by Clea Simon
The Aught Nines, though, they were local. And although Neela had begun showing up at their gigs fairly early on – Tara had seen her at the Chet’s show, three weeks after that first crazy gig – at first she had kept to dancing. Her usual routine, more about her moves than any one band.
Tara could still remember the night that changed. More crowded than that first gig, by far, but not so bad that you couldn’t make your way up front. Not so packed that you couldn’t see if you chose, as Tara did, to lean back on the bar, bottle in hand, and take in the room.
Neela was part of that scene, by then. She could still picture the slender redhead, jeans riding low on her hips as she lost herself in the Twist and the Frug, a go-go-girl for the garage-punk age.
‘Something else, huh?’ The voice, right by her ear, had startled her, and she’d turned. Phil, from the Whirled Shakers, his dark eyes wide, reflecting the light from the stage.
It had taken Tara a moment to realize what he meant. That he was talking about the band blasting out the throbbing tune, not the sexy woman gyrating to the beat above them. They were playing ‘Hot Shot’, the song that would be their biggest hit. Tara didn’t know it then. Nobody did.
‘Here’s a new one,’ Chris had called out, the satin ribbon around his neck already dark with sweat. Ever the flirt, he had eyed the crowd, with a smile that caught the light. ‘Hope you like it.’
Behind him, the drummer – all chained intensity – barked out the count, and the band was off. He’d grown into a powerhouse, Greg had, all that bulk proving to be muscle, laying down a foundation for Jim’s bass tattoo. Even Jerry had changed, his solos reined in somewhat but harder, faster. What they’d be calling speed-metal, in a different context. But not here, not now. All because of Chris.
‘And then you kick in,’ he sang, half caterwaul, dragging against the furious beat. ‘Kick in like the lightning tightening up my veins. You’re a hot shot, baby. A hot shot.’
By the second chorus, Tara realized she was singing along. Everyone was, those who weren’t dancing, anyway, heads bobbing to that unrelenting beat.
‘Hot shot, baby. You’re a hot shot.’ Tara caught herself. Took a swig of her beer. Phil had moved up. She could see the back of his head, nodding in time. Face turned up to the stage. Still, it wouldn’t do for her to start dancing. Not at this show. She would be talking to the band tomorrow. Meeting them in the old practice space, the one they’d almost given up. Jim and Jerry she knew well enough. Greg too, if it came to it, but the new guy – the singer – he was a wild card, a young Adonis slick with sweat. She’d learned by then how bands viewed writers. Female writers anyway. If they looked into the crowd, they would see her back here, at the bar. Keeping her perspective on the whole thing.
Still, it was catchy. ‘Like lightning, lightning in my veins.’ She put her bottle down and made a note to ask them about it. To find out about any plans to record. Just then, the band broke for a drum fill, Greg as relentless as an avalanche, and Tara’s beer went over. She saw it, just out of the corner of her eye and jumped up, grabbing for the neck to right it. Above her, Neela was spinning, eyes closed. Chris’s voice – a wordless howl – was pouring out over Greg’s drums, carrying Neela along with it.
Tara grabbed a napkin, but Brian was on it, wiping up the spill before she could reach it. A moment later, he was handing her a new bottle. She was a regular, and Neela – well, the gyrating redhead was in her own world. Only something was different. Something had changed. Instead of her usual go-go moves, Neela was writhing, patterning her rhythms along with the vocals. Dancing for Chris, making his music flesh. Tara needn’t have worried about the band – about what the singer would think of her, a lone journalist in the crowd. She saw him now, that ribbon hanging off him. He was staring at Neela. She might as well have been the only person in the room.
She was mesmerizing. Only after Tara had handed Brian the foaming empty did she notice that Phil had rejoined her at the bar. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the stage. Not only was he not watching Neela, he hadn’t noticed the accident either.
‘They’re the real thing,’ he’d said, once the song ended. His voice had grown quiet, in the brief lull, and Tara recognized the expression on his face as wistful. Not even jealous, she realized. Simply struck by the band on stage. ‘He is, anyway.’
‘Oh, you’re as good.’ Tara had coughed up the compliment, a little in awe of the man beside her. A little envious of his unadulterated concentration. He didn’t even reply, just stared up at the stage as if the sound could save him.
