by Jason Myers
I stand up.
Don’t push it, Claire. Please.
“I won’t. All I’m saying is that I’m here for you if that day ever comes.”
Thank you. I appreciate that.
“I’m serious,” she says, getting to her feet.
I know you are.
“Do you really?” she grins, wrapping her arms around me, burrowing her head into my chest.
Of course I do. You’ve always been a good friend to me. Even if I never told you that, I’ve always loved the fact that you’ve been awesome to me.
“Awww,” she says, tilting her head back. “Did we just have a moment?”
I think we did.
“Nice.”
• • •
Probably like two hundred people are already crammed into the Renegade Studio warehouse basement by the time Claire and I roll in. Our names are on Michael’s guest list so we don’t have to pay the eight-dollar cover.
The basement is dimly lit and hot. A small stage is at the far end of the room and to the left of that is a bar.
Lamborghini Dreams is the first band up.
They’re already onstage tuning up, and they’re not wearing turbans or beards. In fact, there’s nothing at all, not one thing anywhere mentioning anything about this being the antifreedom show.
After Lamborghini Dreams, that band Patrick Bateman is up, followed by the touring band from San Francisco, Von Iva.
Claire and I grab some beers from the keg behind the bar, then work our way to the front of the crowd just in time for Michael’s band to start.
From the stage, Thomas goes, “I’m fucking wasted already and that dude with the Scott Ian beard keeps giving me shit.” He’s pointing at some guy with a shaved head and a beardsicle hanging from his chin. “But whatever, man. Keep talking. It’s like David Lee Roth said once: I want my cake, I want it frosted pink, I want it prepaid and precut and delivered right now. So let’s fucking rock ’n’ roll.”
Michael starts tapping his symbols.
And Thomas goes, “This first song is called ‘The Ricky Rockette Nightmare’ and it’s dedicated to Mike Patton. Let’s go!”
And they just start destroying shit, just completely annihilating the crowd, and it’s fucking amazing, fucking awesome, and about halfway through their set, I look around and see Kyle and Emily. I see Chris.
Everyone is here except Cliff.
When the Dreams are finished playing like thirty minutes later, everyone dripping with beer and sweat, Claire and I slide our way to the side of the stage where all those guys are standing.
Claire and Emily give each other these huge hugs and huge kisses and then Chris pulls me aside and tells me he’s sorry if he’s been edgy with me since I’ve been back. “It’s not anything you’ve done,” he says. “I’ve just been dealing with a ton of April and her mom and dad’s shit lately. But everything’s cool, man. I’m glad you’re back. I’ll even buy you a shot.”
I’m not sure what he means, but I take him up on it.
We go to the bar and both do a shot of Jameson, and when I spin around, I see this superhot Asian girl Jasmine, who I went out with a couple of times during my senior year and had amazing sex with when Laura and I were taking some time apart.
Strutting to me in this white see-through minidress with long slits cut in the bottom of it, a pair of black leather boots that end where her knees begin, and a pair of black leather gloves that run to her elbows, she throws her arms into the air and yells, “Yay! Travis. It’s so good to see you again!”
Hey, you too, I say with a smile.
Jasmine wraps her arms around me and says, “Do you have any coke?”
Not on me.
“That’s too bad,” she says.
Is it?
“Not really,” she tells me.
I inch closer to her.
You look good. You’re a stone fox.
“Stop it,” she says sarcastically, tapping my arm. “You’re embarrassing me.”
No one can hear me but you.
“I know, dude. I was just trying to be modest. I know I look fucking great.” She looks over my shoulder, then looks away.
I swing my head to the left.
Laura.
She’s fucking here. Standing near the basement entrance with her arms folded, looking directly at me, her boyfriend, Bryan, right by her side.
I wait for Bryan to look at me before I wave at Laura. Like five of his boys roll up behind him. He points me out to his friends, who all pretty much look the same as he does—bandanas around the neck, scruffy facial hair, incredibly tight jeans, black hair cut superbad—so I wave at all of them, then turn back to Jasmine and put a hand on her waist. I know Laura is still watching and I know she hates Jasmine and I know that this, if anything, will get to her. ’Cause maybe this is the only language she’ll understand.
So I lean into Jasmine and kiss the corner of her mouth and say, It’s really great to see you again.
Then I cut back up to the stage just as that band Patrick Bateman starts playing, and they’re fucking heavy.
Think early Sabbath.
But the vocals are very sweet sounding and melodic.
Think late Sonic Youth.
It works really well together. They destroy. And not halfway through the first song, a huge pit breaks out in front of the stage and their lead singer, this totally hot girl, jumps into it and slams herself around until the song is over.
Killer.
But like two songs later, the pit grows and people start slamming around everywhere and it gets superhot, and for a moment I get really dizzy, so I step back from everyone and cut over to the entrance, where a small breeze has filtered in from upstairs.
I light another cigarette.
And that’s when Laura shows up.
Not saying a word, she grabs my hand and pulls me into the girls’ bathroom and we start making out.
