CHAPTER TEN

          The QE2 had been a smash success. The crowd was thick, rowdy and responsive. Turk noticed a lot of Cast Iron faces in the crowd and even one tee-shirt. Most of his old contingency had shown up, as promised, and were very supportive. Turk imagined that it was the first time for a lot of them being at the QE2 for a show not specifically billed as hardcore.

             As far as their performance, Turk was very pleased. In their first appearance as the Gateway Drug, they were ferocious and extremely tight. In Turk’s estimation, it was their finest performance as a band. Before they played their last song, “The Powers That Be”, Turk introduced the band as John removed his guitar and shifted the keyboard stand from the side of the stage to the front and sat down on it (Turk had left the keyboard and the stand visible on the side of the stage from the beginning as not to shock anyone).

            “John Alkman, guitar and keys.” Cheers from the crowd as he sat down at the keys. Turk smiled. Not polite cheers, either, earned cheers. He ended up being more wary of the crowd’s response to the keyboards than he’d estimated. Marshall sensed it as they were setting up, and gave Hank, who’d absolutely ripped an impromptu drum solo after the third song, a glance of somber relief after Turk introduced John.

            “Marshall Casey, bass. And that’s Hank Kloski on drums. This is our last song, for the evening. It’s called The Powers That Be.”

            And they played the song, and they were all on point. John and Turk played off of each other so well, and even traded solos at one point. Hank was as solid as usual. But Marshall was still reeling from hearing his name being said with the band introduction. It all it him: it was the crowd and the lights and everything was shooting at him through the monitor that was mounted over the left side of the stage where he was standing and it all of a sudden got real hot, and loud, and surreal and Hank was drumming and he was flowing and he was just being carried with it all.

            Marshall waited patiently for the last song to play as they listened to the tape of the show later that night in his and Turk’s garage. When it finally came he found out that not only was he on with everyone, level, he even threw in a hammer-on pull-off (widdlee-widdlee, Marshall thought) on the last C minor before the Turk’s breakdown that had never occurred to him at all. But it fit perfectly in the song and when John heard it, he raised his hands in triumph, holding an open mouth at Marshall.

            Un-fucking-beleivable, Marshall thought, and burst out laughing.

                                                                        ~

            The Gateway Drug were able to hook up with three other bands and rent out more spacious and just plain better studio accommodations on Madison Avenue. They rented it by the month, all four bands split it evenly, and then they worked out a schedule amongst themselves. Their first official practice in the new diggs would not be until Monday, but on the Saturday after the show, Turk and John went down there in the late afternoon just to noodle around a bit and talk and drink and hang out.

            Turk had dropped by once before with Marshall when they went to check it out initially, but John had yet to see it. Turk unlocked the door and stepped in, John behind him. Turk found the lightswitch eventually and heard a faint gasp from behind.

            “Shit,” John remarked upon seeing the setup. “This is fucking incredible.”

            Three drum kits were already set up. Turk indicated them. “We can set up Hank’s kit in here permanently. We’ll bring it by when we move in on Monday.”

            “We can just leave it here?”

            “Sure, man,” Turk said, setting his electric down. He flung his backback off his shoulder onto one of the bigger guitar amps. “That’s the point. We can leave all our gear here, if we ever don’t feel like bringing it with us.”

            “Like tonight,” John winked.

            “Well, you probably won’t want to bring it,” Turk said. “I’ll probably be bringing mine back. Remember, my acoustic’s bridge cracked.”

            “Shit, you didn’t tell me that, no.” John walked in and went immediately to the eight track recorder. “We get to use this too?”

            “Well, it’s one of the other guys’, but he said we can use it if we know how to operate it.”

            “Do you?”

            “Um, not really,” Turk said. “But Hank, believe it or not, knows a great deal about it. I told the guy we’d only use it if he were here.”

            “What’d he say?” John asked. He was fingering it delicately. He’d never used one before, and had never seen one outside of a guitar store. He wanted badly to tinker with it.

            “He said feel free to use it anyway, but under no circumstances to fuck it up. As in, if there’s even a chance that we’ll fuck it up, don’t use it.”

            “Fair enough,” John said, backing away from it. He looked up. “Fucking great monitors, too.”

            Turk nodded.

            “You know Turk,” John said. “This is going to be fucking amazing. Not having to pay to record. We could put out a CD for next to nothing. Especially if we’re getting paid gigs regularly.”

            “How often do you want to play out?” Turk asked.

            “As often as possible.”

            “I figure two shows a month is perfect.”

“Two or three.”

            “We don’t want to saturate,” Turk said. John nodded and pulled his guitar out of its case. He strapped it on and strummed an E-minor chord instinctively to see if he was in tune.

            “John,” Turk said, holding out a small bottle of whiskey he’d bought. “You want any?”

            “Nah, I’ll be drinking plenty later.”

            Turk laughed, looked around the studio and plugged his guitar into the biggest amp that he saw. John had just plugged in and was tuning his high E string. “I can’t believe you’re dicking around with Caitlyn’s roommate.”

            John smiled. “It’s not dicking around. I like her. Besides, this is only going to be our second date together, first if you don’t count after the show.”

