Angelique saw it all – and now, she was here, front and center, witnessing us all performing it beautifully and perfectly to an adoring, writhing crowd.
She couldn’t have been prouder of me than she was in that very moment. Her laughter, her smile, and her joy – it said it all.
I couldn’t have loved her more. There weren’t enough words in the English language to fully express the love I had for her.
So, I did the best I could, in every song I sang. Even if it was a song, like this one, about a rock’n’roll Odysseus returning to Ithaca, she would know – somehow – that she was, and always would be, my Penelope. “You’re beautiful,” I howled, pointing at her. “You’re beautiful, yeaahhhhh…”
She stared at me and smiled. “I love you.” Her lips moved to form the words, but I couldn’t hear her say them. Between the noise of the crowd, the din of the instruments, the hollow ringing in my ears from the cocaine, and the echo chamber created by the space inside CBGB, I couldn’t hear her soft, feminine voice.
But I knew she said them.
And in my mind – in the back of my coke-addled, droning, scrambled mind – I returned the words of love to her, in the hopes that mentally, psychically, energetically, she would hear the words I thought, but could not say.
Are you there, Angelique? I’m here, Angelique. I love you, Angelique. Don’t leave me, Angelique.
As we began to hit the bridge, she suddenly looked over her shoulder, towards the bar, then back at me again. She held up one finger, then pointed it in the direction of the bar.
Hmm, I thought. Maybe she wants a drink. I surveyed the crowd, packed tightly like sardines, and grimaced, not at all sanguine about her chances of getting even the smallest cup of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Good luck, baby.
But my focus, now, was other. I turned back to the maddening crowd and continued singing.
Come home again/With blood on my hands/I’m stoned again/’Cuz a man is just a man/Come home again/With blood on my hands/I’m stoned again/’Cuz a man is just a maaaaannnn…
The place exploded anew. Men and women jumping around, frantically, while screaming over me as I howled about the blood on my hands – my, my, my, my hands – and I pogoed in time, desperate to see the top of Angelique’s head and assure myself that she’d gotten the drink she seemed to be so desperate for.
Each time I landed on the stage, it shook a little more, until it finally knocked Willie over into his amp.
“Dude, what the fuck!” snarled Willie as he stumbled backwards. “Have you lost what’s left of your fucking mind? This shit’s about to give way and kill us all!” He never stopped playing, not even for a second, but his brow furrowed as his shaggy, sandy blonde hair fell in front of his face as he steadied himself, knocking his knees together to regain balance.
“Where’s Angelique?” I shouted back, directly into his ear and away from the microphone.
“How the fuck should I know? Bro, she’s not gonna leave here, you know that. Get back in front of that mic,” he said, shaking his head so that the sweat from his hair splashed onto my face.
Without any hesitation, I slid forward, toward the mic, and grabbed it firmly, finishing the song with a flourish. Come home again/With blood on my hands/I’m stoned again/’Cuz a man is just a maaaaaaaaaannnnn…
“Mother of fuck,” I heard Jordan mumble as he tossed his bass into the air and caught it with one hand, “they’re on fucking fire tonight! Look at them!” He pointed out into the crowd, who were even more ecstatic than ever before.
I looked out into the crowd and smiled the biggest smile I could muster. My cheeks were literally hurting from smiling so wide. And all I saw was the same reaction everywhere: cheers. Smiles. Whistles. Various articles of clothing flying in the air. Hands waving. Lighters ablaze. Chants of “Faust! Faust! Faust!” and “One more song! One more song!”
I glanced over at Willie, who managed to peek out from beneath his shaggy bangs and smile despite himself. He wrapped his left arm around Tom, who had somehow climbed down from the drum riser and joined us on the main stage. Then he looked over at me and wrapped his right arm around my shoulders, tousling my hair as he did so.
“We fuckin’ did it, kid,” Willie laughed. “Grab that fucker Barker, will ya?”
I looked over at Jordan and tried to suss out if my best friend could, in fact, understand the nature of what all he had helped bring about tonight. Was he too fucked up? I asked myself. God, please let him be straight tonight.
