Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  In short it was perfect, and except for the excited sparkle in his eyes, Nico and I managed to contain our excitement while I worked out the rent details with the landlord, Mr. Rabbitz—the place would cost less than the space with my roommates.

  I handed over the money and got my keys.

  “Where to now?” Nico asked as we got into the van.

  I had lots to do and lots to think about, but first— “Let’s make a quick stop at the hardware store?”

  “Done, chief.” Nico smiled at me. ABC “Dude, you’ve got some beautiful space in there. What are you going to do with all that room? And did you check out that incredible light?”

  “Oh, yeah! I think I’m gonna…” and we discussed the possibilities on the way to the store.

  “This is for you,” I told him as we settled back into the van, “’cause if my mama is your mama, then mi casa es su casa.” I handed him a copy of my new key on a red carabiner key chain.

  Nico’s eyes went wide with surprise, then he grinned. “I’m so glad your mama is my mama. Sperm to worm?”

  “You know it. Womb to tomb, bro, womb to tomb.”

  I celebrated my twenty-first birthday by taking a single trip with Nico’s van to get all of my stuff—clothing, books, and instruments—and another trip to Jerry’s Pancake Place for fuel and to beg for a bunch of old milk crates. Sunlight streamed in on two sides of my room most of the day, and, using crates for book shelves, I had two completely separate areas—one for my bed, the first one I’d ever bought. It might have been cheap, but it was new, clean, and mine, all mine.

  I kept my guitar in a stand right next to it, while a trunk at the foot of it held my notebooks, my letters, everything important to me, such as postcards from Samantha before we’d lost touch, my yearbooks, things like that.

  The rest of the area, separated by a bookcase I’d created out of the milk crates, housed my equipment and my art supplies, while a nice-sized closet contained all of my clothes.

  Mr. Rabbitz, an older bachelor, shared the house with his nephew. At one point, the house had been a funeral parlor, so it had two kitchens, living rooms, libraries, one on top of the other, with a small barn in the back that had been converted into a garage with a loft on top. While both my “room” (which was on the second floor and directly above the library) and the loft were big enough to have the entire band over with equipment for practice, the loft over the barn was almost four times the size and would make a great complete living space. It needed fixing up, but as soon as I had the cash, I was going to inquire about maybe renting that part and doing the repairs. Hey, I’m a lesbian—I know how to use a hammer!

  But since Christmas had come and gone a bare month before, my cash supply was a little lower than I normally liked. I’d started working a new job right before the holidays, because I really needed to just get away from Staten Island and the whole gang. Yeah, I maintained my DJing status most Friday and Saturday nights at the Red Spot, but I was getting sick of the whole scene and trying to slow it down. However, the more coldly polite I got, the more persistent everyone became.

  I got offers to do private parties, including a few great gigs at NYU’s legendary Fiji House, with their very well-deserved and many-times-over earned reputation as the all-time best-time party house around—when a Fiji party gets louder than it ought, the mayor knocks on the door in his bathrobe.

  Stephie and Jerkster came with me to one of them so we could throw in a little “unplugged” performance—test the water, so to speak. After, we decided to grab a bite and walk around the Village, to enjoy the twenty-four-hour surround-sound scene.

  Buddies that they were, they figured it was time I saw a gay bar that wasn’t the depressing dive on Staten Island. Oh, hell, maybe what I needed now was to be more heavily involved in gay culture or—more specifically—lesbian culture.

  The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Maybe part of the problem was that I was inundated with straight messages, on every level. Besides, part of my new rule was “Don’t mess with straight chicks.” Yeah, they seemed to like me, but they were nuts (um, Trace, remember?).

  Anyhow, I’d walked into the bar with the band, had a cranberry and orange drink (I’d already had some alcohol—I didn’t want to get wasted, at all), and looked around. Crowded—and way after midnight, too. One bartender in the front. One bar and bartender in the back. One bouncer by the door. No waitress—anywhere. They needed help, in my humble opinion. Hmm…

  The bouncer was a big, and I mean big, woman. She was at least 5' intimidating 10". The arms crossed against her chest, spiky haircut, and the set, straight line of her mouth didn’t do anything to add warmth to her, and the scowl she wore as I approached wasn’t encouraging, but hey, what the hell, right?

