Stay Until We Break (Hub City Romance, A)

by Mercy Brown

  I pulled her hand off of me and held it, all warm and soft and relaxed from all the booze. Sonia has solid hands, hands meant to get shit done. Not frail or fragile at all. Nothing about her is frail or fragile, which might be why it’s so funny to see her get that drunk and need someone to look after her.

  And it kind of surprises me how much I don’t mind being that guy.

  ***

  With the stereo cranked, we roll on to Charlottesville and I can’t stop smiling like a kid as I watch the world go by. I never mention to the others that this trip is already the furthest I’ve ever been from home, although Joey knows I didn’t have the family-trip-to-Disney childhood he had. Growing up, vacation for me and Claire meant Dad was going to be around on the weekend and Mom was sending us down the block to Joey’s so we wouldn’t be there to see them drink themselves into a stupor. I was eleven the last time, and we came home to a mother with two black eyes. After that she couldn’t get me to leave for even an hour whenever that bastard was home, and then it was me who wound up with the black eyes or busted lip or countless other marks that motherfucker left on me until I got big enough to hit back. But so what? He’s gone and I’m still here and that’s the whole point.

  I didn’t break.

  Trap is blasting Helmet as loud as the stereo can go, singing along at the top of his lungs, and it’s just what I need right now.

  “Fuck yes, why don’t we cover this?” Emmy hollers from the backseat when “Meantime” comes on. “The crowd at Stache’s would have loved this last night!”

  She’s right, we should learn this one. Or they should. My stomach knots when I think of them playing without me, think of the moment I have to tell them I’m done. It feels so good when we all scream along with Page Hamilton, Hold it . . . In the meantime!

  In the meantime, that’s right. In the meantime I may as well be right the hell here, right where I am. Right with these people who ask only that I play my face off onstage every night, and I’m more than happy to oblige. This is probably the last time in a very long time that I’ll go anywhere worth going, and I’m glad it’s with them.

  “I’ll be back in three weeks,” I said to my mother as I was telling her and Claire about the tour.

  “It’s a waste of time. Uncle Patty is nagging me every day to get you back up here to help him.”

  “I have to do this—it’s important. I’m not going to let Joey, Emmy, and Travis down. They’re family.”

  That was the wrong thing to say to Katelyn McCormack. The look in Mom’s eye made me feel small again, but I didn’t flinch. It’s been years since she’s backhanded me—not since she quit drinking—so I guess I’ve outgrown the reflex. I didn’t intend for my words to sting, but there wasn’t anything I could do to take them back. Not that I would have.

  “This is your family,” she said, pointing to Claire. “Your sister needs you. Maybe you blew your chance at college, but she hasn’t and I can’t do this without your help.”

  “Of course I’m going to help,” I said. “I already told Patrick I’d be back in September to start. I gave notice at Rafferty’s this morning and everything.”

  “I think he should go,” Claire spoke up. “It’s his dream, you know? He’s always wanted to be on stage, ever since he was dancing and singing along to Friday Night Videos.”

  “Watch,” my mother said. “Once he gets out there, he’ll never come back. He’ll keep running, you’ll see.”

  “He’ll come back,” she said. “You always do, right, Coco?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said.

  But I don’t want to come back, that’s the truth and Mom knows it. I know she’s right, though. It’s Claire’s turn to follow her dream and we’ll never afford college and med school with me working in a kitchen and playing bass. Chasing the rock star dream isn’t something you do when you’ve got other people depending on you. I love it, but even I know it’s selfish. I’ve had four years to make it happen, and it was a good run. Lots of great memories, many good times. And who knows? If they keep at it, Soft might really make it, and I sincerely hope they do. But I’m twenty-two now and the time for dreaming is over. This tour is last rites for that dream.

  Twenty shows left. I count them off like a reverse jail term.

