Boring Girls

by Sara Taylor

  I agreed to do a telephone interview with Robbie that Saturday night in anticipation of a show at the Toe in St. Charles the following Friday night. Socks confirmed that Torn Bowel would do the show. I didn’t hear anything from Fern — which wasn’t unusual nowadays — but Edgar had spoken to her, and we decided to have a rehearsal in Socks’s basement the night before the show.

  xXx

  “So we’re live on air right now with Rachel from Colostomy Hag,” Robbie said over the phone. I wasn’t allowed to have the radio on, so this didn’t feel like a broadcast of any sort to me. Of course, I wasn’t even sure anyone would be listening in the first place — Robbie’s show was on at 1 a.m. once a week for an hour on Saturday nights. This just felt like a silly phone call.

  “How are you tonight, Rachel?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Just back from your U.K. tour with Goreceps, right?”

  “A few weeks back, yes.”

  “Awesome. I have to say it’s sort of an honour to have you on the line right now. Colostomy Hag is getting an amazing reputation,” he said.

  “Er, that’s nice of you.”

  “So how was the tour?”

  I talked for a minute or so about the Flesh for Lunch tour, how cool Goreceps had been to us, despite our limited amount of socializing with them, and what an interesting experience it had been to go overseas and have people know our music. “That was really cool. I’m still not sure what to think of that, it seems so impossible.”

  “Do you find that the pressure is on you now, somewhat? You’ve had a few incidents at your shows — notably, of course, when you threw up on that guy in Port Claim, and now having humiliated a heckler and having had him thrown out of the venue. Do people expect some kind of crazy behaviour from you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Do you find it difficult to be a woman in a metal band?”

  “Sometimes it’s frustrating. Me and Fern, who plays guitar, get shit sometimes when we’re playing. There are a lot of guys who aren’t into respecting girls in bands. Or just generally.”

  “Before this interview we were playing some DED,” Robbie said. “I’m sure it goes without saying that you guys are fans. Did you get a chance to catch their show when they came through a while back?”

  It felt like a giant tennis ball had appeared in my throat. My head started pounding and I fought to remain calm. “Oh yes, it goes without saying, huge fans.”

  “They put on a great show,” Robbie said.

  “Amazing,” I said. My vision blurred and went black, even though my eyes were wide open and unblinking.

  “And what nice guys, too. I didn’t have a chance to get them on the show, but they’re great to their fans. Have you had the chance to meet them?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Well, I’m sure one day you’ll be sharing the stage with them,” Robbie said.

  “That would just be a dream come true. There’s nothing I’d like more.”

  “Well, until that day comes, you can catch Colostomy Hag next Friday night at the Toe, right here in St. Charles. They’re playing with their old tour friends Torn Bowel. Doors are at 9, ten bucks at the door. This is not a show to miss.”

  FORTY

  I knew I had to do something big. Or something awesome had to happen. I was terrified that no one would come, despite Socks’s reassurances that Robbie had had a ton of interest come in through the radio program.

  Fern and I had started spending more time together. I’d go to her place and we’d just hang out. Most of the time we wouldn’t even really talk. I’d bring along my sketchbook, lie on her bed, and draw or draft lyrics. She’d sit on the floor and play her guitar. It was nice to be alone with her again, even if our relationship felt like it had changed. In a way, it was as though we had never been closer.

  As the show drew near, I took Fern downtown to go shopping. We picked out two matching navy blue-and-black plaid jumpers and matching collared white blouses. It was a pleasant afternoon, reminiscent of the first times we’d hung out together. She laughed at jokes, she talked and seemed excited about the show, but still there was always something missing.

  I decided I’d wear a pair of the white knee socks I’d been keeping wadded under my bed, the ones I’d been using to soak up the blood from my scabby palm. By this point I’d gotten into the habit of keeping my left hand clenched in a fist so no one could notice the raw skin. Sometimes I’d wear a black fingerless glove on it, which made me look tough and hid the scabbing.