            “Nah, you can count that. How long did you guys end up staying up anyway?

            “Shit, man, it was past sunrise. Maybe six?”

            “I haven’t really had the chance to talk to her that much. What’s she like?”

            John lit a cigarette and shrugged. “She’s cool. Very laid back, very drifty. She loves to read books, and she draws a little. But she’s mainly into art to appreciate it.”

            Turk nodded coolly. “That’s cool.”

            “Plus she’s studying computers. She was telling me she has this group of friends on this chat room from all over the country.”

            “I think Caitlyn mentioned that,” Turk said. He strummed an A chord defiantly, finally in tune. “What do you want to play?”

            “I think that’s wild. She’s very probing. Curious.”

            “How about ‘Your Game’?”

            John nodded. “B-flat minor, right?”

            “Right.”

            “I think I got it.” He stuttered on a riff twice, then fell into it. Turk nodded and soloed a bit over John while he was working it out. 

                                                                        ~

delilah (hy4443@cnsunix.albany.edu) has joined #life

****Users currently on #life: @Pillbot @Pillbox @sloegin @frau

****Topic on #life: Shhhh........... (frau 18:44)

****19:03 Saturday, April 3rd

<sloegin> caitlyn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! where are you sweetie?

<delilah> LC-4 of all places.

<sloegin> are you using Ted’s cousin’s account

<delilah> *nod*

<delilah> This place is creepy, I don’t know how you do it

<frau> hi caitlyn

<sloegin> I’m waving at you, in some form.

<delilah> Katherine, right?

<frau> Katrina

<delilah> I remember you from last time.. Boston U. right?

<frau> uh huh

<sloegin> did you just get off of work?

<delilah> Yeah, I came over here to see this guy Tim who might be getting me a deal on a new                                         easel.

<deliliah> I didn’t even think the LCs were open on the weekend.

<sloegin> well they pretty much had to when they closed the 24 hours labs in the Quads

<delilah> Thank god I’m out of there.

<frau> I didn’t realize that you went to suny albany caitlyn

<delilah> Well, I never quite finished. *heh*

<frau> ahhh

<sloegin> I keep telling her to go back

*delilah shakes her head

<delilah> no way, no way

crydydian (crydydian@suplex.uchicago.edu) has joined #life

<Pillbot> Hello crydydian!

****mode change +o crydydian

<crydydian> re everyone

<frau> re eric

<delilah> hello there

<crydydian> hello delilah

<crydydian> ahh.. another SUNY Albany person.

<crydydian> Gina, I’m going to have to talk to you about bringing all these Albany freaks on the                                channel. you’re giving this channel a bad rep

<delilah> no no no no no no

<frau> It’s caitlyn, gina’s roommate

<sloegin> eric any news?

<crydydian> nothign

<crydydian> nothing even

<delilah> what’s up?

<crydydian> I’m officially on the watch for reed. Gina wants to know when he comes on so she can               log off, hence the topic

<delilah> ahhh i see

<sloegin> cait he sent me an email saying he sent me his photograph. It should be here any day

<delilah> I didn’t check the mail.

<sloegin> me neither

<frau> :(

<sloegin> katrina I just want as little static as possible while I’m figuring this out

<delilah> hey don’t look at me. I think you’re doing the right thing.

<sloegin> we both are, huh babe ;)

<delilah> heh

<crydydian> what’s this?

<frau> ?

<sloegin> caitlyn has a date too

<delilah> it’s not a date. I’m just going to see what the deal is.

<sloegin> eric: some guy slipped her the address of the bar he works at

<frau> was he cute?

<delilah> he was, if I’m remembering correctly. It all happened so fast.

<crydydian> did you see him gina?

<sloegin> no I was busy with the fries

<delilah> it’s exciting nonetheless. It’s been a while.

<frau> ooh! how exciting!

<crydydian> good for you girl

<delilah> when do you have to leave gina?

<sloegin> pretty much whenever. He’s at the studio with Turk checking it out and dropping off                 some gear. I’m supposed to meet him at the Pit at eight.

<delilah> smittty’s?

<sloegin> mmhmm

<crydydian> what’s the pit?

<sloegin> descent bar, tournament size pool table, not too crowded

<crydydian> sounds very romantic

*frau nudges sloegin

<sloegin> stop it guys

<sloegin> *blush*

<delilah> Well I’m going to get going. Am I going to see you later doll?

<crydydian> if you’re lucky sweetie

<delilah> :P

<sloegin> I should be. This is just like a get-to-know-you thing. I haven’t really been alone with                him yet, unless you count the cab ride back from the show ;)

<delilah> which I do, babe. You have a good time.

<sloegin> you too!!!!

<delilah> I’ll try

<delilah> remember this night could be over for me in five minutes. If he’s a psycho I’ll know and             I’m getting right out of there.

<sloegin> if your night turns out bad stop by the Pit and hang out with me and john

<delilah> yeah right gina. Whatever.

<delilah> I’d be happier at home with my new canvases, knowing that you’re getting the flesh and             blood booty you’ve deserved for so long.

<delilah> no offense you guys

<crydydian> none taken

<frau> none taken

<frau> !