Katie had been there that night. Up front, by the band, her waterfall of hair shimmering in the stage lights. Enjoying the thrust and the volume, even as her boyfriend retreated to take in the bigger picture. Tara remembers her. Remembers how she and Phil both had been spellbound.
Tara calls her later that morning, once the 10 o’clock meeting is over and she’s back in her office, door politely ajar. She keeps her voice low, when she gets voicemail, aware all the while how her colleagues like to drop in on the way back to their own sterile workspaces.
‘Katie?’ She eyes the door. To close it would be too much. The Zeron climate is a cordial one. She’d written that line herself. ‘It’s Tara, Tara Winton.’ She gives her cell and then, on a whim, the office number. ‘I’m working on a story, and I’d love your input.’
That’s the line she’d perfected, back in the day. Enough information to intrigue, but not enough to scare anyone off. Who didn’t want to have input? As she hung up she made a mental note – that was something she could use in the quarterly report, too.
Not that Katie was ever talkative. Tara had considered the willowy blonde a bit standoffish during her first few months in the clubs. She’d seemed aloof, drifting through the sea of black leather so ethereal and pale. Tara figured that to Katie, she just didn’t matter. Figured the blonde to be one of those women to whom only men counted. She tried not to let it bother her. After all, she had her own place in the scene. By then, she was a writer, a rock crit, not just some fan. Still, she figured some acknowledgment was necessary. She’d nod at Katie, but she didn’t expect anything more, despite the fact that they inevitably saw each other several nights a week.
It was only after the debacle with the Hinies – the drummer so drunk he vomited and fell off his stool, passing out before the band could play a note – that she’d found out how wrong she was. As the stench had emptied the room, the bassist shouting, the band in disarray, she’d taken refuge in the back alley, slipping out through the stage door where everyone loaded in. Most of the room was crowding around the front, trying to get their five-dollar cover back, but she found Katie back there, doubled over against the wall by the dumpster and laughing like a hyena.
‘What a buffoon.’ Katie wiped her eyes as she straightened up. She’d had a couple of tall boys cradled against her body and held one out to Tara. ‘Want one?’
As they drank, they’d bonded over the mishap – and over the poor souls who would have to clean up the mess. And although they’d never become close, Tara had learned that night that despite the attention she appeared to attract, the pretty blonde was simply shy.
‘I’m not even that much of a music fan,’ she’d said, licking the foam from her upper lip. ‘I mean, not loud music anyway.’
The unstated exception had been for the Whirled Shakers or, more accurately, for Phil. He had seen her at her waitressing gig, she told Tara that night in the alley. She had no use for ‘some punk rocker’, but he had not let up until she’d gone out with him. Over time, of course, she’d grown to appreciate the music, or at least the culture that had grown up around it. ‘It’s like a family, you know?’
Even after they broke up, Katie had kept her allegiance to the band, her shining fall of hair a constant at Whirled Shaker shows as she and Phil worked out some kind of enduring friendship. She and Tara had never grown close; that conversation behind the Rat remained the longest one-on-one the two ever shared. But
Tara had a new appreciation for the pretty blonde after that, no matter how Min rolled her eyes whenever she was mentioned.
‘That girl needs to move on,’ Min would say, when they saw her out, dancing to the Whirled Shakers. ‘Get a life,’ even as Katie would turn to flash a smile.
Tara knew better than to point out the obvious comparison to her friend by then. Knew how Min could close right up. And so when she wants to talk about Frank, Tara calls Katie.
‘Tara.’ Katie rises to greet her as she walks in. They work within blocks of each other, they’d realized, when Katie returned her call. Lunch at the Bagel Bar had been an obvious choice. ‘So good to see you.’
‘You too.’ Tara takes a seat. Katie has chosen a table by the big front windows, and the sun streaming in highlights the fine lines around her eyes, the slight sag around her jaw. ‘By daylight, I mean.’
‘That’s right.’ Katie nods, a smile brightening her face. ‘You were there the other night. The boys still sound good, don’t they?’
‘They got me dancing,’ Tara acknowledges. The other woman chuckles, and then it becomes easy, Tara explaining about the article – about venturing back into music journalism, just a bit, thanks to some odd combination of nostalgia and boredom.
The conversation pauses when the waitress comes by, her full sleeve of tattoos making Tara aware of the generational difference, of how the young woman must see them: middle-aged. Staid. But Katie seems unconcerned, and is quite happy to pick up the conversation again once they’ve ordered.