  ***

  Sunday, August 13, 1995

  Tokyo Rose, Charlottesville, VA

  With Chimp Cringle and Crypt Whores

  Soft Tour—Day 4

  We walk into the Tokyo Rose and are a little taken aback to find out that we’re playing a sushi bar. That’s a first. Turns out the club is in the basement, which is a decent but small room with a stage and another bar, and no tables for dining, luckily. We have low expectations for the show, but we’re not unhappy because they give us all free soup and tea and sake and beer after we load in and the sushi is half price for us, so we split a few rolls and listen to Joey make raw-fish-eating jokes. We better get him laid on this trip, and soon.

  At the bar we’re toasting the road when we meet Chimp Cringle, the local Charlottesville band. Jeremy is the guitarist, and he booked the show with us and the Crypt Whores. The Crypt Whores are an independent, unsigned band who managed to come over here themselves all the way from China. Talk about booking your own fucking life! They’re here recording and living at the Chimp Cringle studio, which is a converted barn at Jeremy’s parents’ house. Apparently, Jeremy’s parents are rich and have some sort of “gentleman’s” farm where they don’t actually farm anything, but they’ve bankrolled his fledgling recording business on the premises. Must be nice! But he seems like a really good guy, and he’s a huge fan of our single so he’s also putting us up for the night.

  Shen Hiu is the Crypt Whores’ band leader, and the only one who speaks any English at all. Shen and Jeremy have been pen pals for years, talking about Black Flag and California hardcore, even though neither of their bands are hardcore bands, or from California. Chimp Cringle do a sort of clean, smart rock sound, kind of like Gravel Pit out of Boston (shit, the Pumps wish they could sound half as good as this band), while the Crypt Whores are more of a total shit show, and I mean that in the best sense. Their sound involves a lot of loud, trashy chords and sprawling arrangements, with tons of unintelligible wailing by the double female vocalists who I assume are singing in Mandarin, or maybe it’s not any language at all. Really tough to tell. It’s a little awkward when Shen refers to his entire band and then all of us as “his whores.” Not sure he knows the exact connotation of that word in English, but since his English is a million times better than my Chinese I’m not one to judge. I’m fairly certain it’s a term of endearment, in any case.

  Before the show, again, there’s nobody downstairs in the live room except for us and Chimp Cringle and a handful of their friends. Sonia starts wringing her hands about nobody being there.

  “Sunny,” Joey says. “You’re gonna make the Whores feel bad. Nobody likes sad whores.”

  “It’s just frustrating,” she says. “I’m frustrated for you.”

  “We’re here to play,” I explain. “Not to worry about how big the crowd is. Whoever is here, we’ll play for. Even if it’s just you.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about the crowd—your job is to worry about the set,” she says. “But I’m the tour manager and my job is to worry about the crowd. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

  Well, fine.

  She heads back upstairs, into the restaurant, and Joey and I stand in front of the Crypt Whores as they start their set. Emmy and Trap come back and the four of us just stand right in front of them, giving them 100 percent of our attention, because fuck, maybe we came all the way from Jersey to play another empty house, but these dudes came from fucking China. We will make sure they have a good set, no matter what. If we have to do backflips or start a mosh pit with just the five of us, we’ll make sure they have a good time.

  They sta
rt playing and they’re loud as fuck and giving it all they’ve got. By the third song, there are two dozen people downstairs to watch them, and they start to really amp things up. I look over and see Sonia talking to some folks at the merchandise table, and she’s even selling homemade Crypt Whores cassettes for them while they play. I think the highlight of the set has to be when they all strip down to black bikinis, even the guys, and take two life-sized blow-up dolls and start making them crowd surf and Joey starts a mosh pit with both of them. We almost couldn’t get Joey to let the redheaded doll go.

  “I guess I know what we’re getting you for your birthday,” Emmy tells him.

  Then, while we’re setting up our gear on stage and getting ready to play, the room fills all the way up. Like, to the stage. We don’t know why, so we assume the crowd fills in because of Chimp Cringle. Jeremy is a DJ for TJU, the University of Virginia’s radio station. We know Jeremy has been playing our single, because that’s how we found him and booked this show. I guess he’s been playing it a lot, because when we play “Loud” (fourth song, batting cleanup), the crowd really perks up like they know it.