<delilah> heh. Hope I didn’t give you two any ideas ;)

<crydydian> oh no that was over long ago

<frau> you’ll never let me live that down will you eric

<frau> :P

<delilah> bye guys

<delilah> *wave*

<crydydian> bye

<sloegin> bye babe

****delilah has left #life (19:20)

<sloegin> okay guys here I go.

<sloegin> and remember, not a word of this to marcus

<crydydian> course not sweetie

<frau> bye gina!!! kick some ass!!!

****sloegin has left #life (19:21)

<crydydian> hm...

<frau> eric?

                                                                        ~

            “So what are you up to tonight?”

            Ted “Turk” Casey poked his head up from his guitar case, looking a bit startled. “What was that?” he asked, tossing a pack of strings in the case. They hit his electric and  a weak twang filled the silence. John was trying to find a good angle to lean his guitar against one of the amplifiers before giving up and laying it flat on the floor.

            John turned around as Turk was zipping up his gig bag. “I was just wondering what you were doing tonight.” They had had a nice jam session and were both feeling a bit spent. John cleared his throat lightly. “Is Marshall around?”

            Turk picked up his guitar and crossed the strap over his shoulder, hoisting the guitar onto his back. He fingered the opening to his water bottle. “I dunno, really. Caitlyn is busy and I think Marshall is at the QE2 tonight. I’ll probably just end up noodling around on the guitar or get a couple of beers of something. No real plans.”

            “Where’s Hank tonight?”

            Turk shrugged. “He’s at his father’s this weekend. I think he’ll be back Monday. Well, he better in any case.”

            John nodded. “That’s cool. I’ll probably be around tomorrow if you feel like doing anything.”

            “I just might. I’ll give you a call.”

            “Right. You ready to get going? I’ve got to get across town.”

            “Sure thing.”

            They stepped out of the studio. John waited, hands in coat pockets, as Turk locked the door. They walked down the long corridor, John stopping to get a can of juice at the vending machine by the elevators. They were silent out the door and silent out onto the street, which was cold and a bit empty. The nights still had yet to keep pace with the mild afternoons, and the bar crowd, which accounted for most of the pedestrian traffic in the city, would not be peaking until around eleven o’clock or so, and that would be mostly on the other side of town.

            Turk and John came up to the southwest corner of Washington Park, where Turk had parked his car. Turk offered John a ride but he declined, preferring to hop on a bus. They said their goodbyes and finalized the plans for the studio Monday (“I’ll gather Marshall, you get Hank,” Turk had said). Turk told John to have fun on his date and John said he most likely would, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, and they shared a laugh. Turk parked his guitar in the back seat of the car, shook John’s hand, and walked around to the other side of the car, flashing a peace sign to John, who waved back, the bottom half of his overcoat flapping gently in the wind.

            John lit a cigarette and started to walk towards the bus stop. He was kind of put off by Turk’s gruff intensity, but had come to expect it by now. He didn’t think that Turk had a specific problem with his dating Gina, and was probably just upset about the fact that Caitlyn had this new guy she was supposed to meet. After all, everyone knew (except for Caitlyn and Gina, it seemed) about Turk’s peculiar love for Caitlyn. John had tried to bring the issue up but Turk just laughed it off, saying Caitlyn was closer to a sister than a potential lover, that he had just known her like forever and was perhaps a bit overprotective when it came to her. But John saw something else behind his eyes; an indefinable passion, true, but a passion nonetheless. In fact, the only thing that kept John from saying that it was love was that Turk, so stubborn and defiant about every other desire he had, would be so nonchalant when it came to her. But at the same time, he never remembered Turk talking about any girlfriend of his, ex- or otherwise as long as he had known him (which was only just a shade over two months, granted).

            John Alkman had another suspicion about Turk’s mood, however. He’d come across people like him in the many bands he’d been in. The entrance of John into the band signified the emergence of another powerful force in his circle. He imagined someone with Turk’s fire and talent had to have been the unquestionable leader of any scene he chose to be a part of. He’d asked Turk about his other bands and found out that Turk had pretty much used his bands as a gallery for his songs, so to speak. He’d write a bunch of songs and then gather a band to play them. After their first jam session, Turk, who was overwhelmingly impressed with John’s songwriting, expressed interest in collaborating, but wanted to teach John his songs to get them on the same page musically, with “the band thing”, as Turk put it.
            John had no problem with that. After all, Turk was a great talent and John loved his songs for their energy and life, and loved playing them. But Turk’s avoidance of Cast Iron songs and grudging acceptance of John’s input into composition made him wary. John figured it was just hard for him, and though he wanted to respect Turk’s frontman status, the demagogue thing was starting to wear on him. Things like stopping a song in the middle because John had thrown in a vocal harmony that he didn’t like, or because Marshall simply couldn’t keep up with the tempo,  bothered him immensely. It had gotten better in the past couple of rehearsals because John continued to voice his problems and had begun to work on Marshall, encouraging him to speak up as well. John, knowing that Turk respected Marshall more than anyone, hated having to play band politics, but assumed that anyone who knew Turk well would understand. He felt he had to; under no circumstances did he want to lose this band. Turk was every bit the genius musician he thought himself to be, and John had found his own musicianship heightened just by playing with him. And he knew Turk knew this too, that they had the seed of something amazing with the band, because he often conceded to John with the look of someone clearly uncomfortable with it, but doing so because he knew that it was necessary.

