Scar

by P. J. Post

  I follow the music and stop at the side of the stage. The band is tearing it up and the crowd is already in a frenzy. I don’t see my friends, but then that isn’t why I came back in.

  I walk to the edge and stare at the churning mass of anger.

  I launch myself into the pit.

  Who says you can’t go home again?

  8

  Annie’s Song

  Two hours later, I’m standing stage right in my normal place. My amp is humming behind me and I’m ready to go¸ ready to unleash the frustration and the anger and the jealousy that has been burning me up in one cleansing burst of rage.

  I’ve avoided everyone tonight since diving into the mosh, either looking at them or talking to them. I’m in my own personal solitary hell, but it’s going to be comfortable again soon. And since this is almost certainly the last show for Ache, I’m not going to let our fans down by doing anything less than my best for them.

  Tonya isn’t going to fuck this up for them, even if she doesn’t give two shits about any of it.

  I decided not to use the acoustic for Why I Live, and I’m just playing it through the clean channel of my amp with a little delay and chorus. I need the freedom to be able to walk around the stage. I’m shaking so badly, I’m not sure I can even play.

  The house music is fading and I’m not waiting on the rest of the band, because I need to get control of myself and this audience. I step to the front of the stage and hit the channel selector for the high gain channel and slam a power chord, letting it ring. The delay echoes the notes around the room and the house music goes quiet.

  I hit another chord and lean over the pit. I point at a few people that I traded blows with earlier, and they smile back up at me through sweaty, eager faces and start swearing at me through cheers.

  I walk across the front of the stage and pause by the stripper pole, passing a dumbfounded Tonya, holding my guitar up by the neck and hit another chord, letting it ring. And then I hit another and another, speeding up the pulse as the echoes begin to layer on top of one another until I’ve created a cacophony of distortion bouncing around the room.

  I’m glaring at the crowd, daring them to lose it tonight.

  “You want to get fucked up?” I shout at the kids down front.

  “Yes!” they scream back.

  I step in front of Todd’s mike. “I said, do you want to get fucked up tonight?”

  “Yes!” they scream, over and over amid cheers.

  I blast another chord through the hall and then point at Greg to get ready as I walk back across the stage. I ignore Tonya as she steps back, and I address the crowd through her mic. “We’ve got a new one for you tonight. Anyone who was at Aaron’s last month has heard it.”

  The crowd starts to cheer because a lot of fans here tonight were at that backyard show too.

  I had to get their attention first and now that I have it, I turn down my guitar and hold my fingers to my lips, motioning for them to be quiet.

  I walk over to my mic. “Shhh, shut the fuck up and learn something motherfuckers.”

  I hear bottles clinking over by the bar and a faint murmur of voices from the back, but the front of the stage and the mosh is quiet, respectful.

  I whisper into the mic again. “Tonya wrote this one. It’s called Why I Live.”

  I hit the floor button and flip back to the clean channel on my amp. I stretch my fingers and take a deep breath, hoping I’m under control enough to play the goddamn song properly. I slide my hand up the neck and gently press my fingertips to the strings, forming the first chord over the ebony fretboard. The pick is still shaking in my right hand.

  Fuck.

  I’m a professional, goddamn it. I take another breath, hoping the song will steady my hands and slowly begin to play a soft arpeggio, notes falling like rain, and then Tonya begins to sing in her raw, vulnerable and angelically pure voice:

  Are you my savior?

  Offering fantasy favors?

  Say: this won’t hurt, soon it’ll all be gone

  Say: please, God, no, just leave me alone

  Tell me how to feel

  Say Hell’s not fucking real?

  I lived it, breathed it, fucked it, bled

  I know better

  I know better

  And I can’t forget

  And I can never forgive

  You lived, inside of me

  You cried, inside of me

  You died, inside of me

  Please God, be merciful

  Don’t watch, look away little girl

  Say: this won’t hurt, soon it’ll all be done

  Say: please, God, no, just leave me alone

  Become rejected death

  Lucifer’s dying breath

  I loved him, breathed him, fucked him, bled

  I know better

  I know better

  And I can’t forgive

  And I can never forget

  You lived, inside of me

  You cried, inside of me

  You died, inside of me

  Don’t touch me, inside of me

  Don’t touch me, inside of me

  Don’t touch me, inside of me

  Don’t fucking touch me,

  You died

  Inside of me

  And then without pause, she begins singing Amazing Grace. Her voice rings out across the room. It’s painful enough to hear her, much less watch her, but like everyone else in the room, I can’t take make eyes away from her. I know I don’t really have my emotions under control, but the more I say it, the more I hate, the sooner I’ll believe. But listening to her bare her soul makes it almost impossible.

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost but now am found,

  Was blind, but now I see.

  I can’t hate her, but dear God I want to. And that pisses me off too.

  How can someone with this much talent be playing at it? She’s beautiful as she leans into the mic. This is her swan song.

  Everything she said out on the loading dock sounds like bullshit, but why would she say it in the first place?

  Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

  And mortal life shall cease,

  I shall possess within the veil,

  A life of joy and peace.

  Greg hits his cue and starts a military drum roll, and then I hear him hit the ride in a count off, one, two, three and I hit the high gain channel and start in with the palm muted power chords as he begins jackhammering the double kick drums.

  The power is more than anything we ever rehearsed, and the crowd goes even crazier than I expected them to. The mosh immediately erupts.

  Moshing to Amazing Grace.

  Fuck yeah!

  We continue with the military march as Tonya begins to scream the lyrics with heartfelt intensity.

  We build to a crescendo and then silence.

  The crowd is breathing with us, in sync, like lovers and pauses briefly before exploding into cheers and shouts of approval.

  Todd barely takes a breath before thumping out the opening bars of Cramps, and the first stage divers begin climbing up onto the stage. The chaos comes early tonight and our fans are driving us to play our best, to give everything and leave nothing but our sweat and blood on the stage.

  I can’t help but be aware of Tonya. I watch her, soaking up every scream and every expression. But it’s like we are attached to either end of a pole, she always moves away from wherever I go on stage, moving to anywhere that I’m not.

  She glares at me sullenly between songs. Every emotion on her face is fractured and splintered — none of it feels real and yet, all of it feels painfully real.

  After a few songs I set my guitar down long enough to pull my shirt off. I grab my guitar and leap over to the edge of the stage, playing as I run back and forth, egging on the mosh and the front row. I want to connect with every fan who showed up. I want every one of them to know the
y were here and were a part of this show.

  I try to make eye contact with all of them.

  I want them to feel special in some small way, even if it’s insignificant, because I don’t know if it will matter to them tomorrow, but it matters a hell of a lot to me right now.

  Halfway through out set, I’m soaked in sweat and beer. I flip my amp back to the clean channel and walk over to Tonya, shaking my head with unconcealed contempt as she moves back. I don’t even look to see her reaction as I pass her on my way to the edge of the stage. I stop and sit down on the edge without a mic, my feet dangling over the side.

  I point at a kid and motion for a cigarette. He brings one over and lights it for me.

  I take a drag and blow smoke up into the stage lights.

  I nod a thank you and he grins.

  I’m totally deviating from the set list tonight, but I don’t care, because I don’t want this night to end. Somehow, tonight is tied to Tonya and when this show ends, my life with her will too.

  I don’t know what the rest of the band is doing, but their silence means they are waiting and following my lead.

  “Having a good time?” I ask the kids down front.

  They shout back, “Yes!” The mosh has stopped and people push forward.

  I take another drag off the cigarette. I point at them. “This is your time, man. Be honest, be true to who you are. Don’t fuck it up.”

  They stare at me like I’m some sort of prophet. They all get quiet.

  It’s the coolest moment I’ve ever had on stage, connecting with them in this weird one on one.

  “Say it, man,” I encourage.

  “Don’t fuck it up,” they say.

  “Don’t waste a second,” I say. “Live it, man.”

  I push the butt of my cigarette under the strings at the bridge of my guitar neck and close my eyes as I begin to play a song I haven’t played in years, but the notes are still in my fingers, waiting and begging to be released after all this time.

  “This one’s for Annie,” I say and put my pick between my teeth.

  The first notes to Stairway to Heaven pull me away from Tonya, from the stage, from the Palomino and from the surrounding oil field, and spin me back in time.

  I’m thirteen, playing my mom’s acoustic guitar for Annie again, just the two of us on a humid summer night, drinking warm beer and discovering who we are. I can see her grinning with dark excited eyes from underneath purple hair. I can still smell her perfume, it’s like candy. I’m lost in the melody, isolated and removed from the crowd, from Tonya, from everything.

  The changes come smooth and natural as my fingers slide over the neck, caressing it, making love to it so that it sings the notes with me.

  My guitar and me have a relationship, the only one that has never let me down.

  I stop part way through as the tears come, but I don’t worry about them. It’s just honest emotion and I’ll never be ashamed of these tears.

  I look up and out at the kids, pulling the pick from my mouth.

  “So what did you guys think of that?” I ask quietly.

  I hear some kid off to the side say, “Fucking awesome.” And it makes me smile.

  I grab my smoke from the bridge and toss it to the floor. It’s burnt out, just like Ache seems to be.

  They hoop and holler and shout as I get back to my feet.

  I spare a glance at Todd and he’s speechless, just like most of the audience. Tonya looks sad though, and I see the tears in her eyes too, although I have no idea why. I’m sure they are going to bitch about my little tribute thing later, but I don’t give a shit right now.

  I point at Greg to count us off for the next song on the list and we’re off again, churning out angst and anger and hostility that travels in waves back and forth across the crowd, eventually canceling each other out, leaving nothing but catharsis in their wake.

  I notice Tonya with her soaked hair, looking like she did that morning standing in the rain, her hair hanging in strands across her cheeks as the orange stage lights fall upon her face. She’s watching me more and more through the crowd as they slowly take over the stage. I can’t read her expressions or understand why she is so fixated on me now.

