever, for anything. Or a single redeeming quality. Why am I friends with him again?
"Uh, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Clyde, but you'd probably be better off in the crowd than on the stage. Being in a band requires responsibility I'm not sure you can handle."
Okay, maybe he has one skill - gaining pity. He has pouting down to an artform and his puppy dog eyes are a lethal weapon.
"But Craiiiig.... I'm your best friend! You and Token are really gonna go get rich and famous and leave me behind? You're gonna leave me to suffer on the streets, living off table scraps while you guys get all the glory and chicks?"
I conceded but only partially. I let Clyde hop in on our venture not as a band member but rather as our "manager." He'd be responsible for finding us gigs and promoting our music to the rest of our student body. Of course this was a spur-of-the-moment concept used simply to pacify Clyde and cease his whining. I never really expected our success to exceed the confines of our practice room.
When it came to drummers we had two options - Kenny McCormick and Butters Stotch. Both were talented as far as I could tell and had prior experience being in bands, so we weighed the pros and cons. Butters was more dependable and loyal, almost to a fault. His optimistic nature made him far too trusting and submissive, rendering him a glorified doormat. This sounds like a good thing, but despite me being a self-admitting asshole I'm not so deranged I'd be privy to manipulating the poor bastard. I just think he's kind of pathetic.
Kenny on the other hand, is not reliable and quite obnoxious. Every other sentence he utters is an unfunny dick joke. That being said, he has a unspeakable charm to him, a sort of comfort emanating from him like fumes from a freshly baked pie. That in combination with a dazzling, camera-ready grin and a face with movie-star bone structure, he was already a star in his own right. Perfect eye candy, very marketable. The right choice for our band.
As an avid Eddie Van Halen worshipper, I assigned myself the role lead guitarist, practicing day in and day out until I felt like my fingers were going to fall off. I started in fifth grade with Smoke on The Water and have recently in the summer between eleventh and twelfth mastered the Eruption solo.
We designated one of Token's 33 spare bedrooms to be our practice room, "investing in" (convincing Token's parents to buy us) a state-of-the art soundproofing system so we could jam as loud as we wanted to. We met up everyday and covered our favorite songs until the asscrack of dawn.
All that was missing was a vocalist. I couldn't seize the mic even if I wasn't preoccupied with intricate guitar solos, due to my voice being nasally and monotone and just generally unpleasant. This was the role Clyde was really fiending for because "frontmen get the most bitches." That was a no-go since his voice is only minutely less grating than mine and despite his self-assured nature he's a total klutz and hardly has the swagger needed to captivate a crowd.
During a lunchtime discussion about our band's missing piece, Token offered a confession. "As much as I hate to admit it, Cartman does have a pretty solid singing voice."
"Do you really want to be in a band with him after what happened last time? I thought that was why you were initially so against the whole thing," I replied, confused as to why he was willing to pay the much-abhorred fatass a compliment.
"Oh, absolutely not, I was just saying," Token looked thoughtful for a second before his eyes flashed with the arrival of an idea. "Wendy Testaburger is pretty talented, being in the school musical and all. And she's popular and well-liked."
"Yeah, popular because she's dating Stan, the biggest meathead jock asshole in the school. Plus, do you really want a chick being the main star of our band? A fucking Girl Scout, nonetheless? That's like, so not badass."
Token rolled his eyes. "Oh grow up, Craig. What, you think she's gonna give us cooties or something?"
"No, I just don't think she's fit for the job. She probably only sings Top 40s pop songs and fruity musical numbers," I retorted.
"How will we know if she’s a good fit if we don’t give her a chance? We should let her try out. She can perform a song of her choosing and we can judge," Token suggested.
"That's even if she wants to try out, she probably thinks she's too good for us, the goody-two-shoes-cheerleader," I mumbled. But I wasn't opposed to the idea. I doubted she would impress me, but I was still willing to judge her, for my amusement if nothing else.
Later that night when I went to Token's for rehearsal, I was interrupted mid-picking by a knock on the studio door. Assuming it was Clyde arriving unfashionably late to "spectate" us (hover around uncomfortably and annoy the shit out of us), I answered it with no prevalent emotion. Imagine my surprise when I saw Stan Marsh standing there, hand intwined with that of Wendy, who was donning her cheerleading uniform and an obnoxious grin.
"Sorry about my get-up. I just got done with practice,” she chirped as she welcomed herself into our studio and invaded my safe space.
I returned her words with a vacant stare. "Uh, what exactly are you, uh, doing here?"
"Craig, I swear you have the memory of a goddamn goldfish. She's here to try out for our band." Token sighed with exasperation.
I didn't think she'd actually do it. "Shouldn't Clyde be here with us to judge?"
"Dude, all you ever do is complain about how useless he is, now you want him here? Stop being a butthead and just let Wendy do her thing."
Wendy batted her spider-leg eyelashes in a sickening sweet manner and I was acutely aware of Stan glaring daggers at me. Whatever, as if I cared whether or not I was being rude to his little girlfriend, I fucking despised the guy.
The amount of life-threatening misadventures that Stan and Co. unwillingly dragged me into in elementary school are unfathomable. I singlehandedly blame them for any psychological damage inflicted upon me in my youth. Well that and my overbearing "traditionally valued" redneck father, but that's a separate bucket of toxic waste.