He looked over at me. His ice-blue eyes flickered with recognition and he smiled, broadly and sincerely. Clear eyes, I thought to myself. Thank God.
I gestured over to him, and he immediately joined us in a four-way lineup that concluded with a ceremonious, theatrical bow. I then broke away from my compatriots and grabbed the mic one last time.
I didn’t realize it then, but it would be the last time I would ever grab the mic in the name of rock’n’roll.
“We are Faust!” I informed the still cheering crowd. “On the drums” – I gestured to my far right – “the Reverend, Doctor, Tom, MOTHERFUCKING, NEWMAN!”
The crowd cheered louder as Tom pirouetted, exaggeratingly, across the stage, laughing as he did so.
He was so much fun, I remembered to myself, interjecting my current thoughts into my story like a one-man Greek chorus. I miss him. All these years later, and I miss him still.
It was Willie’s turn to be introduced, and I turned to him and winked.
Willie and I had a love-hate relationship – sometimes, we were the best of friends; other times, we were the worst of enemies – but underneath it all, we had an unbreakable bond that no one, male or female, could break. He was as intelligent and calm as I was street-wise and capricious – and these personality differences were the source of most of the conflict between us, and most of the best rock’n’roll in the world – but at the end of the day, I would die for him, and he, for me, if it ever came down to it.
“On the guitar” – I over-emphasized the instrument because, being the asshole that I was (and still am), I had no problem letting Willie know that I was privy to many a woman’s confessions about his prodigious cock and his ability to work it in much the same way he worked his guitar (though apparently, his tongue left much to be desired, the sorry bastard) – “this motherfuckin’ guy, who will fuck your mother if you leave her alone with him, Willie Motherfuckin’ Lynn!”
That comment earned me a smack upside my head before Willie launched into a blazing guitar solo that was an amalgam of some of our best-known songs. Cheers erupted from the crowd with each sweltering note, which only made Willie play even harder. By the time he’d finished, the audience was nearly hoarse…and still, they pressed on as Willie slung his guitar behind his head before hurling it to the ground with a flourish.
I looked over at Jordan – externally, an aquiline figure of quiet resolve, but internally, a wounded and bleeding wild animal. He was sweaty, smiling, and relieved for now – but it wouldn’t be long before he would wander off and find his dealer for yet another bag of smack to keep that feeling going for just a little while longer.
I wish I knew what, precisely, it was that caused Jordan to turn to this shit in the first place. I’d known him for years – almost ten years, at that point in time – and I can honestly say that I could never, ever have seen this hideous addiction coming. I can’t even remember when, exactly, he started taking this shit in the first place…but I also now can’t remember a time when he wasn’t on the shit, either.
Jordan had been fucked up for so long that it was only during times like these – a rare moment in time that he was of sound mind and body – when I realized how far gone he was. And while him being clear-eyed in the here and now should have provided me with some source of comfort, it did the exact opposite – it made me realize how my friend, my very best friend in the whole wide world, who I loved like a brother I could only dream of having, was slipping through my fingers. And it was only in his de
ath – a death that would come exactly one year to this very day – that I would realize how much I loved him, and how, if I had known then what I know now, I would have traded my life for his without hesitation.
But these thoughts were a million miles away, in this moment, as Jordan – frail, lanky Jordan – sauntered over and grabbed my arm, inasmuch for my comfort as for his, and nodded his head while smiling.
“And on the bass,” I continued, facing the audience anew, “on the motherfucking bass, my best friend, my brother, and the reason for forming Faust in the first place: Jordan FUCKING Barker!”
The audience erupted in cheers.
I looked down, briefly, to see Angelique standing beneath me again, but this time, she had someone in tow.
I remembered seeing Angelique’s companion prior to tonight. She was someone whom I remember being a constant presence in Angelique’s life. Best friend, I believe was the phrase Angelique used, and a reasonably attractive best friend at that, to whom I gave a quick smile and nod in acknowledgement.
On that night, her destiny – and Jordan’s – would be forever intertwined.
