Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  Told you so, the little voice in my head said, a bit smugly too, I might add. Well, okay, I’d heard her out. I could even understand how she felt. I mean, I’d feel the same way if someone I’d trusted had, or I thought had, hurt a friend of mine. But that’s not what happened—at least, not as I saw it. I’d just have to explain my side of it or, at least, most of it.

  I was going to leave some stuff out, like where and how I was bruised. I couldn’t really bring myself to talk about it—not here, not now, especially not at this moment, although I knew the information might flip those tables so fast we’d all see double. But that didn’t seem right to me. It seemed sort of, like, I don’t know, hunting for butterflies with atom bombs or something. Besides, somehow, I can’t really explain why, I felt like this was my fault.

  “What exactly is it that you think I did?” I asked in an even tone. If I was going to attempt to be a rational adult, it wouldn’t do me any good to attack in return. Right? Yeah, I thought so, too.

  Jackie straightened up from her position and stepped toward me. “Don’t,” she hissed, “don’t you dare use that prep-school cool on me.” She waved a finger in my face. “Right now, you’re fucking nowhere and no one, and I’ll kick you out of here faster than you can…you can…you can just go fuck yourself if that’s how you’re going to be.”

  I stepped back. Not only do I have absolutely no love for anyone invading/encroaching on my personal space without an invitation, especially when they’re angry and waving their hands (and God help the person who actually makes a move to my head or face), but that icy heat was starting to burn into my face. Right now I still had control of my mouth and my body, but if she got louder, if she fuckin’ so much as touched me in anger, I couldn’t guarantee that I could maintain my cool.

  At that moment, Cap’s door opened, and we both looked as he stepped out, T-shirt and jeans on this time.

  “Okay, if anyone has anything to say about who lives here, it’s me. And right now, all three of us live here,” he said firmly as he approached us. Outside, I heard a car horn blow, and I could tell from the way they cocked their heads that Jackie and Cap heard it, too. Nico must have brought the van around and was waiting for me.

  We stood in that little area in the kitchen, facing each other in a triangle. “Nina, go, have a good time with your brother. I’ve thought of a great space for you to put your guitar in,” Cap told me very calmly, motioning me toward the door. “Jackie,” he addressed her and continued, “lay off. Nina’s one of your best friends. You don’t know what really happened, and you know that Trace, well”—he hunted for the right words—“she’s Trace.”

  What else was there to say about her, anyway? Liar was too strong, because I didn’t know what she’d really said, and drama queen ABC wasn’t exactly right, either. Crazy wouldn’t have been hard to prove. But this wouldn’t have been the right time to find the right adjectives, anyway.

  Jackie and I glared at each other a moment longer. Finally, I’d had it and strode rigidly to the door, then opened it. “I’ll see you guys later,” I tossed back as I slung my bag over my shoulder.

  Running down the stairs, because I didn’t want to keep Nico waiting, I reviewed the “discussion” in my head and thought about different ways I could have handled it. The French have a phrase for it: esprit de l’escalier or, roughly, “spirit of the stairway,” which is what happens when you run down the stairs thinking of different ways you could have done or said something, now that you had a moment to think about it. That’s what I had, stairway spirit, I thought as I passed the landing that held Trace’s door.

  Not that I could think of anything else to have said or done, really. I guess I could have just interrupted Jackie and, using sheer volume, explained my side of the story, but that just wasn’t my style.

  I could still hear Cap and Jackie upstairs. “You never stop to think, Jackie,” Cap growled. “You forget, I know Trace better than you do.” Jackie’s reply faded as I got to the bottom.

  Nico peered anxiously out the passenger side window of the hulking gray behemoth that was his pride and joy, a gunmetal gray conversion van converted from utility to mini rec room, complete with pullout sofalike thing in the back (and a box of assorted toys—footballs, Frisbees, baseball gloves, swim fins—stuff like that, as well as towels and Tshirts), a little porta-potty in its own privacy cupboard, and sink with assorted car-type parts and tools that might one day prove useful beneath it.