Stopping to catch my breath, I go, What the hell was that?
And she goes, “That was me apologizing for hanging up on you earlier.”
You also hung up on me a few weeks ago.
Laura slams her mouth against mine again, and I push her against the wall, our tongues pressed firmly together until we stop to catch our breath again.
Staring at me, Laura goes, “I’m not through with you yet, Travis Wayne.”
What about Bryan?
“What about that bitch, Jasmine?”
Just reacquainting myself.
“Right.”
But what about Bryan?
“What about him?”
He’s here.
“I don’t care about that right now,” she snorts, lunging forward again and pressing her lips against mine. And this back-and-forth goes on until Patrick Bateman finishes their set and a shitload of girls start filing into the bathroom.
Let’s leave together.
“Not tonight,” she says, then walks out of the bathroom.
I get my shit together, then follow her out, running right into Bryan and his boys.
Shit.
Bryan gets right in my face. He says, “That’s fuckin’ it, asshole. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.”
Whatever, dude.
I try to get around him, but a couple of his friends cut me off.
“I don’t understand someone like you,” Bryan keeps at it. “Laura’s told you to stay away from her countless times but you just won’t listen.”
He backs me into a wall.
Laura comes running over.
My fists are clenched.
“Bryan, quit it,” Laura snaps. “Don’t touch him.”
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” Bryan snaps back.
Don’t talk like that to her.
“Fuck you,” Bryan says.
He pushes me, and my head smacks against the wall, and then out of nowhere Kyle’s fist flies into the side of Bryan’s skull and that’s when pretty much all hell breaks loose.
Chris and Michael and Ro
dney and Dave come charging over and the small circle that was surrounding me grows into a puzzling mass of arms and fists flying all around, sometimes landing solid blows, but most of the time hitting only the air.
At one point I pin one of Bryan’s friends against the wall with Kyle, and we take turns pounding him as hard as we can in the gut, but then someone nails me in the back of my neck and I lose my balance and fall to the ground, and then these two tree-trunk-size arms wrap around me and drag me from the crowd.
It’s one of the security dudes, and he hands me over to another one of the security dudes, who holds me against this metal pole while I watch Claire jump into the middle of the brawl. She pulls one of Bryan’s friends to the ground by his shirt and kicks him in the ribs, and then I see Dave put some kid into a headlock and give him a really hard noogie.
Michael starts laughing when he sees that, but then gets a kidney shot from Bryan. Then Rodney, the guitar player for Lamborghini Dreams, he smashes Bryan square in the nose and blood starts gushing everywhere as he gets pulled away by the same security guy who got ahold of me.
Chris is nowhere to be seen anymore, which means he’s probably under the huge pileup on the cement, and when Claire tries to pull this guy off of Kyle’s back, someone rolls against the back of her legs and she falls on top of the pile, and when she tries to get off of it, her legs flap open, giving everyone a really great crotch shot.
Coming from the invisible speakers aligned somewhere, I hear the remains of a Chinese Stars jam before they slam into the Bronx.
And when I see this fucking guy elbow Claire in the back, I try to push the bouncer away from me to go after him, but it doesn’t work at all.
Instead I get put into a choke hold and taken outside. The bouncer lets go of me. I try to run back in but he pushes me to the ground and tells me that if I don’t leave right now, he’s calling the police.
My friends are still inside, asshole.
“We’ll deal with them soon enough, but you need to leave.”
Fuck you.
The bouncer grabs my shirt. “Don’t push me, punk. I will beat your ass right here if you don’t leave, and call the cops later.”
I roll my eyes.
“You understand?” he snorts, tightening his grip on my shirt.
Yeah.
“Good.” He lets go.
I go to dig for my cell phone, but then remember that I left it in my car. Great.
I have no other choice than to walk away, so I wheel around and start moving, and hail the cab that’s turning down the alley.
• • •
Once I get to my car, I grab my cell and see that I have thirteen missed calls and seven new voice mails.
One from Kyle: “Fuck yeah, man. We brought the thunder.”
Three from Michael: “Axl’s still a fag!” “I wanna punch Meg White!” “We’re partying with Von Iva at Rodney’s house for after-hours!”
One from Laura: “What the hell was that?”
Two from Claire: “Travis, where are you?” “Answer your phone. I’m worried about you.”
I erase all of them.
It’s just past midnight.
• • •
In the closet of my bedroom, there’s a PUMA shoe box full of pictures from high school. I pull it out and open it up on my bed. Most of the pictures are from senior year.
Flipping through them, one Kodak memory at a time, I pass over the frozen images of all of us. Michael doing lines. Kyle licking a blunt. Claire flashing the camera. Chris walking around naked in my backyard with a beer in his hands during a party. Laura and Claire making out.
Images that could ruin someone’s life someday.
Images that could be used as blackmail.
This must be the way the paparazzi get their start, I’m thinking when someone begins pounding on the door to my bedroom.
I toss the pictures in my hand back into the shoe box, then toss the shoe box into the closet, before opening my door.
It’s Laura.