  By the halfway point, the crowd is really going for us, dancing and everything. Debbie and Jenny, what we end up nicknaming the two blow-up dolls, are having a blast being flown all over the room. As we rip into “My Yes My No,” Sonia comes and stands right smack-dab in front of me. She’s happy now, I’m sure, that we’ve got a decent crowd to play for. I can tell she’s happy because she stands in front of me the entire rest of the set and she’s not even trying to be cool about this. She’s dancing, lost in the music. I’m remembering her now at eighteen when she was so shy and awkward, but there was this whole other side of her that came out at shows. We’d play these basements and Sonia would turn into this free, happy kid, holding her own in any kind of mosh pit, and I can’t count how many of those I’ve pulled her out of since.

  I’m really going to miss that.

  It turns out to be one of the best Sunday nights we’ve ever played. I can’t even consider the fact that I’ve got only nineteen shows left to feel this way when I’d much rather have nineteen years’ worth of shows. Maybe knowing it’s all coming to an end makes it sweeter, though. I’ll try to go with that.

  I make my way through the crowd over to the merchandise table. Sonia’s there, all smiles as she chats with a crowd of folks about our single and the tour. I’m sort of next to her, but still surrounded by girls talking to me, which is normally fine by me, except right now there’s a tall college boy making time with my tour manager.

  “How long have you been managing Stars?” he says. “Really dig their sound.”

  “Soft,” Sonia corrects him as she hands him the mailing list to sign. “They go by Soft.”

  “Cool. You’ve got my contact info now, so don’t be afraid to use it, all right?”

  “Don’t worry, when we’re back in town, we’ll make sure you know it.”

  “Good,” he says, lingering at the table. I can’t believe how oblivious she is to the fact that this guy wants to get with her. Is she always this clueless? Actually, now that I think of it, yeah she is.

  “Where are you hanging out after the show?” the college boy asks. “Jeremy’s place?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and she’s still all smiles with this guy. I can’t even listen to whatever this other girl is saying to me now about working at Monticello or some bullshit because this guy is trying to hook up with Sunny, and she’s not doing anything at all to throw him off the trail. “We’re staying with him and the Crypt Whores tonight.”

  “Awesome, I think a bunch of us are heading over there after the show.”

  “Sounds like a party.”

  Great. I know Sunny isn’t my girlfriend or anything like that but I guess I’m feeling a little . . . I don’t know. Something along the lines of “get the fuck away from her,” and I just played my balls off on stage so if I want to talk to her, I’m just going to blow this catfish out of the pond. But as I’m about to make my move I have this sort of epiphany, and that’s the realization that Sunny is all glinting, shiny smiles at this college boy and she’s stone-cold sober. Hasn’t had a drink all night. And not once have I seen her radiate that sexy smile in my direction when she wasn’t blitzed. So maybe she actually likes this guy. I mean, why wouldn’t she? I check out college boy again, and he’s tall, tan, decent looking. Perfectly straight teeth like all the kids from Saddle River means his dad got him braces because nobody gets teeth that straight without them.

  Sunny has teeth like that.

  Instead of making my move, I walk away. I go to the men’s room and wash my hands, run them through my hair. Try not to feel pissed off or whatever. It’s not like I actually believe there’s any real possibility for me and Sunny, not one that has any kind of future. Above all, I’m a realist and I know I’m too blue collar for a girl like that. Unless I’m on stage, that is. That’s when she can’t take her eyes off of me. Not to be a dick, but I do get that from girls. They like rock stars. They don’t care that I’m about as close to being John Paul Jones as I am to being elected to the US Senate. It’s the fantasy they want, and I get that, because so do I. But I’ve played the up-and-coming rock star in that drama enough times to know how it ends. As soon as these college girls realize that by forty years old you’ll be just another working stiff with your good looks long spent, they’re on to the finance majors.