  “You okay?” he asked as I strode over to the door and jumped in.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I breathed out as I buckled myself in. I rooted around in my bag for my pack of cigarettes, found one, then lit it, the first for the day.

  Nico nodded his head in understanding and pulled away from the curb as I blew smoke out the window. I let my thoughts drift with it as we drove in silence.

  Nico respected my need for head space, and soon I was able to recapture my “good morning” mood. I would have time to let the back of my mind work toward solutions. Besides, my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I needed food, and, really, who can think if they’re hungry?

  “So,” I asked conversationally, “we still going to Jerry’s? Cause if we are, you’re headed the wrong way,” I informed him as we went in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, yeah,” Nico grinned at me, “we can still do that.” He sighted down the street for a likely turning block and set a signal.

  As we drove, sunlight flashing on the sidewalk through the trees, it occurred to me that it was July, after all, and though the summer felt endless, we didn’t have all that many sunny and free days left. Soon enough I would have to wait in line for registration, buy books, and juggle classes and work schedules, and Nico would be off with his trunk packed with new undershorts and linens to his own schooling. Fuck it. I don’t like to waste rare, beautiful days. We could go to Jerry’s some other time, when it was raining. Now was now. Even if I didn’t swim, I could still roll my jeans up, and Nico most likely had a couple of spare shorts in the back of the vehicle somewhere. And they were probably mine. Besides, I could pay off and pick up my guitar after the sun went down.

  “You know, we could just grab some bagels and chocolate milk and go to the beach,” I suggested. “Whatchya say?” I grinned at him.

  “Shit, yeah, the beach,” he responded, his eyes shining brightly at me for a moment before he had to return his attention to the road.

  “Sun and sand, here we come,” I sang out, visions of the surf crashing against the shore filling my head, and the taste of an egg bagel with a little mustard and Muenster cheese followed by a Nestle Quik chocolate milk to wash it down filling my mouth. I was there already.

  Sexy Eiffel Towers

  Let me tell you something darling,

  You’re doing fine…

  Now you’ve shown me all of yours I’ll let you into mine

  But me, I like a pretty boy, I love a hard-edged girl

  “For The Love of Boyz’n Grrlz”—Life Underwater

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Trace and I didn’t speak for days, but it wasn’t as if we had a chance. Between Cap’s and Jackie’s schedules, combined with mine as well as Trace’s, it was a wonder any of us ever got to see each other. And I honestly wasn’t trying too hard.

  I did see Candace, though—the next week, in fact. Totally sober and with the door safely locked, headset tight over one ear and off the other so I could hear the sound in the room, I grooved in the skybox, eyes closed and feeling fine, swaying along with this phenom beat I’d discovered a few days ago. A voice with the loveliest hint of a British accent floated up to me.

  “Hey, lovely DJ. Do you take requests?”

  I slipped my headphones down around my neck and opened my eyes to see Candace’s smiling face.

  “Maybe,” I played. “It depends on what you have in mind.”

  “I’m thinking…French,” Candace replied, her even white teeth sparking up at me.

  “Ah, too bad.�
� I shook my head with mock regret, pretending I didn’t know what she meant. “I can’t read minds in French.”

  “Colonist!” Candace smirked back at me. “Can you even speak anything other than that fractured language you borrowed from us?”

  “Hey, I take offense at that.” I scowled good-naturedly. “My grandparents are from South America, and I happen to be fluent in Spanish,” I told her, which happens to be true. “And don’t forget, this is Staten Island. I can speak and read a little Italian as well,” which was also true. And in that part of New York? Occasionally necessary.

  “Well, that explains quite a bit, then,” Candace said as she reappraised me.

  “How about you—imperialist?” I asked her, half joking, half challenging. I mean, yes, as Americans, many of us have natural ties to Europe, with its grand culture and history. On the other hand, we invented the steam engine, the car, the Internet, and rock and roll, not to mention a few other things. Besides, other countries and continents had lent us their best people, too, and though I liked Candace, I wasn’t going to deal with any my-country-is-better-than-your-country bullshit. Even if that might have been true at different times in history, past and future.

