The Heavy 13-Year-Old with the Long-Sleeved Misfits T-Shirt on His Eggplant-Shaped Body Leaned Over Johnny’S Desk and Told Johnny His Nirvana T-Shirt Was Gnarly
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The heavy 13-year-old with the long-sleeved Misfits t-shirt on his eggplant-shaped body leaned over Johnny’s desk and told Johnny his Nirvana t-shirt was gnarly. ‘I believe Kurt would approve,’ Sage said. His belly moved as he chuckled. Johnny hadn’t had any interest the last two mufti days when he’d experimented with Mötley Crüe and WWF t-shirts. Today he’d experimented with a black band t-shirt with a yellow smiley face turned wobbly on drugs, its eyes dead crosses, a shirt apparently belonging to some band called Nirvana, a shirt he could never show his parents. ‘Thanks, man. You’re Sage, eh man. Did you choose your own name, honest?’ 1 ‘Yeah man. It’s more than a name, though. It’s a state of mind.’ Sage pulled a chair under his fat arse, put his feet up on another chair and leaned back against the wall, facing out the same way as Johnny. He’d seen Carson, the coolest kid in school, sit in the same arrogant, cool way Sage was sitting. Sage stayed down the back, talked music with Johnny all period and completed the 10 quiz questions easily, especially the three questions about rivers in China, seeing as his dad was from there. Sage said his dad was a douchebag, some kind of travelling music promoter who lived in hotels. ‘My dad’s stronzo di merda,’ Sage said, snorting at his own joke. ‘That’s Italian, dude.’ ‘Did your dad actually go to Italy? Did he teach you that?’ He shook his head. ‘The Reverend Maynard taught me, dude. You know? Maynard James Keenan? From Tool?’ Johnny needed to be informed about Tool, and if one was talking Tool, one had to discuss Peach and Dream Theater in the same breath, and of course Rage Against the Machine, plus Helmet, and he was definitely uninformed about the origins of the anarchy symbol Sage kept scribbling. As they were packing up, Johnny said to his new friend, ‘How come it says ‘Melvins’ on your folder, man?’ ‘Melvin was gonna be my stage name, man, ’cause Melvins were one of Kurt’s influences, and … .’ Sage rolled his eyes and snorted. ‘What kind of a nerfherder doesn’t know about Melvins. You’ll totally have to come over to my place.’ Sage told his mum to drive them to King’s Emporium, which had second hand clothing and bric a brac and rows and rows of CDs, records and even tapes, plus hundreds of music t-shirts hanging from racks. The shadowy rear of the store, lit by two naked bulbs, was crammed with music and listening posts and stools and a cabinet full of KISS keyrings and 2 Ramones patches. Johnny pulled out a few CDs which he thought had cool covers, and Sage either said, ‘Wayyy gay, man,’ if the CD wasn’t worth getting, or ‘Criminally under- appreciated’ if he approved. Sage’s mum trailed him with an armload of school shorts, keeping the four metres away that her son had instructed. Johnny admired her denim jeans and flip flops and faded blonde hair. She had a touch of real rock n roll to her and seemed poor and unambitious. She tousled Johnny’s hair and said, ‘It’s so good he’s got a boy to play with.’ Johnny focused hard as Sage taught him what was cool – stuff from the 70s could be cool, and definitely early 90s Seattle rock, but nothing from the 80s was acceptable, pretty much. Sage lugged 16 vinyl records under his thick arms including Marquee Moon by Television and Fear of Music by Talking Heads, until he started sweating and let Johnny carry some. Johnny squinted, trying to work out how such a big dude could be so unfit. He realised he’d never seen Sage kick a ball or swing a bat. Sage was just a cool dude that finished his tests early and read Rolling Stone magazines while Johnny tried to remember what SOHCAHTOA stood for. ‘I probly can’t even get these anyway,’ Sage complained, resting his records on his belly. He tossed his head toward his mum. ‘Bitch won’t raise my allowance.’ Allowance. Sage had chosen to use a far-cooler American word than pocket money. The most American thing Sage liked was this band called R.E.M., this band with mysterious letters and a singer with a thick American accent like on 60 Minutes. R.E.M.’s first album, Murmur, was a seminal moment in rock history and a total must-have on vinyl, Sage explained, flipping through the R records. He’d pay anything if he could find Murmur as an LP. Sage put a chunky, black-haired arm on Johnny’s shoulder and leaned close. His breath smelled like 3 the exotic Japanese crackers he always had on him. ‘Vinyl’s the only way to truly listen to music.’ Johnny had spotted in the M section of records a 12 inch LP which read, ‘Clean Edit Murmur – R.E.M. For Promotional Purposes Only’. He took the record to the giant 13-year-old who had backed his scrawny mum against the wall of the changing rooms and was cursing at her. ‘I found you this, man. I think it was in the wrong place.’ Sage’s mum scowled at the $29 price tag. ‘It’s practically 30 bucks, and you, my friend, have five.’ ‘Shut up, bitch. I’m thinking.’ Johnny, who hadn’t been to the movies in months because his usual friends felt like old clothes, pulled out his Ghostbusters wallet. It had six tens from six movies he’d told his dad he’d been to. He’d been thinking about buying his own tent and getting good at camping alone to earn his Independence badge, but this was a tonnes better idea. He hated to see forces pulling Sage down. ‘I’ll cover you, man.’ Sage looked down from his mountain as he shook Johnny’s hand. ‘You have no idea how much this is worth, man.’ * On Saturdays and Sundays, Johnny got a lift to his usual friends’ houses, waved his mum’s car away, then sprinted to the alleyway and cut over towards Sage’s place. Sage lived at 60 Lisbon Street in a plain white weatherboard house with a sad garden and a fence missing some pickets. The verandah had a lot of paint flaking away, and inside some of the wallpaper was torn, but his bedroom was like a church, covered in posters of Bob and Lou and Jimi and Reverend Maynard. Sage showed him how to play chess 4 and skateboard and how to slash the knees of his jeans. They had their first sleepover and stayed awake all night. Sage’s mum dropped Johnny home on Sunday at lunchtime and he collapsed on the couch, barely even watching TV, just replaying in his head how Sage had read excerpts from High Fidelity while Johnny lay on his belly, head in his hands. No one had read anything to Johnny since he was, like, five. They had their second sleepover and Sage made Johnny stay perfectly still while he put on this Nirvana album with a baby chasing money through a pool and Sage shouted the song titles at Johnny then paused each song midway to explain the significance of certain lyrics. The songs were all screaming and loud guitars and words celebrating sex and rednecks. When ‘Something in the Way’ finished, Sage finally explained that Kurt lived under a bridge eating fish. Kurt made being an outcast beautiful, Sage explained. They ate American pizza and watched American movies and sipped Pepsi and ate Twinkies. Johnny was allowed to see Sage’s guitar in its case. Its strings seemed stiff and likely to cut his fingers. Sage played a couple of songs that sounded vaguely like ‘Smoke On the Water’ and that Nirvana song and Johnny tapped his foot to the rhythm. ‘The fuck are you doing?’ Sage frowned, nodding until his long hair began flapping about. ‘Tapping’s gay. Mosh, dude, like this.’ ‘You were saying that guy from R.E.M.’s gay. I thought gay was good?’ ‘I didn’t mean gay like that, I just mean, like, tapping just is gay, man. Unless it’s ironic.’ ‘What’s ironic?’ Sage stopped moshing and rested his hands on his belly and patiently explained. Sage was the dad around here. ‘Ironic’s when you do something, or say something, but you don’t mean it.’ He talked about an Alanis Morrissette song 5 called ‘Ironic’ which didn’t have many examples of irony in it, and how that meant the song itself was ironic and deeply complex. He talked about Alanis’ guest vocals on some album by Tricky, who was from a band called Massive Attack, who frequently collaborated with Portishead, who were admired by Nirvana, who had a singer called Kurt who considered the Melvins and the Pixies the greatest artists ever. ‘Everything comes full-circle to Nirvana, man,’ Sage explained. ‘I mean, the musical legend who overdoses on heroin at 27? It’s ALL ABOUT the 27 Club, man. You die at 27, it’s like epically significant. You make it to the 27 Club, you’re the centre of everything that matters. That’s me in the future, man.’ ‘What does Nirvana mean?’ Sage scratched beneath his glasses, took a deep breath, poured a fistful of M&Ms into his mouth. ‘From what I’ve read, heroin leads a person to enlightenment.