  The socks were nasty, there was no way around it, with a mildewed scent and a sour undertone. But no one would notice that.

  When the four of us pulled up to the Toe, there was a large group of people clustered around the building. The chain-link fence leading to the back of the venue was closed.

  “What the fuck! How are we supposed to soundcheck if there’s some stupid shit going on here already?” I said as Socks slowed the van. “Did Robbie say what else was happening here today?”

  Edgar peered out the window. “Are they here for us?”

  The four of us stared as Socks stopped the van in the middle of the street. There were about a hundred people on the sidewalk, from a large group in front of the venue leading into a line up that was beginning to snake around the block. From the group, we saw Robbie emerge, waving his hands at us, signalling to turn the van towards the back gate, which he went over to unlock. Heads turned towards us from the crowd of people, hands pointed.

  “But it’s only noon,” Fern said.

  Robbie opened the gate, then Socks pulled through, and I felt eyes on me as we drove past the crowd. My cheeks flushed. It was extraordinarily unpleasant being on display the way I was. And I’ll tell you, it’s a very different thing from being onstage, when you are somewhat in control of things. It’s like having someone study you while you’re eating your morning cereal in your Garfield T-shirt and ripped pyjama pants. It’s weird.

  Robbie closed the gate behind us and Socks navigated the van to the alcove by the back door. Faces pressed against the fence, trying to catch a glimpse of us.

  “There were a few kids here who slept in the line last night, if you can believe that,” Robbie said as we got out of the van. “This show is going to be incredible.”

  He went on and on, and we started loading our gear in. I was thankful for the dark, cold, smelly interior of the club. It was nice to have the chilling, crawling feeling of being watched dissipate. Piss soaked as it was, this place was our refuge.

  Torn Bowel arrived a little while after we did, and it was a pretty pleasant reunion. They’d just come back from a tour, and they’d been on the road for a few months. All of them sported tour moustaches and had the same look in their eyes, the look a band starts to get when they’ve been away from home for too long. They laugh really hard at jokes that no one else can understand, and there is both panic and exhaustion. The panic feeling seems to hit when you know you’re getting close to going home.

  Jamie extended his arms to me and we embraced. I caught the stink of his black T-shirt, stiff with dried sweat, and felt the rank greasiness of unwashed blond hair against my cheek. I didn’t really understand the ferocity of his happiness to see me, but on both sides of me the others were all hugging, so I went with it. Besides, after four months on tour, it was understandable that he would be a little overwrought. I’d felt those twinges myself, even after our short tours. Jamie’s eyes were wide, his smile desperate, his breath heavy with night after night of alcohol and who-knew-what-else as, for some unknown reason, he leaned in to kiss me.

  “Whoa, there,” I said, turning my face so his lips landed clumsily on my cheek.

  “Sorry, Rachel. You just look great,” he said, smiling at me.

  “You look good too. How was tour?”

  “It was fucking great,” he said. “But
I have to say, I’m glad to be almost done. Tonight is going to be amazing. The best. It’s so good to see you again.”

  Things were bustling around us, gear being moved and set up, but Jamie stayed with me. I could feel Fern’s eyes on me from across the room, could almost feel her disapproval physically, burning into my face. I stood stiffly as Jamie ran one hand up my arm to my shoulder, tried to keep from jerking back as he put his fingers in my hair. I didn’t understand where this was coming from — the last I had seen of Jamie, we had parted as polite acquaintances. I hadn’t really cared then, and I certainly didn’t care now.

  “You guys are doing really well,” Jamie said. “You went to England, I hear. I saw a few magazines with you guys while we were on the road.”

  I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as he casually ran both hands down my arms, past my wrists, and twined our fingers together, as though we were a comfy, intimately involved couple. I fought the urge to push him away and shriek until my eyes poured blood.

  “The last time we saw each other, on that little tour, you know, I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye the way I wanted to,” he said. “I’m glad we get to see each other again today. So I can make that up to you.”

