by Jeff Jackson
He tries to speak, but the words taste like copper.
His head feels like it’s filled with bubbling water.
Florian slams the bathroom door behind him. He kneels in front of the toilet and starts to retch. He’s too sick to be disgusted by the bowl’s oozing cracks and moldering shit stains. He can see through the fractured floorboards to the expanse of dirt below. The network of exposed pipes, rutty weeds, weird blooms of fecal flowers. He keeps heaving, but nothing comes out. His lip jerks and drools. A sinewy rope of saliva swings from his chin. He pants deeply, trying to regain control of his equilibrium.
* * *
Florian’s eyes are fixed on the toilet’s water tank. Half in a trance, he reaches for the ceramic lid. Unsure what he might find when he removes it.
He swallows his breath for several seconds, then flips it over.
* * *
On the underside of the toilet lid, crisscrossed by silver duct tape, somebody has placed an object wrapped in newspaper.
Florian cautiously peels back the thin sheets of smudged print.
Inside sits a revolver.
* * *
Florian replaces the lid. He rinses the residue of ink from his hands and confronts his brooding reflection in the mirror. His oddly proportioned and unappealing face. His features are in flux, projecting different versions of himself like a frantic slideshow. His heart thrums to a hiccupping rhythm.
He removes the toilet lid and flips it over again. Fingers the duct tape that holds the revolver in place. Peels back the newsprint. Runs his hands along the polished steel of the cylinders. Reconfirms it’s real. The weight feels right. It’s as heavy as his head.
* * *
He leaves the revolver where it is.
Now he knows the worst is going to happen.
He’s almost relieved.
This is what’s coming.
It’s been coming all along.
It’s pointless trying to outrun it.
He bends toward the mirror. Seized by a desire to fix himself in this fleeting moment. To treat this shiny surface like a headstone. He extracts his apartment key from his front pocket. The veins in his forearm bulge as he etches eight letters across the center of his reflection. The only eight letters that make sense right now.
* * *
As Florian steps into the hallway, several girls at the bar burst into applause and cheer his name in unison. In other circumstances, their shrill drunken cries might not sound like the call of destiny.
* * *
Florian pulls Eddie away from the congested merch table. It’s hard to hear much beyond the throttling riffs spilling from the sound system. The deejay is building his set to a punishing crescendo with a pile-driving song by local legend Taconic Parkway. A few more punk anthems and it’ll be time for the show to begin.
Florian hollers: There’s something I need you to do.
—If anything happens to me, he says.
—When something happens to me, he says.
He shouts straight into his friend’s ear. Eddie nods and digs his compulsively gnawed fingernails into Florian’s shoulder, almost breaking the skin.
* * *
Xenie keeps a low profile. Mostly she sits in the booth by the bar and collects cash for T-shirts. She blows her nose and discovers the napkin is engorged with bloody mucus. She borrows a handkerchief and presses it against her face, alarmed to watch the white fabric bloom red. Lisa-Lisa scurries over with a box of tissues.
—You okay? she says. You sure you should be here?
Xenie struggles not to get swallowed by the question.
—I’ll be fine, she says. It’ll stop soon.
She pinches the bridge of her nose and wads up several tissues, stuffing them inside her nostrils. The bloody handkerchief lies coiled on the seat next to her, resembling some larval discharge.
—Tonight must be hard for you, Lisa-Lisa ventures.
—I’m convinced those shrines are making me sick, Xenie says. I don’t know why people bothered if they were going to do such a terrible job. If another person tells me they’re beautiful, I’m going to scream.
—They are pretty ugly, Lisa-Lisa says.
—I know I’m awful, Xenie says. I must sound like some elitist snob.
As she removes a drenched tissue, more crimson dribbles down her lips. She’s terrified by the sight of all this blood.
—Maybe I shouldn’t be here, she murmurs. Maybe this was a mistake.
She wills her body to behave, but the blood is unstaunchable. She tilts her head back and pinches her nose with renewed fury. Her feet are encircled by an expanding ring of red-stained tissues.
