Big in Japan by M. Thomas Gammarino

Author:M. Thomas Gammarino
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chin Music Press Inc.
Published: 2015-10-22T23:49:55+00:00

All that lasted a couple of weeks, until one afternoon, on the last Monday of the eighth month, traipsing through the cable channels in the moorland between his nap and his wife’s return, Brain stumbled on a mine. The MTV Video Music Awards were in session, and sure enough—Holy fucking hell!—there was Agenbite accepting the award for Best New Artist. Nick was speaking, gazing into the camera like Narcissus into his pond: “We’d just like to thank everyone at Virgin, and all of our fans around the world, without whom our record could never have gone triple platinum! (thundering applause).” Triple platinum? Brain didn’t even know what that meant, but it was real good, real fucking shitty-ass good. He tried changing the channel, but his thumb refused to budge. Theo, cocksure: “It’s been a long wild ride getting here tonight, but now that we’re here, you should all know we intend to stay a while.” What the fuck was platinum anyway? All that came to mind were special credit cards and The Franklin Mint, and he sort of remembered it being better than gold, because that was surprising, wasn’t it? You never heard about pirates swashbuckling over coffers of platinum. Matt moved in to the mic and even he looked like a preening asshole in his leather vest and his white shirt with the Beethoven ruffles: “First and foremost I’d like to thank the Creator. It’s unfashionable maybe, but there you have it. Second, I never expected we’d attain this level of success and I just want to thank everyone out there who made it possible. You know who you are.” Matt was wrong of course: Brain had made it possible, but he had no idea who he was.

Brain drank two beers in as many minutes. He took a deep breath, held it and let it out. He’d been through enough now to have a sort of shell, an armor of burns and calluses, and it would take more than a stinking VMA to penetrate it. But Agenbite wasn’t through yet. That same night, not minutes before bed, he clicked on a meek little article about audio compression technology and just like that a Dell ad popped up and snipered a 5/8 rat-a-tat-a-tat into his brain. He hadn’t heard the song before, but those were the angular contours of Theo’s voice, no question. The goddamned song rocked too. He retreated into the innermost atom of the innermost cell in his head, where he found himself lost in a cloudy coagulum of unsheddable tears. He changed the settings on his computer so he’d be notified of incoming e-mails without ever having to access the Internet again. Then he dragged himself into bed, pretended to sleep, and into his fourth hour of mental threshing, had no choice but to nudge his sleeping wife awake.

“Mi, do you think I have a small dick?”

“What? Go to sleep.”

“Just tell me. I mean, is it average, would you say? You’ve seen a lot of them, so I figure you’re as good a judge as anyone.

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