  “You didn’t say goodbye to me because you thought it was gross that I puked,” I reminded him.

  “That’s not true. It was so cool. I didn’t think it was gross at all.”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. “Remember the first day? We were pretty much flirting with each other.”

  He laughed and seemed to blush. “You’re pretty blunt!”

  I ignored him. “We were talking, all that. I sort of liked you, I mean, as much as you can like a person that you’ve only known for half a day, or whatever. You were asking me about where I grew up, all that stuff. But then I puked on that guy, and you didn’t really seem interested after that.”

  “No, I — I thought it was . . . pretty cool that you did that.”

  I began slowly untangling my fingers from his. “I know you did, totally. But you have to admit, it wasn’t very . . . hot.”

  Jamie laughed. “Fuck, okay fine. You’re right. I didn’t think it was hot.”

  I felt a lot better now that we were no longer holding hands, so I grinned at him. “Right. So I just don’t get it. Why are you holding my hand and touching me right now? Tell me it’s because you’re tired and crazy from tour. Otherwise I might think it’s because you saw a picture of me in a magazine so now you think it would be cool to be with me. Because really, dude, why else would you be trying to hit on me today?”

  Jamie studied my face. I could tell he was put off by my forthrightness. I could almost hear his mind racing to figure out what the answer should be. I stared back at him, still grinning, and shortly he grinned back, his face relaxing, and he nervously tucked a strand of greasy hair behind his ear. “I’m just tired. And you know, it is good to see you. I’m stoked about this show.”

  I still don’t know what his real reason was, but with that out of the way we were free to be just friends, and this time when we hugged it was nice, friendly, harmless. As we embraced, I saw Fern, sitting on the stage, half tuning her guitar, half staring at us, her expression frozen.

  xXx

  The last time we’d played here with that shitty Heathenistic Bile, we’d used the girls’ public washroom to get changed. This time, Robbie had the owner unlock a small shower-room backstage that we could use. The small, tiled room was filthy and stank like burnt hair and old beer, but it was nice to know we’d moved up in the world.

  “I wonder what happened to Heathenistic Bile,” I mused to Fern as we got dressed. I was wearing my white bloody socks and sneakers, and she wore black fishnet tights with black boots, but the matching plaid dresses and blouses looked great. Fern was looking in her compact mirror, applying dark lipstick.

  “Who knows,” she muttered. “Remember how that guy kept going on about how they had all this label interest or whatever? Maybe they’re rich and famous by now.”

  “Oh, I bet.” Muffled through the club walls, we heard a tremendous cheer as Torn Bowel evidently took the stage. I sighed as they launched into their first song. “How cool is it to be back here at this club? Robbie was saying it sold out. Remember there were twenty people here last year?”

  Fern nodded. “I know. And it’s weird having Torn Bowel open for us.” We were quiet for a while, and then she asked carefully, “So what’s going on with you and Jamie?”

  I scoffed. “Nothing. I think he’s just a little confused.”

  “I saw him touching you,” she said, her growl betraying her disgust. “What was up with that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He just got off tour,” she said. “Probably used to girls doing whatever he wants.”

  I considered this. “When we toured with them, they didn’t really hang out with girls after the shows. They always just played video games. I don’t think they’re that type of band.”

  After a few moments, Fern swallowed hard and seemed to calm. “I guess you’re right. I just didn’t like seeing him touching you like that, is all. It just seemed like he was really forward, really arrogant about it.”

  “I think Jamie’s a nice guy.” I stood beside Fern and leaned my head on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. If Jamie had tried anything, I would have smashed his face in. Seriously.”

  “I would’ve been two steps ahead of you,” Fern said.

  FORTY-ONE

  Fern and I joined Socks and Edgar in the main dressing room at the Toe. The same destroyed, filthy couches were there, but we’d chosen to put our bags on them. Socks was drumming on one arm of the couch with his drumsticks, and Fern crouched on the floor to tune her guitar. Edgar squinted, leaning towards my legs.