* * *
People migrate toward the stage. The heat escalates from the mass of bodies. The security guards scan the audience for potential troublemakers, circulating through the crowd in the pattern of a figure eight. A squirrelly boy sporting a child’s birthday hat shapes his hand like a gun. Two raised fingers for the barrel and the thumb as hammer. He walks behind people, takes aim, and shouts, Bang! Most roll their eyes and shove him away. One guy’s head recoils in slow motion, the fluttering movement of his hand mimicking the decelerated spray of blown brains as his body crumples to the floor. The guy bounces back to life with a half bow and a sheepish smile. Scattered laughter crackles through the room, but it sounds brittle. The boy in the birthday hat stares in astonishment at his outstretched fingers.
* * *
Florian needs air. He wedges himself through the barricaded front door and stands alone facing the street. The stretch of asphalt is absent of any traffic. The racket of the club is subdued enough that he can hear his own thoughts. His mind keeps returning to the one time his mother beat him as a kid. She had trusted him to stay alone in the house. He had pulled the curtains, turned off the lights, and lit some candles. He put on a favorite album, found at a flea market, whose cover featured two women in black housecoats and red scarves standing against a brick wall. It looked like they’d been cornered, but they snarled defiantly at the camera and bared their red teeth. He played it at obliterating volume until he felt himself dissolving inside the ecstatic din. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t surprised to see the living room was on fire. The flames climbing the curtains made sense, a physical manifestation of the music, ignited by forces deep within the song. Florian doesn’t dwell on how he managed to smother the blaze or the belt whipping that left welts. His keenest memory is the several seconds after he opened his eyes, sitting motionless on the carpet, enraptured by the undulating fronds of orange flame, flickering in time to the rhythm. This was the moment he knew he wanted to be a musician.
* * *
Whenever Florian shares this story, he tells it with a sense of wonder. He emphasizes it was worth the danger and the beating. But it’s also a memory of failure. If he had better understood the music, if he had been brave enough to heed its call, Florian knows that he would’ve turned up the stereo, walked out onto the lawn, and let his house be consumed by the fire.
* * *
His bandmates are probably searching for him, but Florian lingers outside a little longer. Down the block, a streetlight flickers to life. Under its fuzzy illumination, standing on the sidewalk, he spots a deer. They lock eyes for a moment, then the animal bolts, galloping away on tall spindly legs into the shadows. Florian can’t decide whether he should follow its lead, whether it’s being skittish or if it’s smart to run. He watches as the doe materializes under the pooled light of each successive lamppost, smaller at each reappearance, until it disappears altogether.
Mom, if you’re listening to me.
If you’re watching over me.
I don’t believe it, but I’m asking anyway.
Backstage, Florian joins Derek D. and Randy the Mongoose. He bobs on the balls of his feet, trying to shake the tension out of his body. The cramped space is furnished with a sagging couch, but the band clusters together near the wooden riser that holds their instruments and steals a glimpse of the massed faces. Swe
at shined, alcohol aglow, glistening with expectation.
* * *
—It’s gone, Randy says. My amulet is gone. I tied it to my cymbal stand and now it’s gone.
—That trinket you bought at the New Age store? Florian says.
—It’s a family heirloom, Randy says. Sacred amulet of protection. I brought it here for all of us.
His complexion is pasty and pale. His voice has eroded to a shaky rasp.
—I keep having these nightmares, he says. They’re pretty violent.
—Sorry about the amulet, Derek D. says.
—Maybe we should wear the bulletproof vests, Randy says.
—You’re joking, Florian says.
He’s not joking.
Florian puts his hand on Randy’s shoulder. He can feel the tissue and tendons quailing throughout his friend’s body.
—We have to do this, Florian says softly.
The audience starts to clap and holler. Soon they’ll be stamping their feet.
—There’s nothing between us and them, Randy says.
