Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  “Let me get a good look at you, love,” he asked, catching my arm as we were about to troop to the immediate backstage. “Come on,” he urged, pulling me to his dressing room, Well, at least he had a dressing room, I thought; we had an old storage closet. But fuck it, it worked, right?

  “Let’s see you, then,” Graham said, narrowing his eyes and putting his chin in his hand. His index finger stroked his thin red-blond mustache. His delicate mouth scrunched up into an expression I’d learned was his “how do I change/work/fix/explain this?”

  Not once did I ever, ever, think of Graham as a woman. He wasn’t—not in his voice, not in his dress, not in any way, manner, or form. Graham flirted with everyone outrageously—male, female, gay, straight, whatever, and Jerkster had wondered if Graham was, “You know, gay?” but he never thought for a second that Graham was anything other, or different, than Graham—a guy with an almost too-pretty face.

  “What’s the matter,” I asked him with a smile as I held my hands out from my sides, “something showing that shouldn’t? Do I have a tag sticking out somewhere or a lump that shouldn’t be?”

  It was already pretty warm, and Spain was hotter than most places. I’d found an awesome pair of long cycling pants made of stretchy black material; they had a really neat two-layer checkerboard strip down the sides with a red ABC stripe in the center, plus they were a lot cooler heat-wise to wear than leather or denim. Besides, the checkerboards were homage to the Microwaves—they were a ska band, after all.

  Stephie and I’d discovered some really cool zip-top bra sort of things, and we picked up a bunch (we didn’t know where in the world we’d be able to find those again, if ever—this is one of those secrets I’m not sharing); some totally formfitting, everything-holding tank tops; and some cycling jerseys—they were too cool! I stuck with basic black, although I had a few with some contrasting stripes—and my racing jerseys were wild! I wore one of those super-tanks tonight, because it had a similar checkerboard on the seams that matched the pants. I thought I looked pretty darn good.

  “Put your hands on your hips?” Graham requested, so I did.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said.

  “What?” I asked, puzzled.

  “The way you stand—no, stay just as you are,” he said as I started to shift, “just look in the mirror—here,” he said, and stepped out from in front of it.

  He stood behind me. “What do you see?” he asked softly.

  I looked, I really looked. I saw me, booted legs planted wide, hip cocked to one side, cool new outfit, and the gleam of the two silver charms on my neck and throat.

  “I look ready to play,” I told him.

  He put his hands on my hips. “Stand straight,” he said, pushing my hips into position, “and keep looking.” He took his hands off me.

  It had been a long time since I’d really seen myself, seen anything but my hair or that my clothes were set right, that is, so I looked again.

  Hair—cool! Shoulders—kinda wide. In addition to the width I’d gained over the years from swimming, I’d lost weight and developed that “T” shape that so many guitarists have. A large and well contained chest. Small hips, beat-up boots. My eyes were grayer than I’d remembered.

  Graham stood behind me and placed his hands over my shoulders. He didn’t touch them; he let his hands hover about an inch above them as he measured their width.

  “You’ve got great shoulders…small back…small hips…” and he followed their outlines without touching me.

  “Now look at that face—androgynous,” he said, “very gamine.”

  I gazed at him directly. “Gamine?” I asked with an arched brow, looking straight into his mischievous brown eyes. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means a young boy or girl—and you could be either.” He gently faced my head to the mirror. “You should try drag.”

  “All life is drag,” I shot back at him with a smile.

  “Glad to see you’re learning. Here…” He grabbed one of his jackets and threw it at me. “Put this on.”

  It was one of his black jackets—double-breasted, too, which I happen to prefer. I shrugged it on, and it fit. It did nice things for my shoulders. “Got a tie?” I asked him.

  “What color do you want?” he asked, rummaging through his collection.

  “Red. Bloodred, if you’ve got it,” I decided. What the hell, right?

  He tossed it over my shoulder and hovered over me as I knotted it.