            There were a couple of other people waiting at the bus stop with John. None of them seemed particularly interested in anything. Turk drove by with a donut in his mouth, honked and waved. John smiled and waved back.

                                                                        ~

            Caitlyn Avery absolutely loathed the SUNY campus, and was glad to be off of it. She had run into her friend Jerry, the straight-edge skinhead who worked at the print shop where she would go to get masters of her album covers and flyers or whatever she was working on at the moment, at Collins Circle, where they were both waiting for the downtown bus. Jerry was one of the good guys, as Gina so often put it. He was working on his M.F.A. at SUNY and was on campus at the Fine Arts building working on the last few pieces of his installation that was to be shown in May. They’d met at an Earth Crisis/In This Together show a while back, at Bogie’s, before Caitlyn knew the difference between the straight-edge hardcore bands and regular hardcore bands, and through all of the straight-edge versus pot-smoking/drinking politics, they had remained friends. Sometimes they would jokingly refer to themselves as Romeo and Juliet, as they were the only friends they knew from opposite sides of the political fence.

            The number 10 bus came, and though it was crowded, Caitlyn and Jerry had managed to get a pair of seats together towards the back by nudging their way to the front of the herd of SUNY students when the bus pulled up. As the bus pulled around Collins Circle and off campus, Caitlyn had her head leaning against the window, watching the concrete towers fade underneath the rows of trees and give way to the space of the clear night. Jerry was silent and looking rather tired, and, having sensed immediately that Caitlyn was in a bizarre place that particular evening, had decided to let her have some space for the ride home, or to where ever she was off to. The bus passed over I-90 and gave them a rather nice stretch of sky to look at, the last of the purple rim of horizon turning over to night.

            Caitlyn was loosely bouncing her leg up and down, trying to look at the faces of the drivers in the cars heading uptown. She forced a yawn and waited for the lightness in her stomach to settle. She had told herself and others that she was going down there to see him simply on a whim, a scenario that she asked herself why-not and couldn’t come up with a good enough answer. And while that was true, she felt weird about it because the whole thing seemed utterly planned in the sense that events like that happened to her so rarely that she had no question in her mind that she would follow up on something like it should it ever happen to her. It made her very sheepish about talking about how they’d first met. She wanted to tell everyone about it after tonight, as if the fucked up meeting never happened. As if she should feel somewhat embarrassed about going, about having to meet someone that way, even though that’s what they’d all say, even if they didn’t say it, she’d know it the same way she knew she’d ever go, if it happened, and here it was, and it had been a long time, it had. Embarrassed about wanting it to be unorthodox. She didn’t want to have to explain the meeting because it was perfectly normal to her to feel the rush for just that one moment, that that was all it should ever take.

            “Holy shit,” Caitlyn said, jerking her forehead off of the window and placing her hand on Jerry’s arm. Jerry noticed she had left a line of wrinkling fog on the window where she’d been leaning. She was trying to peer around the back side of the bus.

            “What?” asked Jerry.

            “I think that was Turk’s car out there.”

            “Driving past us?”

            “Uh-huh. You know Turk, right.”

            “Yeah,” Jerry said. “His cousin goes to SUNY, right?”

            “I think he’s a freshman,” Caitlyn said. It had definitely been Turk’s car. Without a doubt. The dented fender, the white stripe across the side.

            “What’s Turk up to these days?” Jerry asked. He was rubbing his cheek sagely, watching Caitlyn. She was still gazing out the window, eyes wide, her right index finger, hanging from the corner of her mouth, the top of the nail resting on her lower lip. “And what’s eating you?”

            “He’s trying to start another band. I think he’s getting it together. I just hope he holds up.” Caitlyn said dryly. “I hope we all can.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Well he’s got power issues, you know.”

            “We all know,” Jerry laughed.

            Caitlyn sighed and shifted her gaze from the bus to the reflection of the two of them in the window across the aisle. It was still but full. Jerry watched along, in the reflection. Streetlamps whizzed across their faces. “Jerry, you ever get the sense that things are due for a major change soon?”   

            “In what way?”

            “Well, when things go a certain way for a while, and they build and build that way until something gives?”
            Jerry curled his brow down, considering the question. “Well,” he said finally, as the bus slowed to stop at Quail Street, “Things, you know, if you’re talking about environment, I don’t think they ever change in any significant way. Sure, the seasons go around and around and plates move and volcanoes blow and that’s the environment changing itself. We just get stuck in it. But I think when ideas are growing in someone’s head they just push and push until they’re realized.”

            “Plus it’s the millennium,” Caitlyn added with a shade of bitterness.

            “Well, sometimes we create the push for ourselves,” Jerry said, rising. He flung his backback over his shoulder. He saw Caitlyn move to say something and said, “Hang on a sec. I have to get off at the next stop. The millennium is just numbers, and if you believe in the Jesus gig, they say that the calendar was miscalculated. If that’s true, and Jesus really was born in 6 BC or whatever then it’s already been two thousand years since Jesus’ birth.”

