by Jeff Jackson
—Fancy look, says Randy. Does the rug match the drapes?
—I see you’re your same sloppy self, Derek D. says. But I guess there’s nothing too special about tonight.
—I’ve set my sights higher, says Randy. I brought us some mojo.
He removes a black rope from around his neck. It’s adorned with a bright green circle.
—Amulet of protection, says Randy. The lady at the New Age store swore it possessed ancient powers. And it was on sale for two dollars.
—You were robbed, Florian says.
—Nothing’s too good for you guys, says Randy.
He ceremoniously lashes the amulet to his cymbal stand. He tries to conceal that its pattern of multipronged swords is meticulously engraved in agate.
* * *
The band stands shoulder to shoulder on the stage and looks out at the club. It’s tighter quarters up here than they expected. Florian senses the mood growing solemn. To puncture the tension, he unbuttons his long-sleeve top. Underneath, he’s wearing a T-shirt with a bright bull’s-eye.
—Thought I’d get into the spirit, he says with a grin. In case our fans have bad eyesight.
—Hey, this is a band, not a solo act, Randy says. Hope you’re not planning to hog all the bullets.
—Don’t worry, Florian says. There’ll be plenty to go around.
—I’m not sure this is funny, Derek D. says.
—If we can’t laugh at our own deaths, Florian says, what can we laugh at?
Derek D. looks perplexed, as if his bandmates have lapsed into a foreign language.
—But you’re not laughing, he says.
* * *
A shadow at the edge of the room yawns. Xenie stretches her arms as she takes in the show preparations. She looks funereal, her pallid skin offset by a motley black outfit. Her cheeks are powdered, lips darkened, eyebrows etched in razor-sharp lines. Shock of blonde hair exquisitely styled in a wave. Nobody can tell whether her elegant appearance is an attempt at disguise or is her way of playacting some private role. Her black blazer obscures a ratty flash of purple wool.
Florian curses under his breath. Randy lets loose a raspy whistle. Even Derek D. doesn’t hide his confusion. Only the twins don’t seem shocked to see her, each offering a friendly wave.
Eddie’s heart surges. He and Xenie have grown so close over the past few weeks that he steps into the center of the room without hesitation, pretending he knows what she’s doing here.
—She’s with me, he announces. I needed someone to handle the merch table.
Xenie clasps her hands and curtsies toward the band.
—Consider this an apology, she says. For freaking out about the amp.
She remains inscrutable. Florian watches her purse and pucker, applying a fresh coat of black lipstick, intensifying the hue of her mouth.
What does she really want?
As the band sets up, they study Xenie without bothering to conceal their stares. Eddie grabs a stack of vinyl singles and gestures to a box spilling over with T-shirts. She grabs it, grateful for his improvisational ingenuity, which smoothed her entrance. They ferry the merchandise into the next room and set everything on one of the booths across from the bar.
—You said you weren’t coming, he whispers.
Xenie offers a snaggletooth grin.
—I changed my mind, Edward, she says. I knew you’d need my help.
—Come on, he says. I’m not an idiot.
In a deft sequence, Xenie picks up a T-shirt by the shoulders, snaps it to remove the wrinkles, then folds the fabric into a neat square.
—I started thinking it might be good for me to get out, she says. Be around people.
—Xenie, he says.
She lays down the T-shirt and meets Eddie’s eyes. Her first impulse is to act defiantly impassive, but then she realizes he’s sincerely concerned. Beneath the caked makeup, her cheeks flush.
—Okay, she says. A.C. and B.C. asked me to say something about Shaun. Give a little speech.
—When?
—Before the band plays. Or after. Whatever seems right. I think I’m going to do it. I have to do something to get some closure.
She’s already told him more than she planned. If she says much more, she’s afraid her resolve will crumble altogether.
—I don’t want Florian and the other guys to know, she says. Okay?
Eddie seems unsure how to process this news, but he wants to trust her. He nods his head.
