I guess this is togetherness time. I head upstairs. Mom is at the kitchen table. She’s sitting in front of her work laptop, holding Arch. The Pop Top video is cued up on the screen. The first image is a frozen orange blur.
“How long is it?” I ask. I don’t know how much Chuck-style funny I can take.
Mom peers at the screen. “Three minutes and twelve seconds.” Why does that time sound familiar? She pulls another chair out from the table. “Have a seat.”
I sit on the edge of the chair. I’ll give this thirty seconds, tops. Mom clicks on the Play icon.
Through the tiny speaker I hear an acoustic guitar strum. It’s a rhythm and chord I know. A bass line kicks in. I know it too—I play it all the time. It’s “Coming Apart at the Dreams.” Hey, what is this?
The camera pulls back and into focus. The orange blur is the fuzzy lining of a guitar case, with Doom Master in the middle. I’m getting a very bad oh-oh feeling. But what is this? Did Denny go rogue? The shot switches to Lisa’s tight pink top as she sways on the swings. The parts of her in that tight pink top bounce in slow-mo as you hear her sing,
What’s up? I’m down
When you’re not around…
And now, a flash close-up of my face with my eyes bulging out, as if I’m staring at her bouncing. I know it—it’s from that day Denny surprised me with the camera.
I could trip, I could fall
Would you hear if I called…
Now I’m fast-motion stumbling into the guitar case and Lisa’s jumping back, then my eyes bulge and I yell. Then there’s a shot of Doom Master tumbled over on two white lumps—cutlets.
I feel bad, I feel good
Like you knew that I would…
Aw, noooooo…I can guess what’s coming. Sure enough, there’s Lisa doing the Heimlich on me, then a cutlet popping out of the neckline of her top and the harmonica popping out of my mouth. Cut to Doom Master on the ground, as if he’s what I spat out.
Over and over and over and over
Coming apart at the dreammmmmms…
Over and over and over and over, there is Lisa’s chest doing four stuttery fast-mo bounces on the teeter-totter, with a cutlet popping again and again and again and again. On dreammmmms, a cutlet sails through the air. Cut to Lisa turning away and fumbling with her top, then my bulging eyes again.
Can it get worse? Of course it does. The first verse repeats, and this time you see my butt-first crash landing on the teeter-totter. It’s a horror show. I’m frozen, my eyes locked on the screen for all three minutes and twelve seconds, including the last bit, where a flying cutlet takes out Doom Master. Every second makes us look like idiots. As an added bonus, I look like a pervert, too.
It doesn’t help that I hear Mom snorting, giggling, then just plain laughing beside me. When it’s over, I can’t look at her. I may never look at anyone again. In fact, I may never come out of the man cave again.
Mom wipes her eyes and says, “That’s—how did—did you plan it all first, or make it up as you went along?”
“It just happened,” is all I can answer. Then I add, “Somehow.”
“Well, you’re naturals, then.”
Right, I think. Natural disasters. Is Denny suddenly on drugs or something? Where did this come from? What happened?
Mom scoots Arch off her lap and stands up. I stand up too. As I do, I notice my fingernails have dug into the table. Mom hasn’t even noticed anything’s wrong.
“You and Lisa were such good sports to let yourselves look silly,” she says. “How did you dream all that up?”
“It’s hard to say.” I’m going to find out though. Behind me, Mom opens the fridge. I start for the man cave. I need a moment to myself before I begin finding out.
“No one will see it,” I say to myself. I’m at the top of the stairs.
I guess I say it out loud, because Mom says, “Oh sure they will! Don’t worry about that, hon. There have been a ton of views already. Look at the number.”
I don’t want to go back and look at the number. I might throw up if I look at the number. “Just tell me if it’s over seven hundred,” I say. That would be almost half my high school. That might also explain the weird stuff this afternoon.
I hear Mom walk over to check the screen. “Let’s see…way more than that.” She laughs. “It’s almost six figures.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nearly a hundred thousand.”
I almost fall down the stairs.
Mom comes over and smiles. “See? I told you. You’re a hit!”
A hit. I feel as if I’ve been hit, with a sledgehammer. “Sure,” I say. “Right.” My voice sounds as if I’m choking.
Mom gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Aww, hon,” she says. “Having second thoughts? Don’t be embarrassed. It’s fun. You went for it! All these hits mean people like it.” The squeeze turns into a hug. I have to say I need one just now. And then the sledgehammer hits me again. What about Lisa? Has she seen this? I have to warn her. What if she’s seen it and thinks I did it? Will she even listen? What am I going to say? As I stumble back downstairs, all I know for sure is, I’m going to get Denny for this if it’s the last thing I ever do.