  “Hi there, I’m Nina,” I said, and held out my hand with a smile, “and you are?”

  Her scowl deepened and her arms flexed before she uncrossed them to shake my hand. “Jen,” she growled at me finally. “Whattayawant?”

  “Nice to meet you, Jen.” I smiled even wider as I shook her hand. Okay, this wasn’t someone who believed in social niceties. I took a breath. Straight to the point, then.

  “You guys are really busy tonight,” I observed, and Jen glanced around the bar before nodding in agreement. “Looks like you can use some help.”

  Jen squinted at me, a survey that went from my hair to my boots and back again. “Yeah, and…?” she asked helpfully, and crossed her arms over her chest again.

  “I can help,” I stated simply and shrugged nonchalantly. All right, I’d put it out there; guess I’d see, right?

  The worst that could happen was nothing, and since nothing happens without anyone’s help anyway, I’d wouldn’t lose anything—unless that deepening groove between Jen’s brows meant she was getting ready to toss me through the window. I’d deal with that too, if it came to it, but she’d have to catch me first—and I hadn’t been caught yet.

  Still, I watched her face as I waited for an answer. Man, if those eyebrows came any closer, they were gonna stay that way forever, I thought as I calmly met and withstood Jen’s glare.

  Finally, she nodded. “You,” she pointed at me, “wait here.” She craned her head around to shout over the people sitting at the bar. “Hey! Dee! C’mere a sec!” Jen crossed her arms still again and favored me with her grim expression. “Let’s see what the manager says.”

  Steph and Jerkster had stepped away from the bar, and I mouthed “dunno” and shrugged at them while we waited in silence. When Jen narrowed her beady focus on Jerkster, I could swear I heard him yipe.

  “I’m, uh, gonna find a bathroom, uh, yeah, gotta go,” he muttered behind me, then slipped and squeezed away through the press.

  “Chicken!” Steph hissed at his retreating form. I glanced over at Steph, and we grinned at each other for a moment before Steph looked suddenly stricken.

  “Ah shit!” she exclaimed in an undertone, peering after the trail Jerkster had left behind.

  “What?” I asked in a stage whisper. The Lady Grim was still staring at us, after all.

  Steph leaned over to whisper in my ear. “He’s got the bottle!”

  “Shit!” I exclaimed in a low tone. Shit was right. Drinks were a little pricey there, so we’d snuck in a bottle of plum wine (what can I say, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine—and it was a gift from the head of Fiji House), and after buying a beer apiece and drinking it, we’d take turns going into the bathroom and filling the beer bottles with wine—well, at least before I’d switched to “just juice.”

  I’d never done anything like that before, but Steph and Jerkster had, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Okay, I’d let Steph drink my beer and gone straight for the wine; I’m just not a beer fan, well, except for the occasional Guinness. Besides, I wasn’t worried about germs—alcohol killed them.

  But still, there were two things wrong with this scenario. First, if we got caught, we were out of there. Second, since Jerkster had t
he bottle, it could end up empty, he would end up stupid, and we would end up caught. This would end any chance I had of ever coming here again, forget about getting a job. Oh, and a drunk Jerkster was very difficult to guide; he was heavy!

  “Go get him!” I hissed, hoping that Granite Sides wouldn’t hear us over the din. Judging from what I could see of her personality, I figured she’d think we were just two stupid kids having an argument.

  “I’m on it!” Stephie agreed, and off she elbowed through the crowd.

  Jen’s eyebrows touched as she watched me, and I answered her gaze nonchalantly, standing as comfortably as I could.

  For a moment, I felt like I was back in high school with all those nuns and tried to mentally picture Jen in a habit. I shook my head. Nope, didn’t work for me; those muscles would never fit through the sleeves. And she didn’t scare me—not the way the nuns did, anyway. They’d had a direct connection to God; all Jen had was that scowl. And her size. And those arms. Okay, so she was scary. Never mind.