‘So, what can I help you with?’ She sips her sparkling water as she waits, and Tara finds herself looking at the glass, at the rising bubbles. It is lunchtime on a working day. ‘I mean, you probably remember as much as I do.’
‘To be honest, I’ve been thinking about where everyone is today. I mean, those of us who survived.’ When Katie starts, almost imperceptibly, she realizes how that sounds. ‘I’m sorry.’ She shakes her head, as if she could shed her thoughts. ‘It’s just – losing Frank made me think of everyone else who’s gone. Drugs, booze …’
‘But Frank’s death was an accident.’ Katie breaks off. Turns to thank the server. The Bagel Bin does a credible niçoise, Tara sees, already regretting her own lox and a shmear. ‘I mean, he’d cleaned up,’ Katie says.
‘Well, that’s just it.’ Tara picks off the red onion. She loves it, the way its sharpness brightens the oily fish, but she’s going back to the office. ‘Did he?’ She takes a bite. ‘I mean, falling down the stairs …’
‘No.’ Katie holds up a hand as she reaches for her glass, sipping to clear her throat. ‘No way. I’ve spent a fair amount of time with Frank and Neela, and he was definitely sober. Neither of them drank, in fact.’
‘Neela too?’ Tara isn’t sure why she’s even asking. Maybe it’s the memories.
Katie is nodding. ‘Neela, too,’ she says. ‘She gave everything up when she was pregnant. In fact …’ She stops and sighs.
Tara waits. This is gossip. It won’t relate to her story, but you never know. When a source wants to talk, you let them. Unless they don’t. ‘Katie?’ She prompts, after the moment has grown heavy.
Another sigh. ‘I don’t think there’s anything to this. I mean, Mika’s baby being sick kind of proves it.’
Tara shakes her head, confused.
‘Henry – that’s Mika’s son – always had trouble, from Day One. He couldn’t keep milk down – or not enough. He’s been below weight. Anyway, it turns out that he’s got some kind of enzyme disorder. He doesn’t digest …’ She gestures to her own midriff. ‘Anyway, Neela was super worried during her own pregnancy. Worried that she’d harmed her baby in some way. You know, before she knew. Frank put the fear in her. Dragged her to some clinic up in New Hampshire even before – well, even when she was still kind of with Chris. Right at the end, there. But that really must have scared her, because she cleaned right up.’
Tara thinks back – the drinking. The smoking. ‘She did?’
‘Yeah.’ A nod, a faraway look. ‘Chris’s death, well, you know.’
Tara does. ‘You’ve got kids now, right?’
Katie smiles, a private smile. ‘Max and Moira, yeah.’ She nods. ‘But I was never that wild.’
A beer behind the Rat. She and Peter never discussed kids, not really. Things always seemed too tentative. To her, anyway.
‘We had some fun, though. Didn’t we?’ Katie’s voice interrupts her thoughts, and Tara looks up. Katie seems lost in her own reverie. She’s staring out the window, but Tara doesn’t think she’s seeing the men in suits. The women in their heels moving just as fast, jostling for position on the sidewalk. Here, where the Seaport meets the Financial District, everything is busy, bustling in the daylight – so far from the city they knew and shared. No, Katie is looking beyond them. Above the crowd. The sun shows every line, but she’s pretty still. Delicate, with that half smile. ‘Do you remember the Whirled Shakers record release?’ Her voice is soft with memory.
‘Like it was yesterday.’ Tara’s with her now. Back at Oakie’s, back before the Aught Nines had eclipsed everyone. It had been summer – supposedly the dead time – but you wouldn’t have known that from the crowd. ‘Weren’t the Aught Nines on that bill?’
A nod. ‘Yeah.’ Katie chuckles. ‘Poor Phil. And they sounded so good.’
‘They did.’ Tara remembers. It was the Whirled Shakers’ night. The band was tight – as good as they’d ever been – stoked by all the regulars and the handful of fat men in suits who had crowded into Oakie’s. Fire safety be damned, the room was alive, a hot battery, shooting sparks. Tara remembers how eyes glittered, how sweaty everyone was even before anyone began to play. Frank’s band had opened – Last Call making their brash punk cri de cœur sound as good as it ever would. Tara remembers drinking beer after beer – you had to, in that heat – and feeling nothing. The buzz came from the volume, the rhythm. The way the crowd was moving even as Frank’s last solo wound the set up to its close.