            The bus slowed to a stop at North Lake. A few people started shuffling to the exits. Jerry gave Caitlyn a kiss on the cheek and backed away. “If you’re thinking a change is coming, if you’re really feeling it and getting ready for it, it’s probably on its way, Cait.”

            Caitlyn nodded and waved to him as he exited the bus. She leaned back against the window, and the bus bounced its way down Washington Avenue, turning all of the downcast heads into nods. She thought that her end-of-discussion line about the meeting, “It should be interesting, at least”, was more enticing that she expected people to give it credit for. She bet he, the guy in the Buick, thought the same or he would have never done what he did. That he was creating his own push. Just that fact, she thought, gave her enough reason to go down there, that there was something two people should get together over, and she cracked up laughing, drawing the disinterested, obligatory glares of everyone on the bus, realizing that she, on her way, had not until then articulated to herself why she wanted to go. She bit her lip in a smile and bounced her leg again, even with the shaking of the bus.

                                                                        ~

            Gina Becker walked down the stairs to the Pit. Though she had been here a few times before with Caitlyn (their apartment was within walking distance), the stairs and each of her steps felt new to her. She had told him she’d be there at eight-fifteen and it was now eight-twenty, so she was five minutes late, but was much more frazzled than she would normally be if five minutes late. It occurred to her as she got off the computer after talking to Caitlyn that she was in the waning part of her laundry cycle and would have a very limited selection of clean clothes to choose from. She settled on a black turtleneck and jeans, but with her leather jacket she felt it would be too much, and after much stressing and procrastinating, she decided the turtleneck with plain blue jeans would have to do. Then an ill timed phone call from her parents delayed her further. She’d been curt with them, but didn’t feel too bad because they were incapable of taking any sort of hint.

            She pushed the door, which someone opened from the other side at the same time, sending her forward awkwardly. When she looked up, she saw John at the first stool at the front corner of the bar. He wore a plain white long sleeve shirt and khakis and was smiling at her, patting the stool next to him. Gina smiled and walked over. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and they shared a one-armed hug as she planted herself on the stool.

            “Hi, Gina,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
            “It’s good to see you too,” Gina said. She laughed. He was grinning and blushing slightly. She was lost for words as well, and they sat there just watching each other. He was stirring a cream colored drink she assumed was a White Russian with one of those little red straws. She ordered a pint of Guinness and laid a ten on the counter, along with her pack of Marb Lights and matches. John caught her hand before she pulled it back and rested it on hers. She looked at him for a moment and then they were kissing, which she couldn’t remember starting and which then stopped. They held each other’s eyes and waited, smiling. Her drink came and she sipped it and he laughed and wiped imaginary foam off of the tip of her nose.

            They kissed again. The jukebox slipped into another generic early-90’s MTV hit. Smoke weaved in and out of the glasses suspended above the bar.

            “This is the first time we’ve been alone together, isn’t it?” John asked. He lit a cigarette and then hers.

            “Well-”

            “The first time we’ve been together, I mean. Out together. Alone.”

            “If you don’t count after the show,” Gina said. “Which, I have to say again, was amazing. You guys are great.”

            “We more like ended up together the first night.”

            “You were great.”

            “This is the first time we’ve been together under circumstances where we know it’s going to be just us for the entire night.”
            Gina smiled, leaning her shoulder against his. She reached over and pinched an empty ashtray between her thumb and index fingers and slid it over in between them. “It is, John. Is it strange?”
            “No, not really,” he said. “Only that it doesn’t feel that way, does it?”

            “No, it doesn’t,” Gina said. “You know, before I got here I was all worried and paranoid about how this would go, it being our first ‘date’ and all. But you’re right, it’s not like that at all.”

            “I know.”

            “The way that this started doesn’t really lend itself to our considering our get-togethers dates, does it?”

            “No,” John replied. “It’s just going out for drinks. What happens from the other night leads into tonight. It’s just a carry-over effect.”

            “I fucking love that,” Gina said, flicking her cigarette defiantly against the rim of the ashtray.

            “Yeah,” John said, letting the sound of it fade out into the background noise of the bar, the conversations, the occasional hand claps, the off key attempts by patrons to sing along with the jukebox, the clack of the pool balls from the tables in the back. “Not having pretense with people is nice,” he said, as if it were the most obvious and easy thing in the world.                                                                                                                                                                                              “Come on,” she said, tugging his arm lightly and gesturing towards the back of the bar. “I’m going to load up the jukebox. Put our names up for one of the tables. I know you don’t believe I’ll kick your ass, so I’m just going to have to demonstrate.”                                                                       

            “Winner buys the next round.”

            “Deal.”

            They rose from their stools and walked to the back of the bar. Gina squeezed his arm as they separated, and smiled at him as walked over to the chalkboard next to the cue rack. She watched him as she waited behind a guy trying to iron a one dollar bill against the corner of the jukebox.

                                                                        ~

            All of a sudden she was there, outside. Nick Kohl had begun to give up on her, but he figured it would be all right to keep his hopes up through the weekend, even though he had initially expected nothing. Hope for the best, expect the worst, he’d always been told. And there she was , hands in the pockets of her black peacoat, head tilted back, probably looking up at the street signs. They were blocked from his sight when he was behind the bar, but he was reminded of them whenever he saw a passer-by pause for a moment and look up at them.

