The Firemen

I grabbed the microphone, scatting a cool melody I'd just come up with.

"Do wop, do, dat dat do wop dat do!"

I was about to repeat the run when Ryan's wayward drumbeats slipped, reverberating on the natural frequencies of every solid surface in my two-car garage.

"Hey, you were supposed to practice this riff! You missed three half-beats in a row—it's messing with the timing." I said, turning from the mic stand toward my bandmates.

His face twisted up, and he hurled a cracked drumstick against the wall where our guitar cases were lined up.

"Gosh, Dan, I'm sick of drumming! Can't we swap places?"

"Are you crazy? I'm the singer for The Firemen. Our songwriter, too. It's my band, my songs; everyone expects me to lead. Can't do that from the back."

"That's dumb. Every self-respecting band multitasks and cross-trains. And you know as well as I do we helped you write these songs. None of the big artists really write their own lyrics."

"Listen, it's my band and I'm running the show—if you don't like it you can bug off!"

Ryan's jaw set, his lips drawing thin and tight. He grabbed a new drumstick. His foot pumped the Kick pedal, pounding out a solid R&R groove. He hammered a maddened riff across the twin Toms and ended the run with clashes on both high hats, making our ears ring for twenty seconds after.

Zach yelled, "Ohhh yeah! That's what we need!" He ran his fingers across the guitar strings, his wild shock of long red hair flying free as he rocked like Eddie Van Halen in a sold-out Madison Square Gardens.

"Great, put that anger to some use, Ryan," I snickered.

Mom burst through the door from the kitchen, her short curly brown hair disheveled.

"Old man Jones is threatening to call the cops. Daniel Adam! Between this racket and the stress you're causing me, I've had to take two Tylenol this morning!"

"Sorry, Mom, things will get better after this gig at MacDougall's next Friday. We were told a big-name record promoter will be there. It's our chance to cut an album deal."

"Either that, or you'll be the laughing stock of the whole town. Don't hold your breath, Dan."

"Sorry about all the noise, Mrs. Green," said Ben, our bass player, giving her a sweet smile and big blue puppy eyes. "You can tell Mr. Jones we'll only practice during the day. That should help."

"He's over 70. He eats supper at four—goes to bed at six. Why can't you practice at Ryan's?" Her glare focused on him. "You can make as much noise as you want in your daddy's barn."

"That wouldn't do at all," I cut off Ryan's potential agreement. "There's no electricity in his barn. And we'd need a tank to navigate his muddy dirt driveway this time of year. Besides, it's my band. I'm the lead singer—we've always met here."

"Listen," Mom jabbed a finger in my face. "You turn that down, or I swear I'm pitching all your equipment in the nearest Dumpster. I have a splitting headache, and it's all your fault!"

Mom spun away, banging the door behind her and making the thick, hopefully soundproofing blanket we'd hung on it waggle. We all stood like tree stumps. Zach and Ben twisted the knobs down on their amps.

"Zach, can't you make that riff edgier? I want it kinda grunge for this song."

"How's this?" He hunched over his used Stratocaster and wrung out a veering, heavy scruff.

"Better. We'll loop it—I can work on the demo later."

That's how it went for the next two hours until we stopped for grub. Mom gave me a warning stare when we raided the kitchen…

So it was the rest of the week. Every day at ten in the morning, obeying Mom's demands, we practiced until three in the afternoon.

On Thursday, the evening before our gig, we seemed as good at it as we'd ever be. My throat burned from all the practice, as if I'd barfed. I went to bed early. I wanted to be ready. I felt queasy and sweaty, but I knew it was nerves.

*****

I squirmed inside as I fed the cows that afternoon, wishing I hadn't made Dan yell at me in front of the guys. Anger adrenaline wasn't what I wanted to help master the beats.

I ran a hand through my hair, filled my lungs with the familiar herb-y scent of alfalfa, and let melodies escape my lips to vent my feelings in a song that no other human had ever heard. The barn cat opened one eye to stare, unimpressed.

While dumping feed, I discovered an electrical outlet behind the tubs. Ha!

At breakfast on Friday, my phone rang. Dan wanted a video call with me, Zach and Ben. He was holding his phone in bed.

"Guys, it's off. I'm sick," he croaked, distress creasing his forehead. "Sore throat, fever—Mom's holding me prisoner today."

"Wow. I'm sorry." I turned so our dirty dishes weren't in my background.

"Can we save the show?" Ben asked. "We can't let all our hard work be wasted."

"Not unless one of you sings," Dan said, leaning his head back on his pillow.

I gulped down some orange juice as my own throat swelled up.

"Hey, I've got my own songs."

"Yeah, so what, Ryan? You can't sing."

"Just because you never heard me…"

"Go ahead, sing right now." Dan rolled his reddened eyes.

I stood up, stretching out the growing tightness in my chest. My face grew hot as I began to share words straight from my soul in a faltering whisper,

"In the night, when I can't sleep, torments fill the room as I sink in the deep…"

The slow build of darkness broke into a hopeful chorus that swept my insecurities away in a tidal wave of emotion. The phone in my hand doubled and unfocused, replaced by an impassive blank slate of wall and ceiling at which I directed my song.

I was out of breath and quivering when I finished. Ben and Zach clapped.

"Incredible!" Zach said. "How did you hide that from us?"