I nodded in Angelique’s direction and pursed my lips into a kiss for her as I linked my arms with my brothers – Willie, Jordan, and Tom – and took one last bow on the piss-ridden, wobbly stage of CBGB: the stage that gave rise to so many New York City rock scenes prior to Faust’s final curtain call, but would never, after this evening, host another rock band, or another rock scene, again.
Kanoa emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed and dressed. He put on his sunglasses – mirrored aviators, because why the fuck not – as he stood before us in tight black jeans, ankle-high black combat boots, a cable-knit black turtleneck, and a knee-length black leather jacket.
Basile had finished cooking our dinner – a stew of boiled white beans and okra; it wasn’t much, but again, it was both nutritious and, surprisingly, delicious – and was portioning it out into three mismatched plates when he looked up at Kanoa and curled his upper lip in disgust. “Where the fuck you going, Kanoa? Columbine Fashion Week?” he scoffed.
Kanoa smirked. “Stop hating, Basile,” he said, laughing. “You know I make this look good.” He took one of the plates that Basile held out to him and made a face of disgust. “And with this diet, it won’t be long before I’m ready to strut down these runways.”
Basile laughed darkly. “Ain’t nobody checking for you, Kanoa,” he replied. “People want you dead, yeah, but that’s not the same thing as someone checkin’ for you.” He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “And anyway,” he continued while chewing, “the last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself, what with the price on our heads and all.” He peered out the window, then turned back to us. “We gotta finish up and get out there,” he said, pointing to the window. “They’re gonna be out in full force tonight. All boots on the ground.”
“Why?” I asked, eating quickly and hiccupping periodically. “What’s going on that’s so special tonight?”
“The Annual Emperor’s Ball,” Basile replied. “Uprising Radio – you know, that underground radio station? Well, the DJ named Vector Prime was talking about it. Vector Prime said that tonight is his daughter’s big “coming out” cotillion-style party, where she’ll be presented to this shit society and forced to choose her husband…”
“Emperor has a daughter?” I asked with genuine wonder and revulsion. “How did we not know this? Who would be desperate enough to fuck that stubby dick?”
“Step daughter, actually,” replied Kanoa. “As that bastard’s right-hand man, occasionally, I would go on detail for her. Precious little thing. She wasn’t much of a fuss-bucket, either, thank God. Loved to laugh. Chubby, bubbly, did the normal eat-cry-shit your diapers-and-sleep thing that babies do. But he never wanted anyone to really know about her – neither the people nor the low-ranking members of the Cabal could know about her, which is why only I and other Supreme Allied Commanders did, and you guys didn’t. ‘For her protection,’ he told us. But the implication was that, when she was old enough, she would be ‘presented’ to all of us and accepted as a princess for the people. ‘The Chosen One,’ if you like.” He scoffed. “What absolute horseshit. He kept her locked away because it wasn’t his real kid – like we didn’t know – and he wanted to hide her so people wouldn’t ask questions when they saw what she looked like, compared to what he did.”
“A daughter, huh?” I pondered. “How old is she? What’s her name?”
Kanoa rolled his eyes. “Why? You want her number? Goddamn, Jamie, you’re still that horny old rock star at heart, aren’t you?”
“How about you eat my ass, Kanoa?” I snarled. “You know goddamn well I haven’t gotten laid in 20 years, and I’m not looking to change that by fucking the daughter – step daughter, half daughter, adopted daughter, whatever the fuck – of the man who wants my head on a platter like I’m John the fucking Baptist. No, seriously, what’s her story? Name, age, rank and file? Does she even like men?”
“Man, listen, the last time I saw her, she couldn’t have been more than six years old. I have no fucking idea what she’s like now,” Kanoa replied. “How long have we been on the run? Fifteen years, maybe twenty? I’d say she’s gotta be about 21 years old now.”
That’s about how old our baby would be, I thought to myself. My son – our son – would be a young man right now, if things were…different.