  I mean, imagine Sonia bringing me home to dinner to her parents’ house in Hopewell.

  “What are your plans for the future, son?” I can just see her father, the law professor, with his manicured nails asking me over poached salmon. “Graduate school? Wall Street?”

  “Actually, Mr. Grant, I’m a reformed drug dealer and a high school dropout, so I’ll be pumping shit out of people’s septic systems for the rest of my life.”

  Like she’d ever invite me to dinner with her parents in the first place. I think if that was even a remote possibility she might show an interest in me other than when she’s wasted. And case in point, she never has.

  Not a nice realization to make, but an important one nonetheless. It does a man no good to forget where he comes from or where he’s going in this life.

  With that in mind, I decide to move on. I’ve got three weeks left to be the rock star. I may as well enjoy it and not spend it dwelling on a girl I can’t have. I scope the room for anyone who’s not Sunny I might want to talk to, but I’m not in the mood. Not even that one there, in the Dinosaur Jr. T-shirt, or the cute one in the shorts with a gap between her teeth who’s been eyeing me for an hour. Maybe I’ll feel different at the after-party, at least I hope so. I decide to hang out with Emmy and Trap up near the stage and just watch the rest of Chimp Cringle’s set, which is on fire. I’m really digging it. Shen and Joey are going nuts, dancing with the blow-up dolls and being complete idiots, but it’s entertaining. Then, just as I’m starting to get the edge of my good mood back, Sonia finds me near the front and tugs on my T-shirt, with college boy in tow.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “This guy is the station manager for TJU,” she says. “They’ve been playing your single like crazy!”

  “Awesome.” Like I give a shit. I mean, I’m sure this guy will say anything to get under her skirt, and does she even know? Does she even realize this guy looks at her like she’s a hot fudge sundae on the last day of Lent?

  Then she takes me by the hand and motions she wants to tell me something, so I bend down so she can reach my ear.

  “Can you please do the thing again where you pretend you’re my boyfriend?” she asks. “Because I think this guy thinks I’m interested.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well?”

  “No,” she says. “And I don’t want to be a bitch because he’s a nice guy and I suck at . . . well, guys in general.”

/>   What the hell does that even mean? I don’t know, but I put my arm around her and tonight she’s in this black-and-white-checked halter dress, with those exposed, perfect shoulders right there, right fucking there where I’ve been staring at them all Goddamn day. I pull her close to me and it’s a mixed bag of warmth and the sweet scent of her hair and sharp regret for all the stupid shit I’ve ever done in my life. It’s not comfortable, but what am I gonna do, say no? Of course not. If I can pretend with everybody else that I’m in the band for the long haul, I can pretend to be Sonia’s boyfriend to get her out of an awkward situation. Though if I was really the gentleman she accuses me of being, I wouldn’t be considering milking this fake boyfriend gig for a fake ass-grab right now. I opt for running my hand over her bare shoulder, and shit, the way she leans into me I decide to go for it and put my hand on the back of her neck, let my fingers slide up into her hair, and I know I’m not imagining things when she catches her breath and wraps her arm around my waist.

  What the fuck am I even doing? Is this my head driving me here or my dick? Or something else entirely?

  I catch a sideways glance from Emmylou, which I ignore. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, so her questioning eyes aren’t getting any answers from me tonight. I turn around to give college boy the once-over, and when he nods in recognition that yeah, he gets that Sunny is off-limits, I nod back. He leans forward so he can talk to me (because it’s loud as fuck in here) and says, “You guys are seriously good. I was talking to Sonia about having you come back for our big homecoming festival. We’ve got the Pumps booked—you can open for them.”

  I want to laugh in his face and tell him to fuck off, because we’ll never open for those Maybelline-wearing dickwads, but I won’t even be in the band by then. My eyes hurt from the effort it takes not to roll them.

  “Did you give Emmylou your number?” I ask.

  “I gave it to Sonia. She’s your manager, right?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”