            She walked in. They met eyes immediately, and she approached the bar with a wide grin. The light in the bar was gentle and somewhat cloaking, but felt he had a better view of her than he did when he saw her at the Royal Burger. He saw she was his height, if not a shade taller, and her hair was as short as it appeared underneath her purple work hat. Her breasts, small-ish but solid, curled up and peeked out from under the sides of her open coat. She sat down at the bar, drawing a long glance from the two older gentlemen at the far end of the bar.

            “Hi,” she said, holding out her hand.

            “Hi,” said Nick, taking her hand and shaking it. “You came.”

            Caitlyn laughed. “I did, I did.” She ran her fingers through her hair, drawing his eyes. “Isn’t it funny?”

            “It is kind of funny,” he said. “Did you find the place okay?”

            “Oh sure. Liberty and Division. I thought initially it was some kind of joke until I looked at a street map.”

            “My name’s Nick. Nick Kohl.”

            “Caitlyn Avery.”

            “Pleasure to meet you. Can I get you a drink?”

            “Sure. What do you have on tap?”

            Nick smiled. “We have Bud, Bud Light, Adorondack Pale Ale, Sam Adams, Guinness, Bass, and Rolling Rock.”

            “Sam Adams is fine.”

            “Coming right up.” He grabbed a glass from overhead and began pouring the beer. He watched her, unable to think of anything to say, unable to think of anything to do but just smile at her. He slid her the pint, which foamed over a bit onto the bar. She slurped at the rim of the glass.

“How much is that?”

            “Oh no,” Nick said, waving his hand in the air. “That one’s on me.”

            “Woah slow down there, cowboy. Let me pay for it.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah,” she said. Then, after a pause, “If I still like you after this one, you can give me the next one.”

            “Deal,” Nick said with a laugh. “I’ll be right back.”

            As Nick went to the other end of the bar to help another customer, Caitlyn took a minute to look around the bar. It was busy, though Caitlyn could not come up with a reason for why that surprised her other than she had never been here. She scanned for faces she knew, found none, and was relieved. It wouldn’t have been hard to justify her appearance at a random bar, but nonetheless she was thankful. The whole night had a very secretive feel to it. 

            “So what’s your story?”

            “Hm?” asked Caitlyn. She swung back around on her stool and began to pat down her coat pockets, eventually pulling out a pack of Marb Lights and a tye-dye lighter, and placing them next to each other by the ashtray.

            “I mean, where are you from, what do you do, et cetera.”

            “Well,” she said, “Let’s expound on what you know.” She smiled upwards at him, a bit shy, a bit red in the cheeks. “I’ve worked at that Royal Burger for about two years now. I’m supposed to be getting a promotion any time now, to supervisor. It’s strange, though. The person I’m supposed to replace has already given in her notice and they still haven’t confirmed the position for me, even though everyone knows it’s mine.”

            “That’s odd. Is it a good job?”

            “No, it’s as shitty as it looks, really. I don’t even know if I want it. But it’s more hours and more money and hopefully will allow me to save a bit of money.”

            “That’s good,” Nick said. Caitlyn saw he was having a bit of a hard time taking care of all the customers at once and it was starting to annoy him. He turned back from the register and banged on the door at the end of the bar farthest from the door. “Chuck!” he bellowed, “You fall in or what?”

            An older but rather charming looking black man came through the door behind the bar and cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hey, yo, Nick!” he shouted. “I was already done there. I was on the phone.” He looked right over towards Caitlyn and gave her a toothy wink. “The damn woman thought I went to OTB again. I had to tell her, shit, you done already took all of my money.”

            Caitlyn laughed aloud. Nick walked back over and patted Chuck on the back. “I’m just getting swamped over here, man. Give me a little help at the bar?”

            “Hey, sure thing Nick.” He poked a thumb at Caitlyn. “Is that her?”      

            “It is, actually.”

            “Shit,” he said, pronouncing it sh-eeeeeet, “She came? Remind me to give you that five spot later,” he added with another wink towards Caitlyn. He then extended his hand. “Chuck’s the name,” he said. “Let me know if this guy gives you any trouble.”

            Caitlyn shook his hand and nodded, laughing. “Will do, will do.”

            “All right then. Let me tend to these drunkards. Who’s next?” he asked. Three extended hands waved twenties.

            “So where were we?” Caitlyn asked. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my shitty job.”

            “And I’m sure you don’t really care to hear about mine.”
            “I don’t know,” Caitlyn mused. “How is bartending?”

            “It’s not so bad. I actually own the place.”
            Caitlyn nodded. “Impressive.”

            “Not really,” he said. “My brother Denis is the entrepanneur. I took it over after he died.”

            “Oh,” Caitlyn said. “I’m sorry.”

            Nick swiped a couple of singles off of the bar and put them in an empty plastic pitcher with several others. “It’s fine. It’s been a few months. I’ve gotten adjusted.”

            “Were you guys close?”