  “Hey, I do know how to do this, you know.” I scowled playfully. “I’ve worn one or two before.” Which was true, I had, because I could. Hey, I did work at a gay bar, after all.

  “Really?” Graham drawled at me. “Well, knock me down and call me pretty. I had no idea.”

  I finished knotting the tie around my bare neck and rolled the sleeves for the jacket to my forearms.

  “How do I look?” I asked him with my best half-smile.

  “Halfway there.” Graham nodded approvingly.

  “Yeah, well, there’s kinda no hiding these.” I looked down at my chest.

  “There’s ways around that, you know,” Graham said. “You can bind them, you can—”

  I interrupted him. “Graham, it’s way too hot to do anything like that and besides,” I hesitated a moment before I continued, “I’m not sure it’s something I want to do—just yet.”

  I glanced up over the mirror and at the clock.

  “Holy shit! I’ve got to get to the stage!” I exclaimed, and almost ran to the door—it was two minutes to curtain.

  Graham snickered. “Don’t worry if ABC you’re a minute late—I know the main act. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  I smiled back at him as I dashed out.

  “Keep the tie!” he called to my back.

  Fuck, I wasn’t even thinking about that. I took it off my neck and put it around my waist as I hurried backstage and found Stephie and Jerkster, all ready to go. Paulie-Boy was already out there, settling into his seat.

  “Where the fuck were you?” Stephie hissed, more out of concern than anger. She handed me my guitar.

  “Graham wanted to talk to me,” I answered as I slung my instrument. There, it hung flawlessly.

  She did a double take and smiled. “Nice jacket.”

  “You’re gonna sweat to death,” Jerkster warned.

  Personally? I agreed, but I couldn’t take it off because I’d already strapped in and there were the opening clicks of Paulie-Boy’s drum sticks. Time to hit the stage!

  The show itself was a total blast—we’d written a few new songs during all those hours of traveling, and after we ran through them during sound check, they were pronounced good enough to perform—we debuted them that night. This effectively made our set about half an hour longer, which we all thought was really cool. I did take the jacket off about a third of the way through—it was way too hot for the way I played. I wondered how Graham managed it all the time.

  After our set we left the stage and went into the hall behind it—the backstage area itself was crowded with the Microwaves horn players. Hey, it ain’t ska if there ain’t horns, ya know.

  Graham came rushing over. “Hey, Nina, don’t go off yet—I want to ask you something,” he said, hustling me back over to the place I’d just left.

  “Yeah, sure, Graham. What’s up?” I asked, slinging my guitar behind me.

  “I’d like you to come up and sing a few songs with us,” he told me seriously.

  What? Who, me?

  “What about Stephie?” I asked, confused. “Shouldn’t you ask her?” She did do most of the lead vocals, after all.

  Graham’s eyes twinkled at me. “No, love, it should be you—and Stephie ABC agrees.”

  I was taken aback at that, but okay, then, I’d go for it. I was glad I’d held on to his jacket. Despite the heat from the stage, once you walk away from it, it’s a pretty rapid cooldown. Besides, ska bands always wear suits so I fit in, although I still kept the sleeves rolled and
the tie around my waist as opposed to my neck.

  The Microwaves put on a great show, and as crowded as ours were becoming? Theirs were jammed to the rafters! This place was normally a nightclub with tables and chairs scattered around, but you wouldn’t have known that—it was standing room only, though it looked more like leaning room, because there didn’t appear to be any space anywhere. It is a very good thing people jumped up and down—it made room for others for about half a second.

  I did three songs with them, and Graham kept me on for the encore—a down-and-dirty version of the ever-classic “Could You Be Loved” by Bob Marley.

  You’d think that normally, between the lights and the crowd, anyone onstage could barely see people, never mind recognize an individual, and normally? You’d be right. You can’t really see beyond the first few rows or feet from the stage unless the lighting levels out for a moment or you get a flare across an area.

