Scratch and the Sniffs by Chris Lynch

Author:Chris Lynch [Lynch, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0463-2
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-02-19T16:46:00+00:00

10

Gotta Be Me

YOU COULDN’T TELL FROM the sound of us that we hadn’t really rehearsed the whole week before the show. Then again, you couldn’t tell if we had, either. The band was simply on fire right from the start, with Scratch in particular bouncing unbelievable, pointless riffs off the walls, the percussionists matching him, and the whole mishmash meeting in the middle of the room where the crowd made a spontaneous mosh pit.

“More!” somebody screamed from the front row. What was that supposed to mean? Shouldn’t you wait till the band stops before you demand more?

“Louder!” came another scream, then another. The guys gave them louder.

“Louder!” they screamed.

“More!”

Fortunately, Sniffomaniacs are not very complicated or demanding creatures.

“Louder, we can give,” Steven called out, beating the tom-tom and laughing.

“And more,” Ling said. He scanned the room, his glasses reflecting every gold tooth and silver skull pinkie ring. “We can manage ‘more.’”

“Ya,” I said. “Let’s just hope nobody calls for ‘better.’”

I noticed that our friends were enjoying themselves immensely. Almost enjoying themselves too much, you might say.

Was that a punch?

No, my mistake. They’re dancing.

Hey, should they really be holding her up that high, especially as she appears not to like it so much?

Oo, a little blood there. Somebody caught a stray elbow, that’s all. Boys will be—

“Hey,” I said, “let go. Ya, you down there. Let go. Let go of that wheel, I said. Stop it.”

“Yo, Wolfie, we just figured as long as you’re gonna sit there like a spectator, you might as well be down here like one.”

“Good point!” yelled Steven.

“Hey,” I yelled. “I got a job here.”

“You sellin’ popcorn?”

“I’m the singer,” I said with great authority.

“If you’re the singer, then how come you don’t sing?”

This was getting tight.

Steven the Johnny Rotten Chesthair troublemaker raised his arms high above his head, and started smacking his drumsticks together, inciting the very incitable crowd. “Wolf-gang! Wolf-gang! Wolf-gang! Wolf-gang!”

Everybody in the room picked up the chant. Almost.

“Jeroooome!” squealed Vanessa.

“I’n gone keel you,” added Von.

“Shaddup, all of ya,” I screamed over the microphone. Harvey had allowed us to use the official Division of Social Services speaker system, so I sounded like authority. “I’ll sing when I feel like it. If I even feel like it at all.”

“Booo!” they said. “Boooo!” But I think it was more like the way people in other countries whistle when they don’t like a performance. This booing didn’t mean they weren’t having a good time. These people liked to boo.

“Boo to you too,” I snarled. “I ain’t singing. So go on home, ya criminal slobs.”

I know these types. You have to show them who’s boss. If you don’t, they’ll walk all over you.

Or they’ll pick you up by your wheelchair and carry you all around the room.

“Put me down!” I hollered. “I mean it. Don’t you make me come down out of this chair and give you a whipping.”

You’d have thought I was a comic rather than a singer the way they all shrieked at me.

“All right then, you asked for it.

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