            “We used to be, but really hadn’t spoken much after I moved out of Albany. I’d gone to New York for a few years. But apparently he felt close enough to me to leave me a bar a few thou in debt.”

            Caitlyn winced a bit. “Ouch.”

            “It’s all right. We got it in the black pretty quickly. I was supposed to just come back up to Albany to help sell the place, but I liked it enough. I ended up staying, at least for the meanwhile. Plus I was able to get a new used car and I’ve saved a bit, so things have worked out well.”

            “I hear that,” Caitlyn said. “So do you plan on staying in the city long?”

            “Another six months at least. I just extended the lease.”

            “Well at least you have a car, and you won’t be stuck here.”     

            “This city’s not so bad,” Nick protested with the tone of someone who has said that particular phrase a bunch of times. Caitlyn imagined she sounded the same when she told anyone, in or out of work, to Have A Nice Day or Thank You.

            “That’s just the nice weather talking,” she joked.

            “Ah, yes,” Nick said. “But think about how nice it will be.”       

            “See, wait,” she said. She paused and noticed Nick visually drooling over her lit cigarette and wordlessly extended the pack. He took one and mouthed thank you and made a gesture for her to continue as if she had never stopped. “How long were you in New York for?”        

            “Almost three years.”   

            “And you’ve been back how long?”

            “Just about five months now.”  

            “See,” Caitlyn said, “you haven’t been in Albany for a while. You forget. When spring comes the weather’s all nice and ideal. But the summers here are suffocating. Sunny and hot, sure, but suffocating.”

            “I guess we shall see.”

            “We shall,” Caitlyn said. And then slower, Nick unsure about what the emphasis was for: “We shall.”

                                                                        ~

            Gina was laughing and could not remember the last time she’d had a laugh like it. She and John were playing pool and drinking and Gina’s songs had finally come on the jukebox and they’d moved on to pitchers and were working on their second. So it was the beer buzz, then John’s impression of Hank’s raising his arms in triumph after the QE2 gig as Gina bounced the cue off of the table. After returning the ball to the table she kept laughing and slid on over to a grinning John, holding his cue stick in front of him, his thick hands cupped over the top of it. He was inclining his head but keeping his eyes level, casting a sensual smile on the curve of his cheekbones. He held the cue to the side for a moment, letting Gina enter his frame where she just about dropped into his waiting arms.

            She was held, and could not remember the last time she had been held quite like it. The skin of his forearms, the tickling of his hair against her flesh, the seemingly endless warmth of the embrace. To stand with him was to stand against him. She buried her nose in his neck for a long moment and let it all fall over her, the smile, the warm reality of it all. There was no other word that she felt described it but triumph. Yes, yes, Gina thought as she felt his arm linger around her waist as she returned to the table. Whether it was an answer or a statement or a description seemed irrelevant.

                                                                        ~

            “What happened to your arm?”

            Nick, at the cash register, raised his eyes to the mirror then turned to her. His arms were stretched out at length and his hands occupied. He held place and wiggled them a little with an exaggerated puzzled expression on his face, as if to say, What took you so long? Caitlyn had been at Last Call for about an hour and had noticed it fairly early, but had decided to not bring it up. The longer she stayed, the more comfortable she got with him and he did get her second (and fourth) drink. She liked him. He was interesting, for one, and he was good looking, for two, which instantly put him above ninety percent of guys she met in Albany. And those eyes. There was something about his eyes that struck her as being simply more perceptive, or alert, than normal. These were the eyes, the what-took-you-so-long eyes, that he was looking at her with now. She liked them, too.

            He placed the glass he was holding on the counter and slapped the register drawer shut with his other hand. As he clasped them and laid them on the bar in front of her, Caitlyn noticed that his right arm was slightly forced. He looked at her as if he knew she saw and shrugged.

            “Well, if you really want to know,” Nick said.

            “Big masturbating accident. Age 16,” said Greg, one of the regulars Nick had introduced her to. Nick had impressed her with the fact that his personality was well articulated in his demeanor. She imagined this is the way he was every night around these guys; nothing specific had changed in this nightly scene except the fact that she was here. Even though everyone appeared to know about Nick’s scribbling a message on the back of a twenty dollar bill (one of the new ones, Caitlyn noted again, for no reason she could place) there was nothing sophomoric about his friends’ reactions and they seemed willing, if not a bit eager, to acclimate her into a typical night at Last Call.

            Caitlyn gave Greg’s arm a swat, much to Chuck’s delight. “Tell me,” she said.

            “I was shot.”

            Caitlyn’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

            “Yep,” Nick said. He was peeking over at Greg, who was shaking his head. “I used to be a cop. I was still a rookie; this was maybe four years ago. We followed some fucking thug into this shacked up house and he nailed us in the hallway. Me and my partner. He hit my partner over the head and cornered me. Put a bullet right here-” Nick pointed to his right arm just above the elbow.

            Greg groaned. “Everybody’s got an ‘I’ve been shot’ story. They’re a dime a dozen.”
            “So did it fuck your arm up for good?” Caitlyn asked.

            “For a good while, yeah,” Nick said. “It stiffens up a bit, pouring drinks all day. And sometimes when I do a long writing session it gets uncomfortable.”

