“Play something,” Sid ordered. His voice blared from the monitors.
I peered into the dim red haze. Sid was only about twenty feet from me, but he looked very small and far away, hunched behind the sound board. I turned up the volume and plucked the E string. Nothing happened. I plucked it again. Still nothing.
“’Ow’s that sound?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I can’t hear it,” I yelled.
He frowned and adjusted some knobs. There was a screech of feedback. I winced.
“Try again,” he commanded. “And speak into the mic.”
I plucked the E string one more time. I could hear a faint rumble now, but it was distant and toneless, as if it were coming from another building.
“I’m sorry,” I said into the microphone. “Could I just get a little more bass in the monitor?”
“Oi!” His voice boomed back at me. “You think I don’t know how it sounds up there? I engineered Shaquille O’Neal’s last album. Now let’s hear the kick drum.”
I glanced at Bartholomew Savage. He was still glaring at me. I figured that meant my part of the sound check was over.
The bartender didn’t arrive until 7:50. She was about thirty-five, with a hard face and heavy black eyeliner. Steal Your Parents’ Money was tattooed down her arm in tiny gothic letters.
I smiled at her. I told her that I was the bassist for Dawson’s Freak and that I wanted to cash in my one Coke on tap. She didn’t say a word. Her face registered no response. Maybe she was a deaf-mute. She drew the Coke, though. I guzzled it while Petra and Bartholomew Savage argued with Sid about the process of recording our show.
“All we need is a quarter-inch adapter,” Petra said.
“That still doesn’t solve the problem,” Sid said.
“It does if you bypass the effects loop,” Bartholomew Savage said.
I tuned them out and finished my free soda. Then I bought one. For once, Jim Forbes had nothing to say. I calculated how much this gig was costing me: seventeen bucks for the cab ride each way, a two-dollar soda so far…far more than I made in a day walking Bonzo and Ox. I was losing money. Petra and Sid and Bartholomew Savage kept talking. The room was deserted. I wondered where Emma was. She wouldn’t have flaked on this…would she?
By 8:15, the only other people who showed were the members of Spacetime Logic, the band who was due to take the stage after us. They were all wearing black suits with skinny ties: an eighties nostalgia act, from what I could tell. They looked like jackasses. I began to get panicky. Finally, when I’d resigned myself to the fact Emma had decided not to come and that I hated her and we’d never be friends again ever, she strolled leisurely through the door. It was almost 8:30. Her hair was rattier than usual. She looked as if she’d tumbled out of bed. Literally. She was wearing a pajama top over a T-shirt.
“Hello, Cleveland!” she said, sitting on the stool beside me. “Hey, how come I’m not on the guest list?”
“I don’t think there is a list,” I said.
“There’s always a list.” She looked around and smirked. “What’s with the red lights? Do they develop photos in here, too? Like as an incentive to keep customers on the premises?”
“Emma, I’m really not in the mood,” I muttered.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “So what’s with the long face? Are you nervous?”
“Nah. I’m just conducting my own little soda-tasting here.” I took a sip and arched an eyebrow. “This one tastes like a guy who spent all night in the gutter.”
She stopped smiling. “Hen, seriously. You didn’t get wasted for the first time in your life or anything did you? I’ve quit drinking, myself.”
A hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“Time to start, mate,” Sid growled in my ear. “I ain’t waitin’ around all night.”
Petra and Bartholomew Savage were already climbing onstage. I glanced around the bar. There were a total of nine people present, including Sid and the bartender. Nine. Forty-one less than the number we needed to get booked here again. Forty-three if you didn’t count employees; forty-seven if you didn’t count the other band. An audience of three, basically: Emma, plus a twentysomething couple I’d never seen before.
And no Sarah, obviously. Of course not. She’d “hoped” to get home in time for the gig, but she just hadn’t “hoped” hard enough. Too bad. Because I’d been harboring a particularly idiotic fantasy, too shameful even to share really, but what the hell…I’d fantasized that Gabriel was right, that a wall of make-believe would go up (though not in the way he’d predicted) and that Sarah and I would make eye contact, and she would suddenly realize—while basking in the mellifluous thud of my Godlike bass riffs (like I said: idiotic fantasy)—that it was beyond cruel to hide anything anymore to her little brother…and as soon as the show was over, she would drag me off the stage and confess, confess, confess.