She surreptitiously slides her hand down the front of his jeans and gives his cock a light squeeze, then plants a lingering kiss on his cheek. Your hair looks really great, she murmurs. She ruffles and rearranges his part. Eddie leans his head back, letting her tease her fingernails along his tingling scalp.
* * *
Xenie’s nails are painted a black without depth or reflection, the coats of lacquer precisely applied, as if in preparation for some midnight ritual.
* * *
Florian points to the guest list, but his eyes are trained on the next room. There are too many people on the list, he tells Eddie. We’re already oversold. Maybe we should get rid of some of the obvious freaks. He glares meaningfully in the direction of Xenie.
Eddie pretends not to notice and takes back the list. I’m on it, he says. I’ll work it out.
Florian searches for some clue to his unexpected attitude, but Eddie heads back toward the bar without meeting his eyes. With a jolt, Florian realizes what’s different about his friend.
* * *
Eddie lays out the T-shirts in precise rows according to size and fans out the records in a scalloped arc. He’s proud of the configuration he’s created, which has proven to draw people’s attention to the table.
—It’s amazing how you actually enjoy this, Xenie says. I heard you last night folding sleeves and coloring artwork for the singles.
He looks up, surprised she was paying such close attention.
—I thought you were asleep, he says.
—You lost track of time. You were so engrossed in it.
—It’s nice to be part of something. Part of the show.
—I’ve done this stuff, too, she says. There’s no magic to it. You’re just a gofer for those guys.
—It’s not a big statement, he says. I’m good at it. It’s something I like to do.
He hunches over the booth and pores over the names on the guest list.
—You forgot some singles in the other room, she says. I’ll grab that last stack.
As Xenie sashays away, Eddie notices the odd asymmetry of her ass. There’s a question he isn’t sure how to ask about the unnatural ripple of her black skirt.
* * *
B.C. announces that the professional security team will arrive shortly. They’ll be equipped with metal-detection wands, frisk each body that walks through the doors, and circulate through the crowd during the concert to isolate suspicious persons. We want you guys to be able to relax and have fun, he says.
—We want this to be a great show, A.C. adds. That’s what everyone needs right now.
—We even got protection for you while you play, B.C. says with a devious grin. A.C. produces a trio of bulletproof vests. It’s a joke, sort of. Florian winces.
The twins rustle around backstage and return hoisting a large piece of Plexiglas. They arrange the shield in front of the drum kit. The band gathers around the transparent plastic. As it wobbles, the air itself appears to shimmer. Florian stares at their frail reflections, warped and wavy spirits observing them from the other side.
* * *
There’s more. B.C. points out the hinged rectangle carved into the center of the stage. We built a trapdoor, he says. You trigger it by stomping on this button. You’ll land on a pile of mattresses in the basement.
—It’s an escape hatch, A.C. says. Just in case things get weird.
This time, the twins are more somber. They spent serious time considering and constructing this. The precision of the emergency exit pun
ctures the good-humored mood. It too clearly suggests the stakes of the epidemic.
When the twins motion for a volunteer, Randy and Derek D. both back away from the stage. Dry tongued and throat constricted, Florian is determined to defy his fear. He steps forward, offering an uncomfortable smile as he positions his storklike frame squarely over the trapdoor. He raises his foot to trigger the device. One moment he stares straight ahead, fretful lines scribbled across his face, and the next—
* * *
It takes Florian a second to remember how he arrived in this darkness. His bones feel like they’re ringing. His breath hovers a few inches above his chest. He lies flat on his back, staring up at a rectangle of milky light. Spinning dust motes drift downward. Time seems to dilate. The world is slow to fasten around him. Objects creep into focus on the periphery—crates of beer bottles, broken speaker cabinets, stacks of folding chairs. Floating faces eventually appear overhead wearing querulous expressions. The timbre of their voices is familiar, but by the time their muffled sounds reach him, the sense of their sentences has decayed.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be dead.
