Fagot.

Such a simple word, and not even a four letter word, as the rest of the stinging remarks of the English language. And yet it stung Jonathan Davis every time it was aimed at his heart like a wicked blow. It hit him like a serial killer, that word; again and again and again, all day. The word chased him down the hallways, through the streets…hid for him in the mirror, so that whenever he looked at himself the word could jump out and stab him in the back again.

Yet, that isn’t right. The word had become somewhat of a friend, in fact, as he developed into the young man that he was. The word in itself became a block to ward off the assholes that plagued Highland High. It kept him aloof from the others, which he had grown used to, and didn’t mind in the least. However, in the words of Jonathan Davis himself: "Best friends stab you in the front."

And with that mentality he awoke to greet another day in beautiful Bakersfield. His body ached this morning; he had been up late last night, sneaking into the back yard to finish off the last dime bag he had hidden in his mattress before returning to bed. A killer headache plagued him; it was almost as sharp and serrated as the word that, as a good friend, stabbed him in the front.

He decided that he would wear eyeliner today as he looked into the mirror, wincing at what he saw. His face was gaunt and stretched, pale, the lines aghast against his pitch-black stubble. He was a mess.

(I don’t like the drugs but the drugs like me…)

Adorned in black from head to toe, he grabbed a Snackwell’s bar from the pantry and told his stepmother that he was going to work that night. She merely waved her hand over her shoulder as she occupied herself with cutting up fresh fruits for his father’s breakfast.

Jon let out a grunt of contempt. The feeling’s mutual, bitch, he hissed to himself as he stepped into the sun. This morning—as with every other—the sun aimed itself at him and burned into his black shoes, socks, t-shirt, pants, hair, stubble…and eyeliner. By the time his ride arrived he was sweating. He climbed into the piece of junk his only friend—Jack—owned. Jack dropped by every morning to give Jon a ride. They weren’t very fond of each other: Jon thought that Jack was boring and Jack was convinced Jon was a little

(fagot!)

odd, but habit is broken as hard as addiction. They were so used to this routine that neither said a word on their way to school. Another stream of sweat broke out on Jon’s forehead. He checked that he was safely buckled into the seatbelt about five times during the duration of the car ride. Ever since he started working at the mortuary—and he saw, everyday, another car accident victim that he’d seen once at Dairy Queen or at the movies—he became paranoid. He knew he’d never drive, ever. He just couldn’t stand the pressure of it all, the chances.

Highland high school—aka purgatory—was the most dreaded place ever. Jonathan Davis hated it, perhaps more than any one else in that goddamned school. In there, the word "Fag" hung around his enemies as well as the back door of his few aquaintances’ minds. It seemed to be the most popular motherfucker in the entire place, because he heard it mentioned whenever he was around. Over the years Jon had heard it many times, and each time it stung more, now that it often followed a punch or a dirty look. Sometimes he’d find gay porn—courtesy of the word—in his locker.

He was a New Age sissy la-la. The cheerleaders taunted him as often as the jocks did. In a world where the enemies outnumbered the friends, all Jon could do to get by was play his bagpipes…which in turn was some of the reason that the word "Fag" hung around him so much. No one understood his infatuation with the odd instrument.

He made it through the day, but just barely. Steve Hawkins was waiting for him outside after-school, and had it not been for Jack pulling up to them he would have gotten a taste of his own blood. Jon thanked him gratefully. All Jack did was lift his blonde eyebrows, turn the radio on, where NIN was telling Jon they wanted to fuck him like an animal, and say nonchalantly,

"Well, yeah. You owe me one."

Jon knew what he meant by that. Jon was down to his last pack of cigarettes, but he gave it up to Jack’s outstretched hand. He enjoyed them all the way to Jon’s house. Jon thought that he fucking shouldn’t smoke and drive—he had to pay attention to the road, goddammit—but he wouldn’t do that, would he? Jack would never see what Jon saw for 40 hours a week (10 hours a day on the weekends). He would never see a hot chick with a piece of windshield slicing through a beautiful breast like an anxious lover. He would never see the green envy of his own decay, or the broken back legs of an infant who was fucked like a toy doll by her father until she died.