  “I give, I give!” Candace held her hands up in mock surrender. “Now forgive me and let me take you to dinner, ma cheri.” She smiled charmingly.

  “Oh?” I asked, intrigued despite my attempt at distance—her pronunciation was excellent. What can I say? I have a thing for sound.

  “It’s a little place I’ve discovered in the East Village called Port Marseille. I’m so full sure you’ll love it!”

  I couldn’t. I had to work, I had guitar practice, and I certainly didn’t want to get involved past, further, or more than what had already happened—and I hadn’t even really intended for that. Well, at least not in that way, anyhow. Friends. I wanted to be friends, and that meant no dates. What Candace suggested sounded more than vaguely like the latter as opposed to the former, but as I tried to form an answer that wouldn’t sound offensive or hurtful, Candace’s face wore an expression of such obvious sincere affection that I had difficulty thinking.

  “My schedule’s really tight,” I replied instead. “When where you thinking of—”

  Candace must have noticed some of my internal struggle. She interrupted me with a wave of the hand and reached through the request window. “No ABC pressure, Nina.” She patted my hand. “Whenever you’d like.”

  Cool. Okay then. “Okay,” I answered slowly. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Hmph,” she answered and took her hand back, then smiled, a Mona Lisa smile that could have meant nothing, that could have meant anything, and somewhere in my head, it made me want to crawl, crawl behind it and discover more. “I’ll see you later,” and with that, she melted back into the crowd.

  She wasn’t wearing her usual blue, I noticed before she disappeared from view; the body-skimming one-piece Candace had on this night was black.

  I returned to my board and slipped my headphones back up on my ears. Hmm…

  Setting my faders for the next mix, I grabbed the microphone, waiting for my moment. “Oh, yeah,” I encouraged the crowd. “It’s time to set the night on fire!” I began to bring up the next tune into the current one, a heavier beat mixing well with the tail of the one still playing.

  “Scorched-earth mix,” I announced, and brought the song in fully as I faded the other out completely, sending the custom compilation flying through the room where the people cheered in anticipation. I set the lights to pattern reds through yellows, with occasional flashes of blue thrown in for dramatic relief.

  After dancing along for a bit, I assessed my selections for the night. My set was in good order, and as long as there were no changes, the music would cycle through moods—from earthy hip to fiery house and on to airy techno, finally ending with liquid trance. Hmm…

  I dug under the shelf for a pen and piece of paper, then leaned over by the small work light to scribble down the settings for the light shows per segment. Done, I reviewed my work. It was solid, a nice piece of musical experience, even if I did say so myself.

  I reached for the microphone.

  “Duh Darrel, come to the sky. Duh Duh Darrel, come to the sky,” I singsonged to and through the beat, searching for Darrel’s bobbing Mohawk among the dancers. Of course he’d be around. Don’t ask me why, but for whatever reason, when you work in a club, you tend to hang out there on your time off. Of course, we used to say that the Red Spot wasn’t just a place, but a way of life. You know what? It really was.

  “Duh Duh Darrel, come to the sky. Duh Duh Darrel, come to the sky,” echoed the crowd, thinking it was part of the performance. Well, it was in a way.

  I finally spotted him on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall chatting with one of the many pretty young women who frequented the place. Catching his attention, I waved him over.

  “What’s up?” he asked when he reached the request window.

  “Come in,” I said, then walked over and unlocked the door.

  “Hey! What’s up?” he repeated, this time a bit more seriously as he mounted the steps.

  I got right to the point. “I need you to take over for me,” I explained as I returned to the mixing board. I visually checked the faders and knobs, just ensuring everything was where it had to be, then grabbed my list and handed it to him. “Here, everything’s already set and in order.” I pointed to the stack of discs. “And here are all the lighting switches and their cues.”

  Darrel studied the paper a moment. “Nice, Nina. Nice music, nice setup.” He pursed his lips and nodded with what I could swear might have been honest admiration. It was definitely approval, at the very least.