I only tolerate Kenny because despite his prevailing ties with the "Goon Squad" as I've dubbed them, I can tell that deep down, they've broken him too: Stan and Kyle, the Golden Boys, kings of the school. Awarded every accolade possible, deified by the community at large. Yet they still hang around and enable Eric Cartman, the openly bigoted, verbally abusive asshole. They're fake as fuck and I despise them.
Silently fuming, I watch as Token sets up the mic. After a few agonizing moments of all silence and no action, I impatiently motion for Wendy to get this shitshow on the road. She smiles again, the same kind of striking superstar smile she flashes at the crowd as they shower her with roses after the yearly school musical and I feel sick to my stomach. This plastic bitch, fronting my band? No chance in Hell.
I had an infuriating inference - she would break out into a pitch-perfect pop musical number, not missing a note and even if she did she would offer another angelic golden-girl grin that would compensate for it, and Token in his everlasting wealth of kindness would be impressed by her talent and accept her into the band even though she didn't fit our band's hard rock sound and image at all. Kenny would also give her the greenlight due to his amicable relationship with Stan and his perpetual stoned stupor that prevented him from making logically sound decisions. Then the artistic endeavor that I poured half of my fucking soul fiber into was going be hijacked by the two-faced “elites” of my school, and there’d be no integrity left to it.
"Token has the backing track to the song I'm performing queued on his laptop," Wendy informed me as if I gave a fuck. At least we were finally getting this over with. She gave Token a nod and he pressed the spacebar on his laptop.
To my utter amazement, what ensured was not a lofty little showtune. A familiar guitar riff blared from Token's ridiculously high-quality speaker system: Before I Forget by Slipknot, one of the first heavier songs I learned on guitar.
Wendy sang with aggressive distortion and wild-eyed frenetic stage presence to match, moving her arms and jumping about like she was tweaking on fucking meth. The juxtaposition between her cheerleader uniform and her harsh vocal style wasn't just unexpected, it was fucking badass.
When she finished by screaming a final "Yeah, woah!" I unconsciously grinned from ear to ear and once the initial shock frittered away I even willingly clapped. Kenny was doubled over with impressed laughter and Token shot me a meaningful glance as he also clapped. I wasn't even annoyed by his “I-told-you-so” demeanor.
"Welp, you've got a yes from me," Kenny said in his best America's Got Talent judge voice once his giggle attack concluded.
"That'll be a yes from me as well," Token declared. I then felt four pairs of eyes close in on me at once, the most intense of them all being Stan's from the doorway.
"Do I even need to say it? Fuck, I’d hit the golden buzzer if I had one. Wendy, welcome to Crooked Young."
"Crooked Young?" Token raised an eyebrow, and I felt my face flush red. Oh yeah, I had never actually verbalized my band name of choice to him or anyone else. It existed only in my head because I was concerned that I would be prompted to explain my reasoning behind it, for which I would be judged.
All my life, I was judged for my really fucked up teeth. Cartman was especially relentless, telling me that my teeth could be politicians. Okay, that's actually pretty funny, especially by Cartman's standard of comedy. But it still made me mildly insecure.
I wanted to incorporate the word "crooked" into our name somehow, and I was reminded of the Bring Me The Horizon song. And the name just fit - if Kenny, Token, and I had anything in common it was our unfavorable reputations.
Kenny was known for being a sleazy drug dealer. I was known as an a stoic asshole with bad grades and a bad attitude.
Token was once revered as part of the "it-crowd," until he quit the football team due to the major toll it was taking on his mental health. After that, all the things that he was once admired for were things people used against him. Instead his wealth being viewed as a positive, he was regarded as a snobby prick. His good grades and kind demeanor were spun as him being a "teacher's pet." It was bullshit. Just because he didn't want to play a sport that fucked with his head and grated on his self-esteem.
I wasn't sure how Wendy would fit into our Crooked equation with her being part of the social hierarchy that semi-ostracized us, but when she smiled upon hearing the band name and said "Crooked Young. I like it," I knew that somehow, someway, she was an unconventionally good fit.
Retrospectively, I had been a huge asshole at the prospect of Wendy joining my band, due to my insecurity at her social status and my resentment towards her boyfriend. But she was fucking incredible in Crooked Young. Her star power and charisma catapulted us to to a celebrity status. She was great for publicity, having lots of connections due to the many school clubs and organizations she belongs to.
Even better was in freshman year when she and Stan broke up after a heated argument that I don't know all the details of. Apparently he had been "emotionally cheating" on her. I'm not surprised, the fucking asshole. I'm just beyond thrilled that I never have to see his smug face in the crowd anymore.
So at the the beginning of this school year, despite my sleep-deprivation-induced lack of enthusiasm, I stride into South Park High with a sense of purpose. Crooked Young will continue to grow a solid fanbase as we tour more and as soon as the cash starts flowing significantly, I can hightail it the fuck out of this shithole of a town and I can finally be the main character in my own life instead of the boring emotionless asshole that always caves in to Cartman and his Golden Boys.
Despite this, the more recognition I receive, the more intense the nagging feeling that I'm dangerously close to becoming everything I once hated becomes.