Nope. Jack would just enjoy the rest of his cigarettes. But, oh, Jon could see what he would look like laid out on a mortuary slab. Naked, with that stupid Winston smoked to the filter and his steering wheel sticking out of his ass like a horribly misled frisbee.

He almost grinned at the thought.

That word stabbed him, the one that warned of him:

Fagot.

The word that was a blessing in disguise.

Chapter 4:

"What time do you want to meet, hon?" Fieldy teased. Who was this little kid anyway? Fieldy thought that there would be more responses to his request for a drummer than some little middle-school kid whose tiny balls probably had a total of about one pubic hair.

"Um, sometime around five." This had to be some kind of joke. Fieldy couldn’t hide a small grin. What will the others think? Munky and Ham will probably laugh their royal asses off. This kid was the first response to the word they had put on the streets for a drummer. About five months ago, Fieldy and Ham had finally decided to start a band. Fieldy had taken up the bass only months before, but he was coming along nicely—he loved the bass, the heaviness, the power of the instrument—and Ham had recommended Munky for a fellow guitarist. Munky wasn’t as good as Ham, but he had this cool long hair…

"Alright. We’ll be there."

"Reggie?" David asked in a little voice. "What kind of music are we doing? I mean, like, I hope it’s something cool."

Fieldy rolled his eyes. In B-Town everyone played country music. Fieldy and the others were very different; they were interested in the surfer genre plaguing L.A. Of course, his father would frown if he only knew; Fieldy was born on tour: his father belonged to some hick country outfit. It was hard enough for him that Fieldy liked black music. He was totally into Afrika Baambata and other exotic shit, and because of that he was considered a weirdo in school. Ham and Munky were, too. In the back of his head he knew it was the reason why no one but a little kid—whose voice was still whiny and child-like—would ever think of responding to their ad.

"We’re doing surfer."

The kid’s voice dripped with utter awe. "Cool! I’ll see you."

"Yeah, kid. And make sure—" he started. He stopped himself before he could say "you change your diaper." That would be too mean.

"What?"

"Nothing. Make sure you’re just not wasting our time."

"Don’t worry ‘bout that, man." Great, the kid was talking as if they were great pals. The kid had to be about thirteen—at the most—and next year he would probably be bragging to all the other dorky freshmen how he had once tried out for a band of high schoolers…

Fieldy called Ham and Munky and told them about the meeting he had set up with the "drummer". Both had been exulted until Fieldy told them how old he was. Munky laughed, but Ham just started scolding Fieldy for being an idiot. He would have to walk to David’s house—across town, a long way—lugging his guitar, only to find that the kid sucked? What was wrong with him?

Fieldy didn’t know. He rewinded the tape to his answering machine, and listened to the young kid’s message for the fifth time. "Hey, um, you guys need a drummer…?" This was a waste of time; that was evident. And yet, there was something clawing within him, waiting to discover if there really was something about this kid. Something good. After all, he sounded pretty confident.

But he doubted it. There was nothing good about B-Town. No one good in B-Town.

Ham knocked apprehensively on the front door. He was puffing when David’s mother opened the door. Now into his sophomore year, Ham was no longer so much of a ham. Even though there was a small bulge around his stomach and a ring around his arms, he had grown absurdly tall for his age. His head was still as big as it had ever been. Walking to Jimmy’s apartment every week and succumbing to a severe case of pneumonia the month before had done him a world of good. He wanted to be as skinny as Ted Nugent…but there was one thing for sure now; he was almost as skinny as Fieldy. He thought about how Fieldy had been a chubby kid, but about a year ago had turned into a stick.

Jimmy was skinny, too. Although Jimmy was almost to the point of being sickly. Ham knew why. Jimmy had confessed to him about his family’s poverty. About how sometimes there was nothing for him or his little sister to eat. That’s why Jimmy had had to eat lunch at Ham’s house for six months before he had chump change enough to buy Ham’s Peavey Mystic off of him and a little bitty amp. Ham was blown away every time he went to Munky’s apartment. The kid was getting good. Although he had been nothing compared to Ham that fateful day when he had showed him the magic of the electric guitar, he was competition now, alright.

