Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

“Experimenting?” Samantha supplied, quirking her eyebrow at me.

  “Something like that,” I agreed. “It wasn’t, it wasn’t anything like…” Like you, I’d been about to say, but stopped myself—that was way too dangerous territory to step into.

  Samantha chuckled. “Yeah, me and Fran, we were kinda like that, too.”

  How had we gotten closer? There had been at least a foot between us, and now I could see every detail of her lashes, the light freckles that sprinkled across her nose. I breathed in her air, and the hand that had been on her shoulder was now on her hip, while hers curved around to my lower back.

  She moved it to my head again, gently stroking the long strands that ABC fell over my cheek behind my ear. “I think you got further with her than I ever did.” She sighed, and the sound was wistful.

  We were face-to-face now, staring directly into each other’s eyes, and the dark fullness of hers threatened to pull me in.

  “Kerry or Fran?” I asked quietly. There was no mistaking the light press of her thigh against mine. We were simply falling into each other.

  “Both,” Samantha answered succinctly, her lips a whisper away from mine.

  Oh. I hadn’t known that, about her and Fran, I mean. I tucked that into the back of my mind to think about later.

  “Oh,” I whispered back. Wait a minute, did that mean…?

  “You two never…?” I asked Samantha as I wrapped my arms around her and let her throw her leg over me when I tucked my head under hers.

  “Didn’t you and Fran ever talk about this?” she countered quietly.

  I sighed. No. We never had. Maybe we should have. “No…” I answered, uncertain how to explain.

  “You don’t, um, talk much?” she inquired tentatively.

  “You’re not answering my question, Sammy.” I grinned at her sleepily. I knew what she was asking, but that really wasn’t any of her business.

  “Not…not like you two,” she said quietly, her eyes throwing obsidian sparks at me in the half-light of my room. She waited a beat. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Oh. Oh yeah. “We never talked about you,” I admitted quietly. “After I found out about Candace, well, I figured, you know, you knew how to find me. And I’ve never wanted Fran to think…” I hesitated.

  Jesus Christ. An icy chill bolted through my stomach. I disentangled myself from our embrace and sat up, running my hands through my hair. Shit. I had a bad feeling about this.

  Samantha sat up with me. “Think what?” she asked with soft concern and laid a hand on my shoulder.

  I took a deep breath and ordered my thoughts. “That I was with her because of you,” I said breathlessly, shocked at the realization, shocked even more that I’d said it aloud in front of the one person I probably shouldn’t have. Too late to take it back, though.

  That’s when the phone rang, the unexpected sound startling me so much ABC that I jumped.

  I reached behind me and grabbed it off my amplifier. “Nina,” I answered.

  “Hey, Nina!” Ronnie’s voice, sounding way too wide awake, cut through the speaker. “You guys serious about touring?”

  “Yeah, sure, we’re interested.” Even half asleep, I knew it wouldn’t do us any good to appear overeager. “Who’s sponsoring it?” Thank God my brain still worked without me. I didn’t remember consciously thinking that.

  “Uh, not sure,” Ronnie answered, “let me get back to you on that.”

  “Cool, no problem.”

  “Cool. I’ll call you back. Later!” and he clicked off.

  I stared at the phone a moment, then put it back in its place so I could lie back down. “Sleep, Sammy,” I told her as our bodies settled around one another, “I’m exhausted.”

  “Okay, love, okay.” She kissed my forehead and lay back down, while I closed my eyes surrounded by the sense of home.

  I was comfortably numb, dreaming about the gig, and I barely heard the insistent jangle of the phone break through the deep warmth of sleep. My arms felt like lead as I automatically reached to answer.

  “Nina,” I answered in a sleep-thick voice.

  “Hey, baby, how was it?”

  “Hey yourself!” I greeted, glad to hear her voice. I got out of bed and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind me. I didn’t want to keep Samantha up, and I really wanted to talk with Fran—I’d missed her.

  “So…how’d it go?” she asked, her voice warm across the wires. “You knock ’em dead?”