Blowing past me with her purse swinging in the air, she zigzags to the other side of the room and leans against my dresser.
What are you doing here?
“I came to see you,” she says. “I wanted to see you again.”
How’d you get in?
“Your sister let me in.”
I shut the door.
Laura holds her arms out and goes, “Come here.”
I walk to where she is and put my arms around her waist.
“That’s nice,” Laura snaps, then—BAM—she punches me square in the gut so hard that my ears start ringing.
I buckle over in pain.
What the hell was that for?
And Laura steps at me—SMACK—and nails me across the face.
Fuck, Laura.
I cringe and stumble to a wall, falling against it.
What’s your fucking problem?
“The gut shot was for you being an asshole after you left in December and the face shot was for tonight.”
Are you serious?
“Obviously,” she snorts, falling down on my bed.
Pressing my arms against my stomach, I slither down the wall to the floor.
The last time Laura hit me like she just did was during our junior year of high school. She was out getting loaded one night with this girl Ashley Morgan, and I was getting shitfaced with Cliff, when my cell started blowing up with calls from Laura. At first I ignored them, sending each one straight to my voice mail, but after like the tenth one in five minutes, I finally answered it, and Laura was on the other end screaming, “What the fuck, Travis? I’ve been trying to call you.”
So.
“So I wrecked my car on this level-B road outside of the city and we need you to come pick us up.”
No way, babe. I’m annihilated.
“I don’t care, Travis!”
I don’t wanna get in trouble, Laura.
“You had better get your ass here soon, dude, or we’re so over.”
I started laughing, and Laura went, “Please, baby. I need your help. I’ll give you money, anything you fucking want. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Just come pick us up.”
Fine, I finally said, and left right after she told me exactly where they were stranded.
But the thing is, I was probably a lot more wasted than I thought, ’cause when I saw the two of them standing on the side of the dirt road next to the car, which was stuck in the ditch, I accidentally hit the gas pedal instead of the brake and started fishtailing and lost control of my ride, smashing it into Laura’s car.
My eyes drifted shut.
And when they opened again, Laura was on top of me in the middle of the road punching me. Screaming, “You stupid idiot! You dumb fucking retard! You’re such a fuckup!”
And the two of us ended up getting cited by the police for some bullshit minor offense after my father talked to a couple of the officers on the scene.
Laura lights a cigarette and I ask her where Bryan is.
“I don’t know. He told me to stay away from him after the fight was over.”
I take a deep breath.
It wasn’t my fault.
She runs her other hand through her hair. “It’s never your fault, Travis.”
My face scrunches and I slowly get to my feet and walk over to the bed and sit down beside her.
Why’d you come here?
“I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”
Home.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.
I don’t say anything.
The side of my face is still burning from her hitting me.
Laura takes another drag of her smoke then hands it to me. “Will you ash that out?”
I twist it out in the ashtray on my end table.
I say, Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown all of this on you when I came back, but I felt like I had to. I feel like I need you back. You know everything about me. I mean, I know we had some huge fucking problems a
nd all, but shit, we made it almost five years.
“Then why did you quit talking to me after you went to Hawaii if that’s how you feel?”
I don’t know.
“What does that mean, you don’t know? You do know. You just won’t tell me.”
Calm down, Laura. Would you? My parents are sleeping.
Laura leans into me. She whispers, “Travis, I want to do this. I want to so bad, but things have happened.”
I don’t care about any of that. I don’t want to know about what happened while we weren’t together. I just want to get back what I lost. I want to feel like I did before I ever left the city.
Inching even closer, Laura says, “I’m too drunk to really know what that means, dude.” She kisses my cheek then jumps back. “Shit.”
What?
“Your bottom lip’s bleeding.”
I stand up and walk over to the large mirror on my dresser and watch a tiny line of blood trickle from my lip.
“Do you think that’s from me?” Laura asks.
I wipe the blood away.
Yeah. You hit me on the same side of the face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you bleed. I just wanted to hurt you without yelling.”
Pause.
I’ll be right back.
“Where are you going?”
To the bathroom.
I leave and walk down the dark hallway past my sister’s and parents’ bedrooms and into the bathroom.
I splash water on my face and clean the blood off, and then I walk back to my room and Laura is lying underneath the blankets of my bed, listening to an Elliott Smith CD.
I take off my shirt and jeans and crawl next to her, and she rests her head against my neck and cuddles against my body.
“Thanks,” she whispers into my ear.
For what?
“For coming back.”
13.
WHEN LAURA AND I WAKE up the next day, we go for a late breakfast at Dee’s, this twenty-four-hour diner on Hammond Street.
After the two of us order, Laura checks her voice mail and tells me she’s got seven messages from Bryan and in all of them he apologized. “I really need to talk to him,” she says, sipping a glass of ice water.
What are you going to say?
Laura sighs. “I don’t know. What should I tell him?”
That your boyfriend’s back.
“Oh, god,” she blushes. “Do you remember when we cut school on the same day and seriously watched that movie and Fast Times at Ridgemont High like three times?”