Well. So much for all that. And Emma was wrong. Getting wasted for the first time in my life probably would have been a great idea. I slunk off the barstool and took my place next to the crash cymbal.
The lights went up.
At first I couldn’t see a thing. I squinted into a shadowy reddish-black void. After a few seconds, my eyes began to adjust to the glare. I wish they hadn’t.
“Woo-hoo!” Emma cried, clapping. She was the only one making any noise. “Rock and roll, baby! Who loves the nineties? We do! Viva las noventa!”
I caught a glimpse of her, standing by the bar. She was in a great mood, wasn’t she? Of course: She’d predicted that we would bomb. Then her smile widened. Uh-oh. Bad sign. I knew that look in her eye; I knew exactly what she was about to do. Ten-to-one she would also do it at the Journey concert two nights from now to rag on her father. But tonight was different. Tonight she was her father. The transformation was complete; all she lacked was the gelatinous neck.
Don’t do it, I silently begged. Please—
“Disco sucks!” she howled gleefully. She thrust her right fist in the air, pinky and forefinger raised in the heavy-metal horn salute. “Disco sucks!”
The set was a disaster. If a wall of make-believe had gone up, it didn’t do anyone present any good. I couldn’t hear a thing except the drums and Petra’s piercing vocals. But I went through the motions as gamely as I could, struggling to keep my balance so I wouldn’t fall off the stage—until my D string broke. It was one of the few times the bass was audible. We were nearing the end of our only cover (a stripped-down version of Beck’s “Loser”) when there was a pop, and Petra’s guitar went horrendously out of tune. She grimaced at me, eyes blazing. It took me a second to realize that it wasn’t her guitar; it was my bass, but the mix was so bad that I couldn’t tell one instrument from the other.
I sat out for the remainder of the song. Somewhere in there I snuck a frightened peek at the nearly deserted room, and I noticed Emma was missing. (So much for Gabriel’s big momentous prediction for us. He truly was a jackass, wasn’t he?) Then I tried playing the last two numbers with three strings. I kept hitting bad notes. It didn’t matter, though; the sound was mush, and there was a huge commotion at the door, and nobody was listening anyway. As I later found out, some of Bartholomew Savage’s friends were trying to get in, but for reasons unknown the bouncer had suddenly decided to start carding at 9:30.
Underage Talent Night was officially over.
When I walked off the stage, Emma was still nowhere to be seen. I spent several minutes staring at the women’s room door, waiting for her to walk out. The bartender walked out instead.
So. Emma had split before the show was over. No goodbye. Not even a wave. She’d vanished. Just like Sarah. Ha! Was there a pattern forming? Maybe it was something about me…
Petra rushed over, looking harried. “Hey, Hen?” she said, handing me her guitar case. “Can you do me a huge favor and drop this off at my dad’s apartment? Just let yourself in again. The door’s open. I want to go back to Bartholomew’s place to see if there’s anything salvageable fo
r a demo.”
I nodded absently. The sinking emptiness in my stomach began to spread in waves through my body.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded, heaving her guitar onto my other shoulder. With both my bass and Petra’s guitar, I looked like a hunchback. I felt like one, anyway.
“Don’t worry,” Petra murmured. “The show wasn’t that bad. I’ll call you later, okay, sweetie? Bye.” She pecked me on the cheek and raced out the door.
Not that bad? I wondered.
I hobbled over to the bar, where the bartender was wiping out empty mugs with a dishtowel.
“Can I please have a Coke?” I said.
“No,” she replied. It was the first time she had spoken all night. She didn’t even look up. She kept right on wiping.
“Um, excuse me?” I shook my head, flabbergasted.