  “I don’t know about that but,” I answered excitedly, “I just got called for a new gig. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. Oh, and hey—Samantha showed up after the gig. Crazy, right? She’s sleeping. I miss you—when are you coming back?”

  “I, uh, I don’t know, but it seems like you’re in good hands.”

  “Fran—what are you talking about?”

  She didn’t answer. “Where are you staying?” she asked instead.

  “My place,” I answered truthfully. Where was she going with this?

  “You took her home with you,” she commented mildly. “She probably landed today and you took her home with you.”

  Dammit. That’s not what it was. “Fran…it wasn’t…I mean, she showed up right after the gig at CB’s. I couldn’t just, you know? I mean, I wasn’t—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

  I had to get her to understand that nothing had happened, nothing was going to happen—no matter what this thing was, it was her and I, wasn’t it? “Fran, there’s nothing going on, you and I—”

  “You need to figure this one out—I can’t help you,” she interrupted again. She sounded remarkably even and calm, except for that little shake at the back of her voice. She wasn’t doing this, she couldn’t be doing this. I had to let her know something, anything, to make that sound in her words stop.

  Every thought, every feeling I’d had about Samantha evaporated in the face of the pain I could hear in Fran’s voice. I wasn’t going to lose her. I knew, or at least I thought I knew, that the part of me that reacted to Samantha was just a hero-worshipping, infatuation-struck kid, but what I felt for Fran was the result of something different, something with a solid basis. And hey, if that sounds a little too much like the logic I used with myself the first night Fran and I made love, well, I was upset. “God, you know I love you…” I told her, desperate to get through to her.

  “You’ve never said that before.”

  Ah, she was crying now, and I cursed myself miserably. She was right, I hadn’t, because they were just words, and words could be so empty, so meaningless. But I had shown how I felt, hadn’t I? Don’t actions speak louder than words, and hadn’t I spoken those words in so many different ways?

  “Please believe me, Fran—I wouldn’t—I didn’t…I would never do anything to hurt you,” I said finally.

  “Ah, Nina, Razor Nina…I know where this is going to go—the two of you?” she asked through her tears. “Come on…you have to know what’s going to happen.” She took a shaky breath that cut right through me. “I’m glad we had our time. I’m glad I’ve helped you find each other again.”

  My heart pounded and I could hardly breathe. No. This was not going to happen. “Kitt, baby, please, come home, just please,” I begged, “this will all be fine, I swear.”

  Too late, I remembered the adage the nuns had beaten into our heads—it wasn’t enough to be good, you had to look good, too. I shouldn’t have asked Samantha to come back with me. I hadn’t been thinking about anything other than the gig, and I’d been so surprised. Maybe I could buy Samantha a plane ticket back to England or to wherever it was she wanted to go.

  “I’m stuck here,” she said, and for the first time, a slight bitterness crept into her voice, “and by the time I get there—Nina, it’s already too late.”

  It was the finality in her voice that broke me. I started to cry. “It’s not, it won’t be, I swear, baby, it’s not!” I sobbed. I’d fix this, we could fix this—what
ever it took, and I meant it: anything, everything.

  I could still hear her crying softly. “I’ll call you when I get home. We’ll talk then.”

  “Can’t I pick you up from the airport?” I had to see her, to convince her.

  “I need time—and you need to know once and for all,” she told me firmly, evidently resolved despite her tears.

  “Baby, you’re wrong. I know everything I need to know,” I insisted, “and I know who I’m with.”

  “The sad thing, Nina?” Fran said, “is that I know you mean that, that you’d give up your chance to finally find out what everyone else has known about the two of you forever—you match, Nina, you fit. God, the look on your face when she was on the phone! Your heart was never mine, Nina.”

  Maybe she was right, but I knew she couldn’t be—my Fran, my Kitt, she was so deeply a part of me that it made words like “love” and “close” sound so trite when I tried to describe even to myself what we had. Didn’t she know? I had given her everything, absolutely everything I had in me to give—what else was there? “I’d give you my blood, baby, I’d die for you—”

  “I know what you’ve given me,” she said quietly, “I’ll always treasure that. But,” and I heard her take a breath, “I’m not the one you’ll live for.”