  Fuck nice, it was good, really fucking good, and I knew it. And it was good to have someone else, someone that did the same work too, I mean, think so.

  “So, why you leavin’? You all right?”

  “I’m okay.” I smiled widely because I knew why I was okay, and why I was leaving, and he didn’t. “Just something I really gotta do.”

  I searched through the Plexi window among the throng. Where was she? Not this corner, not that one. My eyes continued to roam. Ah, there. She was harder to pick out among the crowd now that she wasn’t wearing her trademark blue.

  “Oh,” Darrel drawled. “I got it. You mean someone.”

  “Huh?”

  Darrel gave me a knowing smirk. “It’s not something you have to do,” he explained, “it’s someone.” He snorted.

  “Shut the fuck up.” I backhanded him none too gently on his well-defined ribs, though I grinned while I hit him. If I didn’t mention it before, let me say it now: Darrel was quite the hottie. From his blue Mohawk and silver-blue eyes, to his sharply drawn cheeks and delicate mouth, down his wide shoulders and well-defined upper body—which no one could miss, since he usually wore either very loose or very tight tank tops—Darrel was beautiful. And he knew it.

  “Abuse! Abuse! The DJ’s trying to kill me!” Darrel joked, clutching his side as if he’d been dealt a mortal wound.

  I rolled my eyes at his antics, but I couldn’t help smiling. For Mr. Stud Muffin, he could be such a goof, and he reminded me in a good way of Nico.

  “C’mon, man, will you do it?” I repeated, once his agonies had abated. He scoured the crowd, to see for himself again who it was.

  “Nina,” he asked slowly, “is that Blue?”

  “Candace,” I corrected without thinking.

  “Candace? Candace? As in I-want-a-piece-of-candy Candace?” His voice rose as his eyebrows climbed higher—I thought they might disappear into his Mohawk. With surprising speed Darrel whirled and seized my shoulders. “Nina, you must go. For the honor of the order of hot DJs everywhere, of which we are but a humble two,” and I snorted with self-derision as he gave me a little grin, “you must go.”

  “So, you’ll cover for me?” I asked again, torn between impatience and amusement. I lightly knocked his hand off my should
er, and he removed the other without assistance.

  “She’s fucking hot—ah!” He clapped his hands to his face.

  “Great. Thanks.” I grabbed my jacket from the bench. Black, of course, and leather, too. Highway-patrol style. It was late summer, after all, and as scorching as the days were, the nights were starting to cool a bit after midnight. I slid it over my shoulders as I jumped down the stairs, then grabbed for the doorknob.

  “Thanks again, Darrel,” I called back to him. “Thanks for covering for me—see you tomorrow.”

  I was on a mission, and I probably said hello to everyone in the club and on the dance floor before I finally found Candace in the ladies’ room, checking her hair in the mirror.

  “Hey there!” I greeted her reflection as I slid into the spot next to her and put an arm lightly around her waist. “Let’s go.”

  She dropped her hands from her hair and faced me, and I kept my hand on her waist.

  “Now?” she asked, while the shine of her eyes and the delicious curve that grew along her lips told me I’d made the right decision. “You mean, right now?”

  Mmm. Her tones and accent were so alluring that as her hands fluttered up to play with my collar, I felt a desperate need to just forget about everything—dinner, whatever—and take her home, if we made it that far. Darrel was right—she was so fucking hot—but I didn’t really need him to tell me that. I already knew it.

  I didn’t give in to that feeling, that pull on my blood, completely, though. Instead, I let it show in my voice as I leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “Well,” I drawled, blowing softly behind her ear, “I do recall you were thinking in French.” I nuzzled her neck, gently pulling at the skin with my lips.

  “That’s nice.” Candace exhaled and arched her throat toward me. “I thought you couldn’t read minds,” she said as she twined her arms around my neck. I placed light kisses along that center column, until she shifted slightly to lay butterfly kisses in the hollow above my collarbone.