  Finally through the madding crowd eased a figure I thought at first I recognized; then, two seconds later, I did.

  “Liebchen!” exclaimed Dee Dee, waving her ever-present bar rag before tucking it into her waistband so she could scoop me up into an embrace and kiss each side of my face. “Where have you been?”

  I returned Dee Dee’s greeting with a hug and a quick kiss of my own, very glad to see her. She’d left the Red Spot a while before I did, which was part of what made the job not so fun anymore; she was not only cool, but also the only other female who’d worked there who wasn’t a waitress.

  I attempted to explain over her repeated exclamations.

  “Ah, Dee, this girl,” and Jen said it with such disdain I wondered for a second what I’d done to piss her off, “here wants to know if—” Jen continued officiously, but Dee Dee waved her off, put an arm around my shoulders, and faced her.

  “No, no, Jen, this gorgeous creature is none other than Nina the DJ. Und she can have whatever she likes. What would you like, Nina?” Dee Dee asked. “I am not just bierwert—barkeeper—here, I am the manager!” She beamed at me, her eyes sparkling. I guess it had been longer than I thought since we’d spoken, because her accent hit my ears freshly and made me smile. She’d been like that at the Red Spot—the happier she was, the stronger her accent. Cool.

  “Hey, that’s great! That’s truly terrific!” I congratulated because I truly meant it. I took a breath. Might as well just get to it.

  “I was really wondering if—” I began, but Ham Hands interrupted me.

  “The kid wants a job, Dee Dee,” she told her in a loud, bored voice. She focused her attention narrowly on me and said, “Hey, are you even old enough to be here? Let me see your ID.”

  I reached for my jacket pocket, but Dee Dee placed a restraining hand on mine. I had only recently reached legal majority, but no one at the Red Spot, or any other place I hung out or worked, had cared—or even noticed.

  “Now, Jen, that’s not necessary,” Dee Dee scolded. “I haf told you, this is DJ Nina. We worked together. But I’m sorry, Nina,” she said with true regret, “we don’t have a cabaret license, und so a DJ is ABC not possible at this time.” She put a warm hand on my shoulder, and her voice went from regret to concern.

  “But are you okay? Do you need any help, can I gif you some money or anything?” she asked me, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out quite a cash stash.

  “No, no, I’m fine. I don’t need any money,” I said, embarrassed, waving her hands away, “but it looks like you could use a waitress. What do you say?”

  Dee Dee grinned at me. “You were always a smart girl, Nina. Smart and proud. With that face, you’ll make great tips!” she enthused, and pinched my cheek. “Done, then! Und when it’s quiet, you’ll work with me on the bar—I’ll teach you everything I know!” she announced, and promptly hugged me again.

  “Oh, Nina, we’ll have such fun working together, I know it!” she said, and impetuously crushed me to her. I murmured some sort of agreement; I don’t know what because I couldn’t breathe. Finally she released me and cast her eyes on Jen while I surreptitiously restarted my deflated lungs and fixed my hair. As far as I could tell, they were still functional.

  “You’ll get the paperwork, Jen,” she asked her, “and introduce Nina around? Nina,” she said, “come tomorrow afternoon at four, and we’ll start from there, okay?” She stroked my shoulder and I nodded in agreement.

  “That’s great, thanks,” I answered, and could feel my smile stretch so wide my face hurt. Cool. A steady job that got me off Staten Island and away from everyone I didn’t want to deal with anymore. DJing was great, but I didn’t want to rely on it as my only source of income, and, as much fun as it could be, I was starting to get frustrated, too. I wanted to focus on my music, not someone else’s.

  “No, no, no thanks for me, liebchen. You’ll be doing me a favor,” she smiled, “und now I’ve got to get back to all those thirsty women!” She pinched my cheek. “Tomorrow, liebchen. For now, I leave you in Jen’s capable hands, no?” she asked, looking at Jen.

  “Of course,” Jen answered stonily.