  This was ridiculous. This was insane, this was just plain-out wrong—there had to be a way through it. In person—if we were face-to-face. I knew if she saw me we would be okay. “Where are you in California? I’ll come to you. I’ll fly out as soon as I can get a flight,” I swore, mentally reviewing airports and airlines. “Just tell me where you are.”

  She sighed, but didn’t answer. “Where’s Ann?” she asked instead.

  “She’s sleeping. I’m out in the hallway because I wanted to talk with you. Come on, Kitt baby, where are you? You back in LA?” I hazarded.

  She exhaled slowly, and when she spoke, she didn’t answer my question, and she no longer spoke with tears. Her voice was angry and resigned. “Trust me, Nina, she’s not sleeping. In two seconds, she’ll step out, put her arms around you, and these past months will be a beautiful memory. Then? She’ll fuck you, then fuck you over.”

  She hung up on me.

  Stunned, wounded beyond belief, I sat on the floor and dropped the phone, buried my face in my hands, and wept. When Samantha came out of the room, crouched down, and silently put her arms around me, I cried even harder.

  “Okay, let it out, baby, it’s okay,” she crooned softly, “it’ll work out.” She kissed the top of my head.

  “No, it won’t,” I told her, gasping, choking through the ragged tear that had split me wide open, “and it’s my fault.” But a part of my mind didn’t agree at all. I’d given Fran everything I had and then some. And it hadn’t mattered what I had felt for Samantha—I had honored what Fran and I shared, hadn’t I?

  “Francesca?” Samantha asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” I nodded, wiping my face, “yeah.”

  “She’s mad…because I’m here?” Samantha asked slowly.

  “She’s upset because you’re here,” I corrected, indicating my place.

  “But…nothing happened,” Samantha said. “I mean—there wasn’t…”

  Something in me snapped. The memory of Trace rose in my mind and I remembered, I remembered everything she’d made me feel, everything I’d let her put me through—and I had let her do it. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, while a combined burst of anger and shame coiled through me. Fuck. It was icy.

  I adored Fran, but I wouldn’t do that to myself again, not for anyone, not ever again. Trace had made me feel like nothing; I wasn’t going to let Fran do that to me. I wasn’t ever going to be that weak again. I picked up my phone from the floor, dried my eyes, and wiggled out of Samantha’s embrace. I can’t really explain what had happened, but a different person stood than had sat there crying.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I stated flatly. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation hit me and I smiled, a twist to my face that hurt. “She dumped me,” I laughed humorlessly, “she told me you’d fuck me over, and she dumped me.”

  Even in the gloomy darkness of the hallway, I could see Samantha’s astonishment.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “About which? The dumping me or the fucking me over?” I asked as I felt that painful grimace cross my face again.

  Samantha waved her hands in the air. “Either…both—she broke up with you? On the phone? Just now?”

  ABC

  “Yup,” I agreed, my voice sounding way too cheerful to my ears, so bright it literally hurt me to hear, “on the phone, just now.”

  This was crazy, this was insane. This was not how I’d ever imagined I’d end my first gig or—and okay, I admit, this had been a dream for a long time, too—see Samantha again. But honestly, I’d never imagined that Fran and I would end, either. I felt the shakes race up my body—you know, that internal shiver that won’t let you go when you’re just way too fuckin’ tired? I was done, I’d had it.

  “Bed,” I said to Samantha and indicated my door with a nod, “I’m too tired for this.” I dragged myself in and sat down on the side I’d slept on before the world had flipped upside down, then turned to see Samantha outlined in the doorway.

  “Maybe…I should go,” Samantha said. “I’ll just call a cab.”

  Dammit. This wasn’t Sam’s fault. I was being rude and obnoxious, and that wasn’t fair of me. Still clutching my phone, I walked back over to her. Her hands came up automatically to enfold me as I approached, and I put my arms around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m just really fucked up right now.”