* * *
The lights go out. The band can no longer see one another’s faces, but their emotions are so palpable they might as well be the graffiti sprayed across the walls. Florian shuffles his feet in a small circle, determined not to buckle under the fear.
—This is our fucking moment, he says.
—I was going to say we should play in our underwear again, he says. But that’s not enough. We’re not some precious teases.
—I think we should take it all off, he says.
Without another word, they strip off their clothes. It feels good to make a defiant gesture like this, but they’re slightly self-conscious before peeling away the final layer. Derek D. goes first.
—I know you guys think I’m not committed, he says.
Standing amid a heap of black leather, Derek showcases his latest look. To match his pompadour, his pubic hair has indeed been dyed bright pink.
* * *
In a final ceremonial flourish, Florian produces a tube of red lipstick. He adorns each of their foreheads. Though the marks resemble third eyes, they’re really targets.
I want to be worthy of their ammunition.
The vintage lamps set on the amplifiers dim to an anticipatory glow. The recording of the electronic drone announces their entrance. The deep tones tint the atmosphere, laying a translucent scrim over the space. Florian’s senses must be sharpened because he can now see clearly how the entire club is a shimmering violet.
* * *
As the naked band climbs onto the stage, there are gasps and hoots. Florian leaps up and latches on to a hanging speaker, swinging back and forth before landing in front of the audience. Bursts of laughter erupt from the crowd, then a galvanizing round of applause quakes the walls. Florian straps on his guitar and strums with a dramatic flourish. He’s determined to ignore the mounting pain of his migraine. Guided by a premonition that he’s stepping into a performance soon to be lodged in local legend, he flips the switch on the green amp and cranks the volume a few extra notches so there’s no chance he won’t be heard.
* * *
Florian positions his bare feet directly above the trapdoor. His body feels attuned to the club’s structure, as if he can perceive the maze of plumbing beneath the floorboards and trace the rush of fluids through the metal pipes, which culminates in the tide of brackish water rising inside the toilet tank.
Above it all levitates the revolver.
He silently chants the number of its chambers.
A sort of pacifying koan.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
Randy cues the band. He clicks his drumsticks and they launch into the first song. Florian wonders how far they’ll make it into the set. If they’ll manage to play longer than Shaun. If this will be more than a ritual reenactment of that night. After a tentative first few seconds, the adrenaline surge takes over. They make it past the first chorus, the second chorus, the bridge, and then they’re into terra incognita. The perspiration slides off their skin and hits the stage with its own distinct rhythm.
* * *
The band can feel the audience alongside them. The crowd has become a single unified organism, no longer tentative but leaning into the music, abandoning themselves to the sound, willing the musicians to live up to the moment they’re immersed in together.
They’re all gathered under the watchful gaze of the bleeding panda. With its impassive black eyes, it resembles some remote deity. Florian scans the crowd. Among the throng, there’s the pock-faced boy in the hoodie, the black kid sporting the bicycle-chain necklace, the sullen girl in the puffy rainbow wig. This is their moment, too.
Their faces stare up at him, blistered with sweat, emphatically blank.
* * *
Eddie stands on the periphery. Even as he’s drawn to the mass of bodies lurching on its heels to the pulsating push-pull of the rhythms, he keeps checking over his shoulder. He tries not to seem clinging, but he’s concerned about Xenie. She sits alone at the bar, stationed in front of the closed-circuit monitor, watching the grainy images of the performance happening on the other side of the wall. Florian leaning over his guitar, lost in an extended solo, simultaneously spooling out a thread of notes and unraveling them. Eddie notices the stray flecks of paper clinging to Xenie’s nostrils. There’s no more flow, but she still clutches one of the stained tissues, restlessly turning it over in her hands, examining the scarlet smears as though they were different sides of some foreign coin.