  But halfway through the encore, I saw her—that unmistakable flash of Blue—and I’d seen it plenty of times before in lower light than this. Her eyes locked onto mine, green glowing through the smoke and haze as she cut through the crowd the way I swam through water—smooth and fast.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Graham give me a sharp look, but we finished the song just fine, thankyouverymuch. However, by the time Graham got to the final introductions and the required “thanks and good night,” I’d lost her when I smiled and waved at the crowd.

  Lights came up, curtain came down, and I turned to Graham.

  “Great show, Graham, that was a lot of fun. Thank you,” I said as I hugged him.

  “Wonderful job, Nina,” Graham returned, slapping my back, “just perfect. Splendid, even.”

  I took a step back and beamed at him. Paulie-Boy stopped over. “Nice job, Nina.” He grinned and gave me a high five. “Great show, Graham, really great show.”

  They smacked each other on the arm. Funny how it is that a band is like an athletic team—win or lose, the team supports each other. I like that. I grabbed my guitar from its leaning post on the wall and slipped it into its case.

  “Well, Graham, I’d best—”

  “Have a drink with me,” Graham interrupted. “I’d like to speak with you.” He smiled as he said it, but I heard something serious in his ABC tone.

  I thought about it. If I went back to my room, there’d be Stephie, probably crying about John—not that I blamed her, mind you; it was just sad to deal with—or sleeping. The other likely scenario was Jerkster either passed out or trying to rent porn. I hadn’t heard anything from Samantha yet. I’d checked with the front desk so many times that the clerk announced “no hay mensaje”—there’s no message—whenever he saw me.

  Despite the intensity between us, Samantha and me, I mean, I was still more than occasionally confused by how I felt in general. I missed Fran, horribly. Without her, I felt somehow naked. Next to Samantha, I felt raw, as if the skin I lived through had been removed. I hadn’t really given her an answer before I’d left—it was all too fast and too soon, you know?

  And…I felt guilty. Fran had broken up with me, not the other way around, and that just fucking hurt, because I’d never considered what we’d had to be “borrowed time,” as she’d put it the last time I saw her.

  She’d repeatedly said that Samantha and I should absolutely be together, and now, after the fact, even though I mostly agreed, I still thought that we might have been completely happy and hated the fact that she’d possibly been right—again. It made me think she should have been named Cassandra—you know, the prophetess doomed by Apollo to speak words that no one believed until it was too late? She’d been unhappy in her life, mythic as it may have been. I didn’t want to make Fran unhappy, I didn’t want to hurt her.

  Fuck it. I didn’t want to spend all night thinking about it, and besides, Candace was lurking out there somewhere. Well, Samantha had warned that she’d probably find me first anyway.

  A drink with Graham sounded like a good idea. Besides, we were taking a ferry over to Ibiza, and Paulie-Boy had warned us that it would be about a nine-hour float. I’d sleep on the boat.

  “Sure, Graham,” I smiled, “why not?”

  “Great, then.” He smiled back and clapped a hand on my shoulder as we walked to the stage exit.

  “Find us a table, I’ve got some things,” and he waved his hand to indicate the general area, “I’ve got to straighten out for tomorrow.”

  I understood. “Fine, then, I’ll see you out there in a few,” I agreed as I shifted my case. I walked out and through the hallway, away from the corridor that led back to the hotel proper and instead made a sharp right to a door that would lead back into the club itself.

  Quite a few people still milled about talking, drinking, enjoying themselves. A few smiled at me as I walked past them, but no one bothered me. Cool music flowed through the room as I wandered about, looking for a table.

  I found one finally, about two-thirds of the way from the stage, and quickly claimed it. No sooner had I sat down and settled my guitar next to me than a waiter appeared out of nowhere, handed me a menu, and asked me what I’d like.

  Oh, how awesome—food. I loved when we played at places that served food. Even more important than getting paid sometimes, we got to eat.