  I’m sure it’s all in my mind, but the way she looks right now, those memories — are never going to fade even after she leaves. It’s crushing my fucking soul.

  I’m afraid my rage is going to desert me, because I’m nothing without it. I can’t do this on my own, so I hold on tight, letting the memory of Annie burn within me. I’ll lose my shit or what the fuck ever — after we’re done

  Not now.

  By the time our set is nearly over, the stage is full of people jumping around, singing into the mics with us and slam dancing.

  I’m sweating and exhausted, but there’s one song we’ve yet to play tonight, and I know they are going to want to hear it before we’re done.

  I walk over to my mic and grab it, dragging the stand over to the edge of the stage.

  I lean over them. “What song do you want to hear?” I ask them. Regardless of my pain, I can’t help but laugh inside, thinking about Freebird.

  “Green Acres!” they shout.

  “What song?” I ask again, holding the mic out over the audience.

  “Green Acres, Green Acres, Green Acres,” they chant through the sound system.

  Greg counts us off and with the first note the room explodes again. I follow the circle of the pit, mesmerized by all of the anger and frustration being released like some kind of cleansing ritual, the evil rising and snuffing itself out among the rafters.

  The beat quickens, the chords race along, Tonya screams the lyrics, the muscles in her arms tightening as she clutches the mic, she leans over and falls to her knees, tipping the mic stand over and she holds a note, unwavering, like these are the lyrics to the most powerful love song ever penned, and then…

  And then — we’re done.

  And even though I know it’s for the last time, there’s no catharsis tonight, as much as I tried — I’m not even close to empty or at fucking peace.

  I still want to break shit.

  I stay on the stage and hold my arms up, pumping my guitar in the air, soaking it all in and trying desperately to remember every moment.

  I turn to see Tonya staring at me with moist eyes. Todd walks to her and stares at me and shakes his head with a grin on his face.

  I’m hurt and angry and frustrated and just fucking sad, but fuck it — if I’m going to let Tonya or Todd know it — not to mention our fans. I left all that melancholy shit on the loading dock with Carla, or so I keep telling myself.

  The next band can wait. This is my stage until I say different. I light a cigarette and take a drink of beer from the cup sitting on top of my amp, my guitar still hanging by its strap.

  I push my hands back through my hair, grateful for not having to worry about that fucking ski cap or the stitches anymore. I pour the beer over my head and then shake my hair out like a dog, only faintly aware that my healing wounds are stinging.

  Fuck it.

  This is where I belong, on stage, directing a goddamn mosh.

  I take a drag off my cigarette and look back across the stage. Tonya, Todd and Greg are still staring at me. “What?” I ask indignantly.

  Todd points at my face.

  I wipe my cheeks and my hand comes away covered in sweaty blood. Somewhere during the night, maybe in the mosh, I reopened my head wound and I’ve been bleeding, not much, but for a long time.

  Shit, no wonder they were mesmerized.

  I must have looked insane.

  §§§§§

  Peggy walks on stage and hugs and kisses Todd, one of those deep, passionate, I-can’t-wait-to-fuck-you kisses. She pulls back and whispers something to him and then points at my stuff while I wiped down my guitar and place it in its case.

  She walks over to me and takes my hand. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says.

  I let her drag
me into the Women’s bathroom. And I thought the Men’s toilets were disgusting. The fluorescent lights are bright and she pushes me against the wall mounted sink.

  “Let’s look at you head, crazy boy.”

  I lean toward her and she pushes my hair away.

  “What the hell happened to your head?” she asks.

  “Long story.” I’m curious why she isn’t asking about my back, but perhaps she already knows.

  “We all have long stories, huh?” she asks.

  I look up and smile. “Guess we do.”

  She sets her purse down on the sink and rummages around and pulls out a few Bandages.

  “For emergencies,” she says. And then pushes my head back down. She grabs some paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them before cleaning up my head.

  I can’t help but think back to the last time that Tonya took care of me like this. Every one of these memories is like a goddamn anchor, tethering me to a past that I can’t seem to escape from.

  I feel her pressing the bandages down and then she ruffles my hair. I look back up and her eyes are full of compassion.

  “You talk to Beth?” she asks.

  I don’t say anything and she just nods. She steps away and then turns back, folding her arms across her chest. “Whatever you said really upset her.”

  “She did all the talking. I just listened.”

  “What did she say?”

  “You should ask her.”

  “I’m asking you,” she says.

  “The band is over and I guess our friendship too, if it was ever real to begin with,” I say.

  “You mean she said she didn’t want to be friends?”

  “No, she said we were never friends. She’s leaving, going back to college out of state. Who the fuck knows?”

  “This isn’t right, Connor. Something’s going on here.”

  “No. There is absolutely nothing going on here,” I say, gripping the sink to keep my emotions in check. “Not anymore.”

  “No, there is; because two years ago she fell in love with you. People don’t just fall out of love, not like this.”