            “Oh, you’re a writer?”

            Nick nodded. “I’m working on my first book.”

            “No kidding,” Caitlyn said. “What’s it about?”

            Nick looked over to Greg, who offered his hands up. Caitlyn saw he clearly did not want to get involved in the answering of the question. He actually looked to Caitlyn to be attempting to ward off a liquor nap. His cigarette lay unsmoked, carrying about a half-inch of ash, balancing on the lip of the square glass ashtray. Caitlyn noticed that Nick had emptied all of the other ashtrays periodically throughout the night except for this one. It was filled with Greg’s Pall Mall butts, with a few of Caitlyn’s white-colored Marb Light butts thrown in for texture that Caitlyn figured was a rare sight in that particular ashtray.

            She looked up at Nick, who looked to be just about done with his pause. “It’s about a guy who thinks he may be witnessing a crime in the building across the street from him.”

            “You mean like Rear Window?”
            “What?” Nick asked.

            “Isn’t that what happens in Rear Window? You know, Jimmy Stewart, Hitchcock?”

            “I don’t know,” Nick said. “I’ve never seen Rear Window.”

            “Me neither. But I think that’s the basic plot.”

            Nick shrugged. “You ever see Rear Window, Greg?”

            “Hm?” Greg looked up, a bit dazed. “Rear Window?”

            “Yeah,” Nick said. “We were just wondering- Hey, you okay?”

            Greg was massaging the area just under his armpit, with a tired expression on his face. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just- I’m tired. You know, the old plugs.” He slapped his heart with his fist twice and smiled. “How late is it?”

            “Eleven-thirty,” Caitlyn said, pointing up to the Budweiser clock behind Nick’s head. “Shit, have I really been here for three hours?”

            “You have,” Nick said. The traffic in the bar had peaked about a half-hour ago and now was more or less steady. There were close to forty people in the place, and Chuck and Harry Werrill, the new guy, were taking care of the majority of the customers. Every so often Nick would help out or take a random drink or two, but he’d made it clear to Chuck and Harry, after Caitlyn had arrived, that he was going to be off to the side for the night.

            “Wow,” Caitlyn said, and all of a sudden a wave of wooziness came over her. She ground out her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, picked up her glass, swished the last inch of beer around a few times, then knocked it back. “I’m going to go to the bathroom, you guys. I’ll be back.”

            “Staying?” Nick asked, trying not to sound anxious, as she rose from the bar stool.

            Caitlyn looked back at them. Greg was sitting with his head propped up on his fist, his eyes pretty much awake for the first time in an hour or so. Nick’s eyebrows were raised slightly, giving a small crease to his forehead. There was something wily and engaging about his smile and his posture, arms folded across his chest, dangling a brandy glass between his right index and ring fingers. And standing for the first time in about four drinks, she felt all the alcohol rush to her head, and with it the warmth, and her attraction to him came to the front. He shifted and smiled broadly under the lamplight. She rolled the letter R on her tongue excitedly, soundlessly, in her mouth, tasting it for the first time in- God, how long? she wondered.  

            “Sure,” she said. “For a little bit longer, anyway.”
                                                                        ~

            When Caitlyn’s cab pulled up Lark Street about an hour later she saw John and Gina on the steps in front of their building in the midst of a heavy make-out session. They paused when they became aware of the automobile approaching the building and looked out, embracing, squinting, to the cab. Caitlyn hopped out and they waved frantically. She trotted up the flight of stairs, watching Gina’s face spasm in excitement and drunkenness.

            “Caaaaaaai-tlyn!” She shrieked. “Baby! What’s up?”

            “Oooh, a whole lot. Hi, John,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You- coming up?”

            “Not tonight. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

            “Well, you kids have fun. I’ll be upstairs, Gina,” Caitlyn said, starting for the door.

            “Wait a sec,” Gina said, tugging Caitlyn’s arm. She went right up to Caitlyn’s face and was trying to whisper and failing miserably. “Was he cute? What happened?”
            “Yes, he was cute. Very. And a nice guy too.” Caitlyn looked over her shoulder to John, who was trying to restrain a laugh.

            “So what happened?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Nothing?” Gina recoiled a bit, surprised. She looked back at John, who shrugged. Down the block, there was a noise that sounded to Caitlyn a lot like a pack of drunk frat boys hollering. The street was clear.

            “Nothing yet, dear.” She stuck out her tongue at John. “I don’t do things like that on the first date.” She kissed Gina on the cheek. “I’ll see you upstairs. Take care, John.”

            “Bye, Caitlyn. Have a good night.”

            Caitlyn gave them a wink and headed inside. When she got to the first landing, she saw the rows of mailboxes and got curious. She swung herself around the banister and peeked in their mailbox, AVERY and BECKER penciled in on the gummy part of a pink post-it note and stuck in the slot, and saw a single white envelope, resting diagonally in the box. She keyed it open and did not recognize the return address on the envelope, but noted the Canadian postage and the words “Photos- Do Not Bend” in blue ink across the back of the envelope and knew immediately what it was. She peeked back to the front entrance and saw John and Gina kissing again. She tucked the envelope inside her coat pocket and headed up the stairs.