"Hey!" Jimmy yelled behind Ham. After Ham introduced himself to David’s mother. Jimmy lugged his prized amp along the sidewalk, wearing a pair of stained jeans around his skinny legs and sweating profusely in the hot sun. He had had to run from a couple of thugs threatening to kick his ass about three miles back. They always hung around his apartment, seemingly waiting for him…

Munky was lucky today. He had escaped with his amp intact. But he couldn’t hide the fading black eye behind his locks of silky black hair as he approached. David’s mother saw it but said nothing. Munky was a Mexican, and not a rich one, obviously. That explained all it needed to.

"And I see this is the other ‘band member’," David’s mother said finally with an almost annoying tone. She let them both in. They removed their shoes politely; they set them next to each other, Munky’s hole-ridden moccasins next to Ham’s brand-new adidas.

His mother was a tall woman with dark brown hair that she kept up in a long braid. She was a beautiful woman; slender and rather large-breasted. She was youthful; her warm smile made Munky’s heart melt despite himself. She looked like a sweet woman, like his mother, whose smile was so often sour on her face like a mirrored reflection…

"Hey, guys!" David skipped down the stairs lightly. He was still short. Puberty hadn’t dawned on him yet; it wouldn’t for another year. His mother left after a silent nod between the two, as if they knew something the others didn’t. Fieldy arrived just then, just as Ham and Munky shared their own private look. Usually they trusted Fieldy’s judgment, but today he had made a humongous mistake. This was ridiculous. The thing was, his mother had been so nice to them. Her smile had warmed both their frigid hearts. And just what the hell had that look meant? What could his mother possibly know, why would she be so confident in her little son? Knowing that he probably sucked? If she thought this was cute, then this was all just fucking stupid. And embarrassing.

"Hey, guys," Fieldy said. He stayed behind the two other juvenile guitarists. Somewhat reluctantly they followed the little boy into his garage. "Whoa," was all they said when they saw how decked his drumset was. They had expected a second-rate little wimpy thing. But this was impressive. It had everything that Tommy Lee has, was what Ham thought. Munky was astounded. He shrugged his shoulders at Fieldy.

"Alright. Well? Are you guys just gonna stand there?" asked David. It took them a while to find an electrical socket inside of the garage. There was junk everywhere, and it smelled pervertedly of dust balls. There were rusting tools and old oil spills that blemished the cement floor like underwear skid marks. And among it all, was David’s magnificent drumset.

"Here. Here’s one."

"Cool." Ham was a little more confident. Maybe this kid wasn’t half bad. He plugged in Munky’s amp and then his guitar. He played a lick he had learned from Motley Crue. He kept fooling around as Munky only watched, half impressed. He could do that, too, was all he thought.

"Show us your stuff, little man," Fieldy said now. He really wanted to see if this kid knew what the hell to do with all those drums.

David only smirked, a smirk that made them all break out laughing. The vibe in the room changed when David sat down. He removed his shirt; his scrawny little chest—lacking of even the tiniest fuzz anywhere—hardly showed through the myriad of cymbals. When he started to play his mother opened the garage door and watched the scene. All three sophomores gawked, slack-jawed, as her son belted out a rhythm in perfect time. She had been a drummer; it was, in reality, her drumset. Now, she shared it with her son. Ever since he was old enough to hold a drumstick she had let him play; he had such a passion; it wasn’t long before he even surpassed her. He was an intelligent boy. He was also a perfectionist. He knew what he could do…and he also knew how he could improve himself.

It was showing right now.

"Whoa."

The next thing they knew, Ham had once again picked up his Fender. He improv’d as David played. Before they knew it, they had a metal tune. An awesome one at that, something Ham would run home and scribble frantically into messy tablature in his prized guitar notebook.

Fieldy couldn’t believe it. None of them could. "Man, you’re in. You are sooo in."

"Cool!" They didn’t care that he was a child. It didn’t matter. The kid could play. Wow, could he play.

His mother closed the door, and stood against it. Already, she knew what her son would do with his life. There was no doubt about it. This was just the beginning. Someday he’d be recording music—maybe with these youngsters, maybe not—but music would be his life. It had been her life until she’d made the mistake of choosing the wrong man to love. He had met her at one of the biggest shows of her career. Superstitious as she still was, she took that as a sign. But it had turned sour. And she was left a young, single mother of a son who loved music even more than she.

Did he have it in him?

Yes.

David Silveria joined the three men he would play with for as many years as he had been living—and more—the day of that try-out.