  “What the fuck is that on your socks?” he asked. “Is that blood?”

  I gazed down at the white knee socks. The rusty brownish smears looked particularly awful in the harsh fluorescent lighting. My left hand clenched instinctively, and I felt the familiar sting of raw flesh on my palm. “Looks real, doesn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Edgar asked, raising his dark eyes to scrutinize my face.

  There was a knock on the door, and Robbie poked his head inside. “Guys — I want you to meet someone.”

  A tall man followed him into the room, and I disliked him on sight. He was probably in his fifties, with a small pointed nose and half-lidded eyes that indicated to me he was drunk, and likely had been for most of his life. His hair stood up in bleached-blond clumps, giving him a sort of aging surfer look. He wore what was clearly an expensive grey suit, but the black shirt underneath was unbuttoned low, to reveal cobwebby white chest hair.

  “This is Tom Manic. He’s the owner of Recordead Records,” Robbie announced.

  “Love your band,” Tom said in a sleepy-sounding voice, holding a hand out towards me. All of us took a turn shaking it. We introduced ourselves. He continued. “Glad to be here tonight. You got a great turnout.”

  “Thanks for coming out,” Socks said. “The show tonight’s going to be great.”

  “Yes,” Tom agreed. His gaze moved to Fern, and then to me. “You know, I’ve never been a fan of girls in bands.”

  My smile froze.

  “Well, look at her!” he laughed to the others, widening his eyes with amusement. “Relax, darling! You’ve proved me wrong. Honestly when I heard that story about you throwing up all over that poor kid, I thought, ‘I have to meet this girl.’”

  For some reason everyone laughed at his comment, so with effort I turned up the sides of my mouth. I understood we were supposed to try to impress this guy, but really. Tom Manic with his pointy weasel nose? Really? This was the guy who owned one of the biggest metal labels? This sleazy-looking moron?

  “It’s nice of you to come all this way,” I said, with some effort.

  “Oh, I
absolutely love coming out to these smaller cities,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s so rare I get the chance to really get into these salt of the earth communities. Los Angeles can be so tiring. And some of the biggest bands really do come from these sort of nowhere cities, you know?”

  We heard the crowd roar as Torn Bowel finished their last song, and then the house music came back up again.

  “We’re up,” Edgar said.

  “Great. Right. Well, break a leg, you know?” Tom chuckled lazily, as though he’d just made a witty comment, and then he gazed at me for a moment. “It’ll be interesting to see the performance. We’ll talk after, right?”

  He left the room, and Robbie trailed him, pausing before he closed the door to wiggle his eyebrows and give us a thumbs-up.

  “He seemed nice,” Socks said.

  “He seemed like a sleazeball,” I said.

  “We can talk about it later,” Edgar said. “Right now, we have a sold-out crowd waiting for us.”

  Socks and Edgar left the room, and Fern picked up her guitar. “Planning anything insane?” she asked.

  I shook my head shortly, following her out into the dark hallway. I didn’t have any idea. I was angry, knowing that everyone and this Tom guy, even Fern, expected something from me.

  xXx

  And nothing happened. Well, no one in the crowd harassed me to the point where I wanted recourse, anyway. When we walked onstage I was shocked to see how many people were there, crowded up against the stage and as far back as I could see. I felt all eyes on me, a feeling that I was starting to enjoy at this point, just a little bit. I also noticed how many girls were in the audience. Girls with their hands up in the air, mouths open in shrieks I couldn’t single out because it seemed like everyone in the room was cheering — and we hadn’t started to play.

  Even if I thought Tom Manic was a douche, my chest swelled with pride that he was witnessing this show. It was impressive. I looked back at Socks, who’d sat down behind the drums and was giving me a giant grin. Edgar on my right stared out across the crowd, thumping his fist on his bass. I looked over at Fern, who had thrown her head forward. Her white hair fell over her face like a wedding veil. Hands reached out towards her from the crowd. She lifted one hand, pointing a delicate finger to the girls in front of her. It was going to be awesome.