  As soon as Dee Dee left, Jen rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she’d just been asked to scrub a prison bathroom with her toothbrush, again. “C’mon, kid,” she said in that same you’re-buggin’-me tone, “let me take you ’round.” She gestured and I followed.

  She was able to walk me through the bar rather quickly, since her size made a nice-sized path. “And don’t think your friends can drink for free,” she warned me as we passed Jerkster and Stephie, who waved. I smiled back and gave them the thumbs-up from behind the Iron Giant’s back.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, of course not,” I answered as her glare fell on me again. Apparently I hadn’t answered quickly enough. Mollified, she continued the tour, including the basement, where all the kegs for the bar taps were. It was a crawl space accessible from outside the building, and ABC Page 104while I had to walk bent over, Jen was bent almost double.

  I tried very hard not to laugh—I didn’t want to have to deal with that glare again—and I was pretty certain I’d see it again soon. I have to admit, I wasn’t wrong.

  After the tour, Jen asked me to show up the next afternoon at two so we could do all the paperwork, and with no “good-bye,” not even a “see ya,” she steadfastly ignored me the rest of the night. I made sure to find and thank Dee Dee before we left, though, and also made sure to get phone numbers: the bar, her home, and her cell. Hey, you never know when something might happen, right? I just wanted to be prepared.

  Jerkster fell asleep as Stephie and I made plans on the ferry ride back to the rock we called home.

  “Oh, hey, want to come back to my place or we going to yours?” she asked. “We still going over that stuff?”

  She was referring to our upcoming gig. Our upcoming first gig as a full band—ever. But man! It had been hard to book even a crappy night with a crappier time slot. It took two weeks of phone calls just to find out there was a twelve-week wait for an available slot, then another two weeks of trying to get in touch with an actual person in charge to get scheduled into the twelve-week wait. The good, no, the best thing about it? We were in. But that was also the scary part, too, so we needed to use our time wisely. We’d planned to just hang out tonight, then go back to one of our places and work out the rest of our set and rehearsal schedule, and the three of us were supposed to be there—the drummer we were working with had already promised to work with whatever schedule we came up with.

  But even if Jerkster was there physically—and that looked doubtful, given that we couldn’t budge him—he was too drunk to be any good. Still, we had work to do. Stephie and I could figure it out. We usually handled all the scheduling anyway.

  “Uh, your place, it’s closer,” I decided.

  “Cool, then. I’ve got Fudgesicles.”

  “Awesome,” I smiled, “and I know an all-night pizza joint—my treat.” />
  We walked off the boat together, leaving Jerkster to sleep it off. He’d show up at Stephie’s house later—that’s where he always went.

  After a meal of pizza and frozen chocolate-flavored chemicals, Stephie and I mapped out all the details for our next few rehearsals, the songs for the show, and how we’d meet up to get there. This was CBGB, which was a big deal for us. The fact that the place was so famous made it intimidating, but the fact that we were the last act on a Sunday let us know our place in the pecking order—nowhere.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Faith

  I never thought it’d be so hard now just to crawl

  But it’s the thing that keeps me from the fire

  And I can’t stop now because I know how far I’ll fall

  I’m hand-over-hand on a thin red wire

  “Sensation”—Life Underwater

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  In between rehearsals and sleep, I worked. And worked. When Dee Dee wasn’t there, Jen constantly picked on me.

  “Hey, kid, go across the street to the White Horse Tavern and get ice—here’s your bucket,” and she’d hand me a five-gallon bucket and smirk. Or “Hey, bar’s backed up—grab two cases of beer from storage,” referring to the crawl space under the bar.

  What she didn’t know was that when I used to bar back for extra money at the Red Spot, I’d handled ten-gallon buckets, and the boys and I would race to unpack the beer, carrying four cases at a time. So it was my time to smirk to myself when I saw her or Grace, the other bartender, sweating and straining while they carried two. Hell, compared to my labor at the Red Spot, this was a vacation. Well, except for Jen. What a bitch. And what was with the “kid” thing, anyway?