“Get it somewhere else,” she said. “You should have seen yourself onstage, all off balance and whatnot. I can’t believe you didn’t fall off. It pisses me off that kids think they can smuggle in their own booze.”
I had to laugh. “I hate to break it to you, ma’am, but I didn’t smuggle in anything. Not even my own water. And it’s sort of hard to keep your balance when there’s no room on your teeny little stage, ma’am, because—”
“Ma’am? What am I, your grandma? Look, no offense, but I’m just saying that your body doesn’t look as if it can handle any more alcohol.”
My body doesn’t look… Okay. No problem. No offense taken. I turned and stomped toward the door, with the sole intention of buying a lighter and several gallons of kerosene and returning to burn the Bimbo Lounge to the ground—but one of the guys from Spacetime Logic stopped me.
“Hey, bro, that was a cool set,” he said.
“Ha-ha,” I muttered. I tried to brush past him. He stood in my way.
“What, dude?” he said. “I loved it. Especially that song about Oedipus.”
“Really?” The tension in my jaw started to ease slightly. “You mean it?”
“Yeah. You know, it’s weird. You guys sound a lot like we did when Atlantic was interested in us. We sucked back then.” He grinned. “So, hey—what’s your singer’s name?”
“Petra Dostoyevsky,” I said.
“Petra what?”
“Dostoyevsky. Like the Russian novelist.”
“Oh. Cool. Is she seeing anybody?”
I frowned. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, look, bro, can you do me a favor? Friend me on Facebook. My Facebook name is Brian Hussein Singer. Then recommend her as a friend.”
“What? Why?”
“Why?” He laughed loudly, and then stared at me as if I were an idiot. “Because I wanna bang her, dude. She’s totally hot.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Aftermath
When I finally made it to Petra’s dad’s loft that night—after telling Sid to screw off when he asked me to pay him for the recording (the first time in my life I’d ever told off a stranger, and it felt pretty freaking awesome, thank you), after nearly giving myself a hernia schlepping both guitars up the long, rickety stairwell…after all that, I pushed through the unlocked steel door to find a strange black man in the middle of the room.
I rubbed my eyes, hoping he would disappear. He didn’t. He was real, all right, standing beside one of the longer couches, reading a piece of folded paper. What the hell? He was maybe ten years younger than my parents, bearded and unkempt, dressed in some kind of hippie poncho and one of those ridiculous green wool Rastafarian caps.
He glanced at me. “What’s up, chief?” he said.
I figured I had three options. One: I could smash him over the head with either Petra’s guitar or my bass. But that might be messy, and I didn’t want to accidentally kill him. A blow like that could also damage the instruments. Two: I could scream for help. But would anyone hear me? The walls were thick and the sweatshops below were closed. That left number three: I could attempt to communicate.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He erupted in a long, wheezing giggle. “Heh-heh-heh. Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” he said.
So. Option number three wasn’t working. Petra should really start locking her door. New York City was dangerous.
“The magazine flew me back for a couple of days to load up on supplies,” he said. “I couldn’t find the kind of film I needed in Guatemala. I just thought I’d check up on the place and see how Petra was doing.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re her dad?” I gasped.
He giggled again. “Yeah, but don’t worry. Black people make me nervous, too.”
“I—no—jeez, I’m sorry,” I stammered. The bass case slipped from my shoulder and hit the floor with a clumsy thud. “Petra didn’t tell me you would be here—”
“Relax. She didn’t know. It’s cool.” He flopped down on the couch. “So which one are you? Bartholomew?”
“Hen.” I tried to smile, scrambling for the bass. Petra’s guitar fell off on top of it. I scooped both instruments up in my arms. “I—I—”
“Ease up, chief!” He laughed again. “I’ll be out of your way in a minute. I’m sleeping at my girlfriend’s place. I was just hanging out. I lost track of the time.”
I bit my lip. I had no idea what to say. He was right: The fact that he was black had made me nervous. I was a horrible human being.
“So how was the gig?” he asked. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. Oh, wait, before I forget—one of Petra’s friends dropped by and asked me to give her this.” He held the letter toward me. “Would you mind passing it along?”