  Her arms tightened around me, and I tucked my head into her neck.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Samantha whispered back. “I just want you to be all right. I’ll give her a call tomorrow, see if I can talk some sense into her.”

  That was not a good idea. If we couldn’t straighten this out ourselves, then adding anyone else into the mix wouldn’t help. Especially not Samantha.

  I tossed my head. “No. She has no reason not to trust me, and if she finds she can’t, well,” I gave Samantha a tight little grin, “then we have nothing anyway.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” she asked, her voice low and concerned.

  I dropped my arms from her shoulders and took her hand, leading her back to the promised land of sleep. “No, I don’t,” I answered, letting my breath out in a contained rush. “It’s all about the bottom line.”

  I stopped by the foot of the bed and faced Samantha again. “Life’s too short, Sammy, you taught me that, years ago. She loves me, or she doesn’t. It’s bone simple.”

  She searched my face, then finally nodded. “Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she said, looking at the ground, “but still—”

  “I might feel differently in the morning,” I allowed with a small ABC smile. “Sleep now.”

  We gave each other a quick and fierce hug, and as I stepped back to my side of the bed, the phone went off. I answered it before the first note had completed itself as I sat back on the mattress, hoping it was Fran calling back.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Nina!” Ronnie’s voice cheered out brightly, “do you have a passport?”

  Thrown for a moment because it wasn’t the voice I was expecting, I had to think. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I do. At least, I think so. Why?”

  “You’ve got six days to get your band, your paperwork, and your gear in order. Rude Records and Skapunkt Records are jointly sponsoring the Microwaves tour—with special supporting guest, Adam’s Rib.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked him, totally amazed.

  Samantha stirred behind me, and I felt her sit by my back.

  “Dead-on straight,” he said, “bigger than a heart attack, but smaller than an atom bomb.”

  “Holy shit!” I responded, momentarily losing my cool. “Where we going?” I figured we’d be crossing the continent�
��East Coast to West Coast with a whole lot of “non-coast” in between.

  “London, baby. You’re starting in London—expect to be gone eight to ten weeks. Why do you think I asked about your passport?”

  Holy Christ on a cracker. I fumbled behind the amp for the notebook and pen I kept there—for song-writing emergencies.

  “We’re there,” I told him. “Who do I need to talk with, what do I need to know?”

  I wrote down all the information he gave me, including Graham Crack’s and Paulie-Boy’s numbers. I promised to call him after I spoke with the band, then hung up.

  I sat there, staring at the phone.

  “Who was that?” Sam asked, gently stroking my hair away from my shoulder.

  “That was Ronnie—the sound guy from CB’s,” I told her while I still stared at nothing. I grabbed a cigarette from next to the amp and lit it. I wasn’t going to sleep after all.

  “Oh,” Samantha said. She waited a beat. “What did he want?”

  I twisted around to face her, my mind, my hands numb. “To tell me about the Microwaves—we’re going on tour.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  First And Last And Always

  Never thought I’d wonder if all that I feel is true

  Right now? There’s no difference between just me and you

  I know you know me well

  I know you lie like hell

  Do you want me for me?

  “Me For Me”—Life Underwater

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Right after my call from Ronnie, I phoned Stephie, and I left it up to her to get in touch with the Jerkster. It was insane. We had to rehearse with Paulie-Boy, who would do two sets a night—ours and the Microwaves’. We got to meet all of them, including Graham, during rehearsals. Graham was from “Liver peeyool” as he said it; Paulie-Boy was from Boston. The rest of the band were from all over—the West Indies, London, the bassist was from South Dakota—how weird was that?

  I liked everyone, but I found something about Graham intriguing. Not in an I-want-to-date-you way, but more in a there’s-more-to-you-th an-you-say-isn’t-there way.

  Anyhow, we somehow managed to get all of our papers and passports processed, and we all found the equipment we needed—especially those all-important current converters—just in time to get to the airport. Samantha had been the one to find the converters. “You’ll need these, desperately,” she’d said with a grin as she handed me five of them. She ended up being two hundred percent on the money.