* * *
The amp starts to crackle. Florian adjusts the dials, but the thin sound is harsh and scratchy. He attempts to coax it back to life with a series of gentle kicks, but the pitch remains ear wrenchingly awful. It’s happening too fast. The song is speeding away from him. The relentless tempo pulls him out of the moment, but he’s still tethered to the tune and it feels like he’s being dragged along by his ankles, skinned and skidding.
* * *
The others don’t notice the technical troubles. Randy is subsumed by his sheer momentum. Derek D. is in his preening element. Florian is the sole reason the band’s sound keeps taking longer to reach the audience. The delay from stage to synapses returns the crowd to their bodies. People notice how the air feels more saturated with heat than sound. They’re distracted by the oppressive humidity, the perspiration collecting in cracks and pits, the salty excretions of every pore.
* * *
As the dull pressure escalates behind his eyes, Florian ratchets up his volume. He sings louder than usual, trying to fill every particle of the room. Toward the back of the crowd, he spots the elfin woman with the beret. She looks bored, not entirely present, as though her shadow has wandered off. Florian is flooded by a sudden desire to make love to her, the need to establish a corporeal connection, to feel the sticky slip of their forms merging, to return her beating heart to the present moment, to fuck her shadow back into her skin.
* * *
Florian strums the opening of the next song faster, sending the band hurtling after him. He’s desperate to make something happen. His voice is hoarse and he’s sliding out of tune. Several people start to retreat outside to the patio. The black kid with the bicycle-chain necklace is among the first to defect. Florian finds himself barking lyrics at the backs of their receding heads.
* * *
Florian is increasingly aware of his naked body. His thin frame, elongated arms, and flipperlike feet can’t sustain the audience’s attention. He starts to feel truly exposed. He tries to let himself get swept away in the moment, to allow the performance to become a single continuous gesture, a blissful blur later recalled by listeners as one long soaring song. But he can’t do it. Surges of pure being sputter to a halt. Songs continue to let out the tension. The band’s set is a leaking ship, taking on water with every verse, and the crowd has stopped bailing. The sullen girl removes her puffy rainbow wig and slinks toward the smoke-filled patio. She shakes the black sweat from her drenched l
ocks and joins the sea of cigarettes and cell phones, rapt faces absorbed in digital displays.
* * *
Florian plays purposefully choppy, changes lyrics, generates reefs of feedback. Between songs, he thumps the microphone stand against the stage and curses out his bandmates. He pretends to be angry to ratchet some tension back into the music, but he fakes it so convincingly that he finds he’s actually motherfucking furious.
As more people filter outside, he starts to viciously slap his own face.
Come back.
Don’t start screaming. I won’t be able to stop.
The scream will start screaming me.
Maybe they changed their mind.
Maybe I’m not even worth killing.
Three years tonight.
The house sparrow.
The russet sparrow.
The parrot-billed sparrow.
The white-throated sparrow.
Cha-cha-cha-cah.
Wheet-wheet’eo.
Vrdi, vreed, vreed.
Tee-si, tee-si, tee-si.
To-ree, to-ree, to-ree.
Ta-wit, ta-wit, ta-wit, tee-yo.
Easy, Bruce. Take it easy.
His head might be inflating. It feels filled with tiny bubbles, as if helium is being pumped into his cranium, multiplying with every breath, swarming against the knitted ridges of his skull. Florian’s mouth is pressed against the microphone and he opens it to relieve the excruciating pressure. He’s surprised to hear himself screaming:
—Shoot me! Shoot me! Shoot me!
* * *
A current of panic surges through the room. People snap out of their heat-induced stupor. Spines rigid, eyeballs widened, assholes clenched. The words spook Florian as well. His face leaps around on his skull. His pained expression resembles someone struggling to bench-press a terrific weight.
He’s not sure whether it’s an instinct to end with a crescendo or save his skin that prompts him to activate the trapdoor.
He shuts his eyes, summons his weight, and stomps on the button.
* * *
Florian opens his eyes to find himself in the same space. He’s bewildered, goggling at the crowd as if they’re otherworldly beings. He keeps stomping on the button, but he’s stranded onstage.