“No, no. Of course not.” I left the instruments in a heap on the floor and shambled over to him. But as soon as I plucked the paper from his fingers, I froze. On the back was written: For Petra. I recognized the handwriting instantly. It was Emma’s.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay, chief? You look a little pale.” He chuckled. “You know, paler than most white people.”
“I…um…” I forced an awkward laugh. My eyes darted between him and the note. If this was meant for Petra, I probably shouldn’t read it. Then again, he’d been reading it when I walked in. Besides, Petra and Emma wouldn’t even be friends if it weren’t for me. It wasn’t in an envelope. It might as well be public property.
“I always used to get the shakes after I played a gig, too,” he said. He pulled a small wooden pipe out of his pocket and tucked it between his teeth, then grabbed a pack of matches from the coffee table. “Conventional wisdom says you’re more nervous before you get onstage, but I say you’re more nervous after. You’re loaded with adrenaline. I played bass in a band, too—did Petra tell you? Roxy Mountain High. We were like the Meters meets the Allman Brothers…”
I stopped listening. I honestly hadn’t meant to read whatever Emma had written to Petra—at least not right there and then, not right in front of him. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.
Hey, Petra,
You’re probably wondering why I took the time to give you the gift of a handwritten letter. I was going to send you a text or an email, but that just felt too 21st century. In deference to your hallowed nineties vibe, I am kicking it way, WAY old school. Feel free to frame this, in fact.
That was a joke. But enough of my stalling.
In all seriousness, I’m writing to say I’m sorry. And why, may you ask? Well, for starters, I am sorry for assuming the role of Hen’s Yoko and hanging out uninvited with you guys these past few days. (What’s the proper term? “Yoko
Without Benefits”?) The reason I’ve been said YWB is even sillier than said term. I wanted to sabotage your gig.
Wow. Writing it down looks even more awful than saying it out loud.
But I had a good reason, I swear. See, I wanted Hen to feel okay about himself when you kicked him out of the band again. I wanted him to hate the band and the gig and, yes, maybe even you so badly that he’d breathe a huge sigh of relief when it was all over and ask hi
mself: “Jeez, what was I even thinking playing bass for Dawson’s Freak? Thank God I’m out.”
Honestly, my plan made sense when I formulated it in my head. (I admit I’m a little wacko.) But the thing is, during my brief tenure as YWB I saw that you weren’t just stringing him along. Unless you’re evil incarnate, which I’m pretty sure you’re not, you still really do want to be friends with him. You even helped take his mind off his sister. Which is a big thing. So you deserve props, whether you know it or not.
So if you can, please forgive me for being a jerk and pretending like Dawson’s Freak sucks. Because you don’t. You rocked tonight. I mean it. I’m sorry I cut out before it was over. I’m also sorry more people didn’t come to the gig. They will next time, though. I’ll friend a thousand people on Facebook and make sure of it. Well, okay, maybe closer to 900…
Hen was right all long. I never gave you the benefit of the doubt because you’re so fa-boo, but you’re a cool chick. You go, girl!
Ugh. I want to barf now.
Your friend (I hope),
Emma Wood
PS: I quit drinking. That was just part of the act.
My throat tightened. My eyes began to sting. I blinked several times. Suddenly I realized that the air had filled with pot smoke. I glanced up from the page.
Petra’s dad sucked in his breath and held the pipe in my direction. “Want a hit?” he asked in a strained voice. He didn’t exhale.
I peered at the glowing embers in the bowl. I’d never gotten stoned before, and I had a definite feeling it wouldn’t be wise to make this my first time. “No thanks,” I said.
He flashed me a used-car-salesman grin. “It’s Guatemalan homegrown.”
“No, really. I’m cool.”
“So what was I saying?” He coughed. “Oh, right. Your band. No offense, chief, but I think if Petra really wants to make it big, she has to lose you guys. It’s all about the solo acts these days. I’m sure you guys rock and all, but…”
Friend Is Not a Verb Page 13