During the sound check, Florian suggests they play their first song wearing the bulletproof vests. A bit of brazen theater. They launch into the opening number, but their movements are stiff and the music sounds pinched. Despite the countless rehearsal hours they’ve clocked, the instruments feel limp in their hands. Even the electricity coursing through the cords has gone sour.
Halfway through the song, Florian waves them off.
—Forget it, he says. This is fucked.
—I know one problem, Randy says. He hefts the Plexiglas shield and hurls it offstage.
Florian strips off his vest and punts it toward the mixing board. You can’t think about this shit and make music, he says. It’s literally impossible.
—Forget the protection, Derek D. says. We should just play in our underwear.
Randy and Florian look to see if he’s joking, but Derek’s never been known for his sense of humor. They simultaneously strip off their shirts and pants. They toss their clothes at the foot of the stage in an escalating heap, crowned by three pairs of sweaty socks.
* * *
Randy counts off the tune. As Florian adjusts the dial on the green amp, a liquid mercury tone bursts from the speakers. The band plays slightly out of phase, propelled by grinding beats and terse bass lines, resembling a machine that spits out iridescent arcs of broken glass. Their bodies become siphons for the spasms of the song. A.C. and B.C. bob their heads in approval. Eddie and Lisa-Lisa shuffle toward the stage as if magnetized. Beside the bar in the next room, even Xenie’s ears begin to twitch. Florian’s eyes are shut and his mind is blank, letting himself experience the sound flowing through his pores.
That’s almost it. The sound that’s been stuck in my head all these years.
I can start to hear it.
While the others put away their instruments, Florian remains on the stage. He wants to stay in the flush of the moment, keep the sound circulating through his veins. He takes his time putting on his clothes. Sweeps away the dust that’s accumulated on the platform. Rearranges the order of the guitar pedals. Tweaks the amp settings. But the realities of the room keep intruding. The quiet conversation of A.C. and B.C. in conference with Xenie, the infectious cackle of Lisa-Lisa, the questions about lighting adjustments, the small talk about encore selections. He can’t shut out these clumsy siren songs of the mundane.
* * *
The presence of that silvery sound progressively seeps away.
* * *
Xenie seats herself on the wooden stage next to Florian. She scoops up a fallen capo from the floor and hands it to him. He looks at it warily, unsure whether it’s meant as peace offering or provocation.
—Ready for tonight? she says.
Florian takes the capo and clamps it to the top of his guitar, then checks the instrument’s tuning once again.
—Sure, he says.
—You’re lucky, she says. Headlining a show like this is something local bands dream about.
—Yeah, well, Florian mutters, I’ve been having some dreams about it.
Behind him, he imagines a bright red plume smeared across the bass drum, pointing the way offstage.
—Me too, she says softly.
They silently stare at the wooden platform, realizing they’re revisiting the same distressing vision, seeing the surface of the stage splashed crimson, spattered with permanent shadows.
* * *
Xenie fastens her arms round her knees, lacing her fingers together. Florian notices she’s scraped the black polish off the nail of her pinkie. She drops her chin and speaks quietly, as if she’s afraid of being overheard.
—Can I ask you a question? she says. Why are you doing this?
Florian’s been waiting for something like this. How about this for a question, he says. Why are you here? Why have you decided to grace us with your presence?
Xenie’s gaze is genuinely probing, not confrontational but not convinced.
—I’m not trying to pick a fight, she says. I’d just like to know why you’re doing the show. Is it for Shaun? Or for you?
Florian tries to catch the attention of someone in the club who might provide an excuse to end this conversation, but everyone is preoccupied with their own preparations.
—You’ve got a lot of nerve, he says in a low voice. I knew Shaun since we were little kids.
—So?
—So I knew him before he started to change. I watched how he became more aloof and competitive.
—Maybe he was growing up. Maybe he outgrew you.
—That’s your projection of Shaun. That’s not what happened.