  I took a quick glance at the menu, but it required more thought. I asked the waiter for a few minutes, a glass of water, and a glass of sangria. Hey, I was in Spain. I wasn’t going to skip the sangria.

  “Can I join you?” Candace’s green eyes shone at me through the haze.

  I nodded and indicated a seat to her before addressing the waiter.

  “I’m expecting another. Can I have two more glasses, and make that a pitcher instead of a single?”

  He agreed, then walked away.

  “Thank you.” Candace smiled at me. “You’re looking better than ever.”

  I reached over my gig bag and into the front pocket to retrieve my cigarettes and lighter. Taking one out for myself, I mutely asked her if she wanted one. She smiled her thanks again, and I slid my pack over to her, then lit her cigarette when she pulled one out.

  I sat back and straightened up, still unsure what to say. I felt incredibly blank, caught between hot and cold, as I took a good long drag.

  She wore her hair differently, long and loose with a bit of a wave, and she’d modified its color. There was a lot more red in it than last time. Her blue and black bodice-like top still fit her exactly the way it was meant to—like a second skin that held her breasts up to inspection. She was as beautiful as ever and I remembered—everything. And still I felt nothing, nothing at all. I had wanted her so much then, and now, well, she was as absolutely attractive as ever and I still loved that beautiful accent.

  Could I have possibly loved her then, I asked myself? No, yes, maybe, but that wasn’t the way it felt at the time. Had I liked her? Yes, I honestly had because she was so much more than incredibly attractive; she was bright, and funny. We’d had some very good conversations; we’d had really good sex.

  Candace allowed the inspection, smoking wordlessly, a tiny grin, almost a smirk really, playing around the edges of her lips, lips that I knew tasted like cherries and something else, but always cherries, and technically skilled.

  The waiter came back with three glasses and the pitcher of sangria—and ABC I still hadn’t picked anything to eat yet. I told him I would wait for Graham as he poured a glass for each of us, then left.

  Candace leaned across the table and stared, hard, at the jewelry I wore, then sat back.

  “So,” she said softly, “no words for me now that you carry both of them with you?”

  That bothered me. It bothered me that she knew what I was wearing, that she knew who they were from. No, I did have words, one specifically. “Why?” I asked her, leaning across the table. My glass remained untouched. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell any of us?” I exhaled and waited for her answer.

  “You’ve changed,�
� she commented quietly.

  I gave an ungracious laugh. “Who wouldn’t?” I asked in return, not expecting an answer. Not that it was fair, the way I was behaving, not that it was her fault, not really. But everything was so twisted up for me, and somehow, in my head, Candace was at the bottom of it. That might not make sense, but it doesn’t have to—most feelings don’t. If they did, they’d be called logic, and probably? Life would still be as hard.

  Candace sighed and stared down at the table, smoothing the cloth with her fingers.

  “Look,” she began, “I went to New York last summer for two reasons: one for work and the other specifically to find out if that cock-and-bull story Annie had been fed was true. I mean, it was a fine story to tell a young girl, and it would have worked, except it didn’t really make sense, to me, anyway,” she said in utter seriousness. “Believe me, I was surprised to find you as easily as I did.”

  I stared at her, hard. “Then why—”

  “Please.” She held up her hands to stop me. “Let me tell you the whole thing before you ask your questions. When I’m done, you can love, hate me, or,” and she smiled a sad little smile at me, “you can invite me to your room.”

  I gave her a small smile of my own in return; we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. But still, I had been “rather fond” of her, and we’d been pretty hot together. We’d had nice chemistry.

  “I do want to hear what you have to say,” I told her softly, because I wanted to understand.

  She took a sip from her glass, then reached across the table to lay a hand on mine. “I was going to tell you, Nina. I was going to tell you that night at the Red Spot, until your friend barged in.” She watched me expectantly.

  “I remember the night,” I said as neutrally as possible, “but then, why didn’t you say anything later?” I took my hand back and hit a drag off my neglected cigarette.