by Jeff Jackson
* * *
Florian’s father removes his baseball cap and fiddles with the brim, cracking it in half and reshaping it with his thumb. He’s taller and stockier than his son but presents a less imposing presence.
—I’m here to check out your band, he says with an abashed smile.
Florian looks around for Eddie, but he’s vanished.
—The show is sold out, he says.
—Can’t my son get me a ticket?
—Since when have you cared about my music?
—I came to support you, his father says. I know this is a rough night.
—I know what night it is.
—Three years, his father says. Hard to believe she’s been gone that long.
—I’m fine.
—The last two anniversaries you went on benders that lasted almost a week, his father says. I don’t want you to do something stupid.
—You never took it very well either. I’m surprised you’re still sober. I’m surprised you’re still standing.
—I’m worried about you, his father says. I’m worried about you doing this show tonight.
—It’s not a big deal.
—Your mom, his father says. You were everything to her. She’d want you to be safe.
Florian chokes down the lump of mucus that’s formed in the back of his throat. He blinks the redness out of his eyes.
—Bruce, his father says.
He reaches out his hand, but his son recoils.
—You know only Mom could call me that, Florian says. It’s Florian to you.
* * *
Florian scratches at his tattoo. Maybe it’s the twilight, but the design seems to keep fading. The extra layer of ink has sweated away, and the green letter floats under his skin like a ghostly bacterial growth.
* * *
Florian and his father look into each other’s eyes and listen to the filament buzz of the overhead light. The silence is reminiscent of the months after the funeral, alone in the house together, sitting at the dinner table and unable to fathom the first thing about the person opposite. During that stretch, his father was either catatonic or absent. He’d vanish for days at a time, letting the place grow filthy and leaving Florian to scour away the accumulated mess, along with the residue of toxic memories that were contaminating them.
—Your mother used to sing in bands, his father says. Before you were born. She played all over the place. She was pretty popular.
—I’ve heard all those stories. You made her stop singing.
—She didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t have anything to do with it.
—The show is sold out, Florian says. The show is sold out. The show is …
He repeats himself over and over, the same tempo and intonation, like a needle trapped in a run-out groove.
* * *
His father replaces the baseball cap on his head. You should drop by the house sometime, he says. You’re always welcome. Then he reluctantly returns to his truck, gripping the steering wheel for a long minute before igniting the engine. The tires churn up loose gravel as they furrow a path through the parking lot.
Florian follows a few paces behind, making sure the vehicle turns onto the street and heads toward the highway. He watches until the glare of the taillights gutters away. Then he walks back to the club, tracing the channels his father’s truck carved in the gravel, obeying some obscure impulse to ensure his feet fall precisely within their tracks.
Three years since I stood over her dead body.
Couldn’t get the blood out of the carpet.
Ripped it up and added it to the trash.
Never replaced it. Just avoided the living room.
It still reeks of rust.
There are so many ghosts here tonight.
I can feel them around every corner.
I owe them all something.
Florian sits alone on the front steps of the club. He roots through his pockets, hunting for a lighter and hand-rolled cigarette. He locates them, along with some scattered seed pellets. The only possessions of his mother’s that he didn’t remove were the bird feeders she’d hung throughout the backyard. They were her pride, and she spent hours cataloging the flashes of feathers that circled around them. Florian still sneaks back to the house to keep the feeders stocked, making sure he avoids his father, who probably doesn’t even realize they’re being refilled. It’s been a few weeks since he’s gone. As he licks the seam of the cigarette paper, he notices a smattering of tan and black food pellets stuck to his fingertips.
* * *
Somewhere in the waning twilight, those bird feeders sway in the breeze. Tall plastic cylinders with metal perches and wooden domes. Strung at varying heights from tree branches. Clinking softly on their lines. An intricate archipelago winding through the yard as they recede from sight.
* * *
A single reverberating shot startles Florian out of his reverie. He wants to believe it’s a backfiring car. There’s no subsequent scream or siren. He cranes his neck into the encroaching darkness, struggling to see the sound. The echo is slow to dissipate, its vibration rippling through the air, scratched onto the surface of the night. He tries to believe it belongs to a story unfolding in another Arcadia, a drama unconnected to him.
* * *
Eddie’s patient shadow hovers at the corner of the building. He watches Florian take a long drag, inhale a mouthful of smoke, and add to the tiny pyramid of ash rising between his feet.
—I thought you quit, Eddie says.
—I did, Florian says. This is hash.
—A.C. and B.C. want everybody inside.
—They can wait, Florian says. They can wait forever.
* * *
As Florian and Eddie pass the joint back and forth, the sensations around them become amplified. The teasing breeze. The dervishes of smoke. The cadences of unseen birdsong. Those three notes are naggingly familiar, each lower than the last, repeated in halting rhythm. In reply, Florian silently recites the names of songbirds from memory. The tune superimposes itself over the canopy of stars that just snapped into glittering focus.
* * *
—She dyed your hair, Florian says, didn’t she?
—What?
—Your hair is blond, Florian says. It’s the same shade as hers. You probably thought I didn’t notice.
—You mean Xenie?