By the time the set finished, Tara was on her third beer – maybe her fourth. She remembers Nick, stripped to the waist and dripping, yelling to Brian. Something about the taps. The lines. She remembers him heaving a case of empties onto his shoulder as if it were made of air. The stage light caught him as he humped past, the spot picking out the muscle on his back. The sheen of his skin. She’d looked away. She and Peter were serious by then, and besides, the Whirled Shakers were taking the stage.
The excitement could have been too much. When Joey had called out an insane tempo, Tara had gasped – waiting for Phil to call him off. For the false start. But it wasn’t and in two beats the band joined in, winding the impromptu mosh pit into a frenzy of guitar and pounding bass. Against the rush, Phil took his time, stalking like a panther. Bigger than Chris Crack. More muscled, and darker, he prowled the stage, dominating it, and when he grabbed the mike, swinging the weighted stand out over the crowd, the response was deafening.
If we had world enough. World enough and time …
Tara catches herself. She’s singing. She’s at lunch, daytime, and Katie is nodding. ‘That song,’ she says. ‘That summer it was all over the radio.’
‘Yeah.’ Tara can hear it still. ‘Bad luck, I guess.’
‘Bad timing.’ Katie corrects her.
‘You mean, that night?’ Tara hadn’t thought about it at the time. Sometimes people left before the last set, what with the T closing soon after midnight and all. The Whirled Shakers wanted to party – they’d earned it, all the work they put into that single. Eleven o’clock set, and then they’d be free. Time enough to meet with the suits. To retire to their loft for the inevitable after party. For the inevitable triumph.
Getting the Aught Nines to close had made sense. Not only were the band members old friends, mostly, the new lineup was getting buzz. It was smart, offering something new after the old-school garage throb of Last Call and the Shakers. It was generous, too.
Only they hadn’t counted on C
hris Crack. On how a skinny, pale suburbanite could draw the eye and hold it. As sleek as an eel, the singer made Phil appear hulking by comparison.
‘Like lightning. Like the lightning in my veins …’ She can hear it still.
‘Maybe if they hadn’t opened with “Hot Shot”,’ Tara says.
‘Maybe.’ Katie looks down at her plate, sighs. The bright shining moment has passed. ‘I always preferred “Boy in a Bubble”. There was something tender about it. Something vulnerable.’
Coddled, fondled, packaged, bundled. I barely survived, barely got out alive.
‘You weren’t the only one.’
Katie looks up, and Tara catches herself. ‘I meant, the suits,’ she says. Because that was the song. ‘Hot Shot’ was the opening salvo, the one that made them turn back – from the bar. From Phil and Joey. The song that had them sidling through the crowd again, to see this other band. The one they didn’t know. But when ‘Hot Shot’ lead into ‘Bubble’, the Aught Nines’ fate was sealed. The Whirled Shakers’, too, if they’d known it.
‘Yeah,’ says Katie. Her smile has twisted into something wry. ‘That was the tune that emptied the bar,’ she says.
She and Tara lock eyes, and Tara remembers. Neela had been dancing, of course. Brian had worked around her, handing over the bottles – the shots – rather than leaving them on the polished surface. All through the Whirled Shakers’ set she’d been up there, her retro sequined top reflecting and amplifying every chord change, every move. She’d paused during the set break but stayed in place, accepting the drinks handed up to her as her due. But maybe there were one too many, the room too hot, the tempo too wild. Once again, her moves changed when the Aught Nines started. Slower and more sinuous, working against the breathless beat that served as Greg’s starting point. Weaving something more sensuous around the vocal snarl. And Chris had responded, singing more slowly still, leaning back on the beat. Almost pulling the band apart as ‘Hot Shot’ thundered to its close.
Maybe she’d sensed something, though how she could have heard anything – gasp, or cry, or whisper – in that room was beyond her. For some reason, Tara had looked up, just as the next song started. But for once, Neela wasn’t dancing. And as ‘Boy in a Bubble’ built toward the bridge – ‘Coddled, fondled, packaged, bundled’ – she’d jumped down to make her way into the crowd. Toward the stage. Toward the beautiful boy who had stolen the night.