—What happened?
Florian flashes on the last few times he saw Shaun, how he seemed guarded and distracted, comparing notes on equipment, talking recording dates and touring plans, offering his familiar smile but treating him more like a colleague than his closest childhood friend.
—You poisoned him.
—That’s ridiculous, Xenie says. I had nothing to do with it.
—Really?
—You don’t understand me at all. You barely even see me. I’m just somebody’s girlfriend to you.
—How could I miss you? he says. You’ve wrapped yourself in your grief to make sure you’re the center of attention.
A cockroach scuttles across the stage between them, its antennae flicking at the wood. Just as Florian spots the insect, Xenie smashes it with the flat of her hand. She wipes the paste of guts, wings, and abdomen onto the floor.
—So violent, Florian says. That’s the difference between you and me. I would never do something like that.
—It’s just a bug, Florian, she says. Not a metaphor.
Xenie pushes up off the stage and rises to her feet.
—You still never answered my question, she says.
* * *
Lisa-Lisa isn’t at the bar, so Florian sets up the shot glasses. He feels so sober it makes him queasy. He wordlessly salutes both Randy and Eddie with the whiskey bottle. The three of them toss back the alcohol and slam down their glasses in tandem.
Florian watches the two security guards who were recently briefed by A.C. and B.C. They resemble marines who’ve gotten profoundly stoned. They lounge on the patio, feet propped on benches, a cigarette circulating between them. The first pangs of Florian’s migraine twitch in his temples.
—Look at those guys, Florian says. We’re supposed to feel safe with them?
Randy and Eddie can’t stop smirking at each other.
—This isn’t funny, Florian says, causing them both to burst into peals of laughter.
* * *
Randy the Mongoose says: What’s the difference between Echo Echo’s toilet and a Puerto Rican whore?
Florian shrugs, his attention locked on the security guards.
Randy says: In an emergency, you can shit on a Puerto Rican whore.
&n
bsp; Xenie looks up from refolding T-shirts. You’re a pig, she says.
—Hey! Randy says. My mother’s Puerto Rican, so I can tell that joke. It’s not my problem you’re uptight.
* * *
The door to the notoriously nauseating bathroom swings open. Lisa-Lisa tumbles out, blouse askew, hair frizzier than usual, hoop earrings swaying with each loopy step. Derek D. follows, smoothing the edges of his pink pompadour.
—Never would’ve believed it possible, Randy says. He plucks a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and presents it to Derek D.
—She was eager, Derek D. says. I think she knows I fucked her boyfriend behind the supermarket last week. He fastidiously folds the money and snaps it in the elastic waistband of his underwear. Nobody appreciates how complicated it is to be bisexual, he says.
—You make it look easy, Randy says.
* * *
A tall man with a gray-flecked beard wanders into the club. His denim overalls appear freshly pressed. He removes his minor-league baseball cap and looks around, bewildered.
—What the fuck, Florian says. His head sinks into his hands.
Eddie jumps up and stops the man from coming any farther. Sorry, he says. The club’s still closed.
—The door was open, the man says.
A.C. yells at the security guards slacking on the patio. Sorry about that, he says.
—I’ll handle this, Eddie says, and shuffles the man around the corner, back toward the entrance.
The pressure in Florian’s head tightens several notches.
—This is too much, he says. Any stranger can walk in here and you’re telling us we’re safe? You’re all too distracted by bullshit to realize that we could actually get killed.
Florian hurls the three shot glasses against the wall, one after another after another. They explode in a series of brittle ricocheting sprays.
Everybody thinks this is a joke.
Florian blusters out of the bar, stomping past the box-office alcove, and heading toward the entrance that’s mercifully obscured from the rest of the club. His head is a hive of roiling thoughts. His strangulated face resembles a punctuation mark in a foreign alphabet. Eddie stands on the steps engaged in polite conversation with the bearded man. Florian interrupts.
He says: What the hell are you doing here, Dad?