—If you’re sharing hair dye, you’re in over your head. That girl is seriously damaged.
—Who isn’t?
—She’s way more fucked up and smarter than you think, Florian says. I don’t know if even I could handle her.
—Oh, even you?
—I know I sound like an asshole, but I’m your friend. I worry about you. I’m talking as a worried friend.
Florian waits for Eddie to share some stories, but he keeps his thoughts about Xenie to himself, clearly even more infatuated than Florian suspected.
—Come on, Eddie says. You’re worried about the show. You’re freaking out, but it’s going to be great.
—I worry about it all.
—Remember the time I ran away, Eddie says. I hid in the forest and was terrified by every sound.
—I brought you food and we hung out.
—You talked me out of going back home to my parents. You made sure I stayed the night.
Florian pictures them sitting together in the dark woods. Probably stoned. His skinny friend nestled among the pine needles, bundled in two sweatshirts, hands clutching a rapidly dimming flashlight.
—Sometimes you have to teach them a lesson, Florian says. Take a stand.
—This is your night. Your stand.
—This is going to be a circus. Everybody is coming here for Shaun. No matter how well we play, he’s what they’ll remember.
—Play for yourself. Everything else will fall into place.
—I don’t know, Florian says, I want the set to be something that would make Shaun proud.
—Shaun is gone, Eddie says. This is
your night. You deserve it.
Florian looks over at his friend. The appropriate words are far beyond him right now, so he tries to express his gratitude by forming a circle with his mouth and blowing two smoke rings, one ring inside the other.
Maybe it’ll be a show people will talk about for years.
Maybe I’ll finally be heard.
It’s past time to open the doors. Everyone scurries through the club. The twins make the security team recite their step-by-step instructions. Lisa-Lisa counts out the cash drawers. The band untangles cords while Florian rearranges his equipment one last time. Eddie calls out adjustments to Xenie, who stands tiptoe on a barstool, tightening the corners of the plastic banner behind the stage.
—Two minutes, Lisa-Lisa shouts.
They all huddle together at the bar. A bottle of bourbon is passed around, and they each take a swallow. The shattered remnants of the shot glasses still litter the floor. Their shards give off an intense sparkle.
* * *
Nobody makes a toast, so Florian figures he should hoist the bottle and provide the benediction:
Into the void.
* * *
The parking lot within the razor-wire fence is full. Cars line the streets next to the club, packing the nearby grass lots, pulling into ragged rows on dead lawns. Drivers transfer valuables to the trunk and pray their rides are shitty enough that nobody steals them. This neighborhood is a haven for cheap crack. Or as the twins have it, at night the vampires come out. A mad crush of people funnels into a slow-snaking entrance queue. A number of them carry handmade shrines and memorials for Shaun. In less than an hour, the place will be over capacity. The security guards thoroughly frisk every physique, turning out pockets, patting inseams, tracing the buzzing contours of each body with a magnetic wand.
* * *
The crowd slips their IDs under the black light and presents their right hands to get stamped. They remember the routine, but they’re unusually reserved as they’re herded through the entrance hallway toward the bar. People alternate between nervous pauses and awkward laughter as they line up to order the cheapest cans of beer. Everybody seems conflicted about what tone to adopt, if this show is the somber culmination of the past few months or their cue to shed circumspection. They’re unsure whether they want tonight’s concert to cast off the past or seal them inside it.
* * *
As people step into the performance area, they confront the banner suspended across the back of the stage: a photograph of a bloodied panda lying in a pile of bamboo leaves. It’s the logo of a respected independent music label, sponsor of tonight’s event, but the image still makes people wince. Some say it originated from Chinese dissidents who mutilated the cuddly state symbol to protest censorship. Others say that even as an emblem of extreme free speech, it’s in poor taste. The label is giving away music by Shaun’s band. Stacks of their single rise on tables throughout the room. A hit parade of Shaun’s favorite songs detonates from the speakers and livens up the crowd. A deejay hunches in the narrow space behind the soundboard. Every time he flips a record, the axis of the room shifts ever so slightly.
* * *
Florian sits on the back patio and keeps watch for trouble. People gather around the picnic tables and hanging paper lanterns, stubbing out cigarette butts in the sand-filled planters. Florian shakes hands and makes small talk with friends and fellow musicians. It means a lot to be playing tonight, he finds himself saying. Tonight of all nights. As he speaks, his mind roams elsewhere. Though he can’t spot any actual flowers, he’s distracted by the pervasive scent of roses.
* * *
An elfin woman wearing a beret breaks through the ring of well-wishers. She places her hand on Florian’s wrist, a light but persistent touch. He does a double take, startled by the stranger’s profile. She bears a slight resemblance to his ex-girlfriend Jade, who moved out of town but not before telling all their friends that he had trouble getting it up in bed.
—You look like you could use a drink, the elfin woman says.
—A beer would be great, Florian says. Thank you.
—I adore your music, she says. I’d love to talk to you about it sometime. Maybe after the show tonight?
—Uh, sure, he says. That’d be cool.
—I’ll be back with that beer, she says with a solicitous smile.