“But if you’re asking me for her name, rank, and file, as you put it,” finished Kanoa, “believe me when I tell you that I sincerely do not remember at all.” He sighed, then pushed away his now-empty plate, and continued. “I just wanted to put that part of my life behind me, when I left to go on the run with you guys. I deliberately forgot everything. But occasionally, when I look out at this city – and what I helped make it become – I’m filled with such regret. Like, what the fuck did I do? How the fuck did we get here? And” – he shook his head and looked at the floor – “why didn’t I listen to my father? Why didn’t I go with them?”
He ran his fingers through his silky black hair. We were all around the same age – Basile was a little older than me, and I was a little older than Kanoa, but we were all born within 5 years of each other. But unlike Basile and myself, Kanoa didn’t have a single grey hair – a fact which never ceased to amaze either one of us, but which also occasioned many a snarky comment amongst us about what sort of witchcraft Kanoa was practicing so he could look so much younger than the rest of us.
“Kanoa,” offered Basile, “listen to me. You can’t blame yourself. None of us can. Yes, it was wrong, but shit – we did what we had to do to survive. They took our families from us. Me, Jamie, all of us…”
Kanoa shook his head. “No, Basile,” he said, softly. “No. I had a family. I still have a family. Nothing I could have done back then was justified by anything. That’s why this” – he made a circle with his hand, indicating us, and what we were doing – “this is just the beginning of making things right.”
I sighed. “Just leaving,” I said, “was the start of making things right.”
Basile nodded, then gathered our plates. “We gotta finish getting ready and we gotta get out there. How many of them do you think we can take out at once, Supreme Allied Commander Shinomura?”
Kanoa laughed, darkly. “Well, Brigadier General Perrinault, I think you and Major General Ryan can take out at least twenty of them, if we get out there within the next hour.”
“One whole battalion,” I said with wonder. “How weak do they make them, these days? Back when we were in command, it took a million and more to hold us back, and even then, there were no guarantees.”
Basile gave us a wan half-smile. “That’s why Emperor wants us back so badly,” he remarked. “We were the best he’d ever had, and we trained others to be even better than we were. That he wants to kill us…well, that’s the old ‘if I can’t have you, no one can’ trope, isn’t it?”
I sighed. “Great. Our Emperor
’s nothing more than a jealous boyfriend with orange skin and a little dick. But we knew that already. So where are we heading tonight?”
The three of us walked to the window and peered to our right. Kanoa wrinkled his nose, as though he were picking up a transmission that neither I nor Basile could hear. “Essex Street,” he said simply. “Corner of East Houston. Something’s going on over there.”
I inhaled sharply. “Home of the old Mercury Lounge,” I said.
Kanoa wrinkled his nose again. “Yeah, I guess,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “This ain’t my city, man. I’ll leave it to you to tell us what’s up around here. Or what used to be up around here.” He shook his head. “I can’t even imagine what it was like…before all this.”
“That’s another story for another day, man,” I replied, winking at Basile. “Basile knows a few stories, but maybe if it took you less time to wash your ass, I’d tell them to you too.”
Basile grabbed a black towel and started to make his way towards the bathroom. “Speaking of washing my ass,” he said, “I gotta get presentable. I can’t go out there smelling like feet and ass the way the rest of you do.”
Kanoa saw an opening and dived for it. “Why, Basile?” he asked. “You got a hot date?”
Basile, sensing the bait, smiled wickedly and nodded his head, continuing to walk toward the bathroom. “Yeah, Kanoa. With your mother.”
Kanoa let out a guffaw. “Fuck you mean, Basile? You trying to get me to call you Daddy or something?”
Basile stood in the bathroom door jamb, then turned to face Kanoa. “Nah, Kanoa,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice as he delivered the zinger. “It’s bad enough that’s all she calls me.”
He dropped his pants before us both, then laughed hysterically as he turned back around and started the water for the shower.
“Fuck you mean,” he murmured to himself, but clearly referring to Kanoa, as the water in the shower began to run, “comin’ out here strutting the runway and shit. I’m too sexy for my shirt type shit. Actin’ like we goin’ for lobster and shit.”
The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series Page 4