"Dan, can he lead tonight?" Ben asked.

"Who's handling the drums?"

"I told you we needed to cross-train!" I snapped, my shaking hand wobbling my phone camera.

"I can do drums—Zach can improvise acoustic," Ben said soothingly.

Zach nodded, brushing hair out of his eyes.

Dan's chest heaved. He turned away from the camera, eyes half shut.

"Yeah, sure. It's already a failure. Do whatever you want." His screen went dark.

Arriving at the bar and grill, I could barely walk on my trembling legs. My mind spun like a whirling dervish.

Who was I kidding? I couldn't take Dan's place. He'd poured his heart into his leading role. I had never even heard the sound of my own voice played back!

The bouncer marked our hands with black X's. We were minors surrounded by Jack Daniels, Fireball and Jose Cuervo.

"Cool, now we're Straight Edges!" Zach held up the back of his hand and snapped a selfie with his hair in his face.

Ben patted me on the shoulder.

"You can do it, Ryan."

A fleeting thought of Dan spun past.

*****

Too sick to play my own show. What dirty luck. Ryan was a fool to think he could pull off my role. He'd run The Firemen into the mud like my Mom's Mini Cooper in his driveway.

I cursed our basic WiFi connection as my Dad's Facebook livestream from MacDougall's buffered on the Smart TV screen.

The guys sharpened into focus. Ryan stood at the front, obsessively adjusting the mic. Zach tuned up his old acoustic guitar with an overeager flourish. Ben fiddled with the drumsticks as if they were chopsticks.

My fever-fried brain had barely registered Ryan as he sang to us from his kitchen that morning. This time, though, our 7.1 speaker setup carried him through with a resounding clarity that made my heart skip beats the way he messed up on the drums.

My own voice is rough and angsty; Ryan's voice was pure and golden. My songs expressed solitary anger, resentment and bitterness; Ryan's, though dark, shone with optimism and rousing choruses as infectious as the bug I'd caught. Applause erupted after each song.

Darn you, Ryan.

*****

"Ryan, you killed it!" Zach pounded my back vigorously.

He and Ben had to hold me up on the way out. The night's unexpected effort of baring my soul to a room full of strangers was like having open heart surgery—in public.

I slept like a hibernating bear. We all met in Dan's living room the next morning.

He stalked back and forth across the carpet, his face flushed red, hands clenched, pressing into the sides of his legs.

"So, what's the deal?" Zach inquired. "You still wanna sing, Dan?"

Dan ground the carpet underfoot as he spun to face me, his bloodshot eyes watering as he struck a fighting pose.

"I—I—Ryan, you dirty idiot, you stole my show!" His lips quivered. "The Firemen is my band and I'm the lead singer, not you!"

I held out my hands and tried to appease him.

"I'm sorry… I won't do it ever again. That was exhausting, anyway. Much easier to be the drummer."

"Drummer nothing—get outta here!"

He lunged at me. I stumbled back in shock and flung an arm over my face.

"Chill out, man!" Zach shoved between us and grabbed the trembling Dan by the shoulder. "Ryan didn't steal your show, he saved it. The Firemen are going viral on TikTok—you have a million opportunities to make a name for yourself now!"

"You two can share the lead role," Ben suggested. "Look at For King and Country—they don't fight about who sings, they both do, and harmoniously at that."

"Yeah? Look how Fleetwood Mac turned out," Dan growled. "Didn't they have two lead singers?"

We all stared at each other.

"Do any of us know anything about Fleetwood Mac?" Zach scratched his head. "Like, weren't they from the Jurassic period or something?"

Ben started chuckling. Then Dan joined him. Soon we were all rolling on the floor guffawing, and it wasn't even that funny.

*****

For a while, all I wanted to do was punch Ryan's smirking face in. But somehow we started laughing like hyenas instead. I collapsed into the sofa, my throbbing, congested head setting me up a pity party complete with confetti and tiny violins.

"I guess I'm the jerk here," I sniffled, wiping my hand across my nose. "I can't sing like you, Ryan. Go ahead, take the band. I'll just sink into miserable oblivion. No one wants to hear me."

Ryan approached and took my hand.

"Hey, I was always too scared to perform. You have real guts, buddy. I know how much you want the lead role. Your grunge voice is unparalleled."

"Really? You think so?"

I looked up at him. He squeezed my hand comfortingly as if I hadn't been taking aim at him two seconds ago.

"I think you'd make a fine team," Ben said. "You're perfect foils. You can both sing with The Firemen!"

"A study of dualities," Zach added. "Totally unique!"

"My Mom will kill me if I keep us practicing here," I moaned.

"Hey, I found an outlet in my barn that we can plug our gear into," Ryan grinned impishly.

"What! Why didn't you tell me sooner? This is the chance of a lifetime—a backstory and a team like ours will make us world freaking famous!"

I sat up, grabbed a can of Sprite on the side table and popped it open with noisy, sparkling fizzies like champagne.

"Here's to The Firemen. Y'know, Ryan, maybe stealing my show wasn't such a dirty trick after all." I winked at him and raised the soda can.

Author's Notes: ▼

Word count: 1981.
Written for the March 2024 Official WdC Contest, What a Character!
Prompt: Write a story where a sidekick/supporting character steals the show away from the main protagonist.