The woman drifts away in the direction of the bar. Florian notices the amused looks she collects from his friends as she moons her way through the mob of people. Her frizzy black hair is braided into a thick strand that stretches the length of her back. With each step, it swings like a pendulum.
—Well, well, Randy says. You should pay more attention to that one.
—I was being polite, Florian says.
—Plenty of time to get in a quick one before the show.
—I can’t think about that sort of thing right now.
—That’s the brooding magnetism the ladies love, Randy says. Keep cultivating it.
—I’m not brooding.
—You attract the weirdest groupies, Randy marvels.
* * *
Florian filters through the audience, scanning for the faraway expressions of those who might consider themselves his biggest fan. The pock-faced boy in a hoodie, the black kid sporting a bicycle chain as a necklace, the sullen girl in a puffy rainbow wig. Each seems a likely candidate. In photographs, the killers’ uninhabited stares generate a sort of negative gravity, an implosive pull that destabilizes their surroundings. But close-up, none of these kids are intimidating. Florian physically towers over each of them. Or maybe he’s mistaking photographs for reality. Maybe gravity isn’t achieved until the trigger is pulled.
* * *
Florian keeps watch on Xenie. She’s shed the black blazer and rolled up the sleeves of her purple sweater. She hovers around the alcove at the back of the club that contains the homemade shrines, a ramshackle collection of collages, assemblages, paintings. There’s one photograph she keeps tracing with her index finger. Florian can easily imagine why she’s drawn to this particular image. In it, Shaun raises his sprained and splinted wrist and flashes a smile, his easygoing spirit saturating the print. The way Xenie distractedly flattens the photo, Florian can’t tell whether she’s trying to absorb some of Shaun’s optimism or erase it. Maybe she doesn’t know herself. She seems caught in some inner conflict, her thoughts collapsing in on her, threatening to bury her inside her own indecision. She outlines the image so often that it bubbles from the wall. With every touch, the adhesive loses more of its stick.
* * *
Xenie probes the card for clues. It’s an illustration of a man hanging from a tree, strung up by his ankle, hands bound behind his back, head radiant with a burning halo. She places this talisman from the tarot deck next to a photograph of Shaun, but any resemblance between them remains obscure.
Eddie approaches and gently puts his hands on her shoulders.
—That’s a haunting song, he says. What is it?
—What are you talking about?
—The song you were singing to yourself, he says.
—I wasn’t singing.
—You don’t have to be embarrassed, he says. It was mesmerizing. It made my neck hairs stand on end.
—I wasn’t singing, she repeats.
—Okay, Eddie says. Okay.
He runs his fingers along the small of her back. She tenses, then eases into his touch. She’s amazed how readily her body responds to him, how quickly his caress can calm her.
—It must be hard having all these pictures of Shaun here, he says.
She continues to search for some presentiment of tragedy in the photos, but even in the one taken a few days before his death she’s struck by his effortless grin.
—The worst thing, she says, is that he looks exactly the same.
—How do you mean?
—I’ll go on and on, she says. And he’ll stay frozen here. He probably wouldn’t recognize me now. I’ve been so warped by all this s
adness.
As they walk to the bar, her mind returns to the tarot. She can’t decide whether the Hanged Man is augur or omen, symbol of past predicament or unfulfilled prophecy. Everything remains inscrutable except the sensation of the world turned upside down.
* * *
Too many familiar faces. Florian is uncomfortable seeing so many people who were at Shaun’s funeral. As the club grows more crowded, it recalls the circuslike atmosphere of that service, people constantly bumping into one another, acting either uptight or unhinged. Strangers tipping over the enormous floral arrangements, jockeying for prime seats in the front pews, erupting into spontaneous sobs. The tense ceremony, full of doomy hymns, put everyone on edge. Flasks circulated through the room as the pastor stumbled through the saccharine eulogy. Florian is still amazed that he managed to last through half of it. When it was over, the mourners seized on the same idea as him. They thronged across the street to the bar to start drinking in earnest. Bottles of alcohol soon lined the full length of the wooden counter, bodies three deep, spirits decanted.
* * *
Lisa-Lisa can’t serve fast enough. Her hands are constantly in motion, filling the increasingly voluble orders for hard liquor, switching between brightly labeled bottles, splashing out refills, counting crinkled bills, making change. Each movement is soundtracked by the insistent clang of empty glasses.
* * *
Everyone at the bar tries not to stare at the willowy woman with stringy brown hair. As she orders a beer, the conversations around her dissolve into silence, and even the most cynical members of the scene strain to remain aloof. Everybody is shamed by her presence. Her swollen left cheek is scarred from a recent gunshot wound. She must have been one of those injured at the show. Lisa-Lisa pours her a beer and quietly says the drink is on the house.
* * *
The spirals of the woman’s scar tissue make Florian dizzy. For a moment, he imagines dropping the needle of a record player into the puckered grooves of her wound. He wonders if it could broadcast the pain of that night. The disorienting spasms of shots and screams. The racking waves of adrenaline and nausea. The sensation of a stomach determined to wring itself inside out.
Shaun collapses, his body crashing to the stage.