Free Thunderbowl by Lesley Choyce

Chapter One
    â€œI’m nervous,” Drek complained as we drove toward The Dungeon, a local nightclub famous for its live music. It was going to be our first real public performance. Al was driving the old Dodge van that his grandfather had left him when he died. The floorboards were so rusted out that you could look down and see the road.
    â€œBe cool,” Al said as we turned a corner and two mike stands fell over. “Forget there’s anybody out there.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Just pretend we’re still back in your basement practicing.” We had practiced until we were perfect.
    Steve Drekker plays synthesizer and Alistair Cullen is on drums. My name is Jeremy, but Drek and Al call me Germ. I play a mean guitar. I started out playing air guitar in my bedroom. Now it’s the real thing. My old man is still kicking himself for buying me the guitar. He saw me in my room one day. I had on the Walkman, cranked wide open. I was jumping up and down whaling on my guitar. The only problem was that I didn’t have a guitar. I was just pretending. But I could feel it. It was me playing those riffs. So my father went out and bought me this dumb nylon-string guitar.
    I took lessons for three months. The dude who taught me thought I should get into country music. I told him, no way.So I sold the nylon, sold my bike and a bunch of CDs. With the money I bought an
el cheapo
electric and a crummy little amplifier. It drove my mother nuts. She started going out to the movies with my old man just to get away from the noise. Even my dog stopped hanging out in my bedroom.
    And then one day I saw this ad posted in the music store. “WANTED: Lead guitar for new band. Must have experience and be into alternative music.” Hell, I had experience coming out of my ears. I’d been listening to music for years. And I was into any kind of music they wanted me for.
    Fortunately for me, Thunderbowl wasn’t into rap or country or oldies. I knew just about every song they threw at me. And suddenly I was one of them. What I didn’t know was that the band was going to get me into so much trouble.
    There are only three of us but once we crank up the amps and start rocking, you’dthink we were an army. Drek has all sorts of tricks with the keyboard. He has patches and loops and an orchestra packed up in there and a jungle full of animal noises. If you want to hear what it sounds like to be taking off on the space shuttle, just ask Drek to play it back on a digital loop at full volume.
    Drek is a tall, nervous guy who wears glasses. He’s probably an electronics genius, but he’d rather drink beer and get into fights. Figure that one out.
    Alistair Cullen is shorter than I am, but he really tips the scale. He’s a heavy dude in the truest sense. If you call him Alistair and say it funny, he grabs your feet and yanks them out from under you. I made fun of him once. Now I know what it’s like to be kissing concrete. From then on I just called him Al. Al shifts his weight from side to side as he walks. Despite his size, he’s built like a tank.
    If you were to look at us, you’d say we don’t look like an alternative band. Infact, Stewy Lyons didn’t let us audition when we first asked for a gig at The Dungeon. But tonight was the Battle of the Bands. Any band could enter. Any band could win.
    â€œMy hands are sweating,” Al said suddenly. “I can’t play with sweaty hands.”
    What’s going on? I began to wonder. These two were shedding their tough-guy skins before my eyes.
    â€œYou drive, Jeremy,” Al said. “I want to just hang my hands out the window and let them dry off.”
    I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thunderbowl was cracking up. We were going to be an absolute flop. Al pulled over to the curb and got out. He came around and opened the door on my side.
    â€œI don’t trust Drek driving my van. Last time, he