CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Turk was stuck in traffic, so to speak. A few minutes ago, as he was driving down Madison Avenue on his way to practice from Papito’s music store on Lark, Turk was caught in an accident. A van about six cars ahead of him driving South on Madison Avenue swerved to avoid a driver’s side door opening from the right hand parking lane and ended up smacking a car in the next lane. The van, a big Rally van from the 80s, had tipped over and landed on its side, and pinwheeled once around. The car that had been hit, a late 80s model Dodge Shadow, bright purple, helplessly small and in the blind spot, spun around ninety degrees, two thirds of the way across the double yellow line. Its airbag had popped and was steaming. The driver, a gawky female thirtysomething, looked straight ahead in horror. The Shadow then got slammed by a green Sundance coming the other way.  Numerous minor collisions ensued. Turk had slammed on his brakes and ended up tapping the car in front of him. The car behind Turk tapped his Aries. Two cop cars that just happened to be rounding the corner pulled up and stopped traffic while waiting for an ambulance. It had been pretty terrifying in the moment, but now that the smoke had cleared, Turk was awed. He’d had never seen anything like it.

It was by far the most violent thing he had ever witnessed on the road. Two people were seriously hurt. One of them was bleeding all over the ground. There was smoke everywhere, making an already hot day close to unbearable. After a minute or so the side door of the Rally van slid open and a tall, gangly black man lifted himself out. He stood on top of the van and surveyed the situation before bending down to lift another man, somewhat smaller and more compact, out of the van. Turk watched from his car in stunned silence, smoking a cigarette as he waited for the scene to clear. There were small huddles of people watching from the sidewalk corners, shielding their sunglass-covered eyes with their hands. People stopped, put down bags, pulled out cell phones. It was hot, the kind of hot that presses against the skin. Everyone was in shorts. The grass in Washington Park, to the left, was at peak color. Trees and bushes looked thick and lucious. Kids waited with ice cream and open jaws. Turk had taken off his grungy wife-beater and was now just waiting, his arm out the window, burning against the side door of his car. He was restless. His guitar was fresh out of the shop and lay across the back seat. On the passenger seat was another purchase, wrapped in a crinkled brown paper bag.

Ambulances arrived on the scene, followed shortly thereafter by three tow trucks. There was movement on the police front. Turk looked behind his car to see about two blocks’ worth of backed up cars. He wanted to duck right through the park, but the cops started hurriedly directing everything, waving the cars on Turk’s side the other way, around the fringes of the accident. There were now three men on top of the van, Turk saw. They looked every bit like they had just been in a car that flipped over. But the familiar face he saw emerge from the crowd and walk towards the van made Turk think that the faces might have been drawn a little drunk as well. He spun the car slowly in accordance with the cop’s gloved hand movement and cruised through the intersection. He then pulled the car over inconspicuously, yanked his hazards on, and jumped out of the car, wondering why Spiro had such a hopeless look on his face as he stared at the men on top of the van, as they stared back at him.

                                                            ~

John and Hank arrived at the studio promptly at three. Marshall was sitting on the floor outside the door. The band that had the studio before them, a sub-par, all white funk group named Earth Tones, was in the middle of a grove. Marshall shrugged. “I told them ten minutes, that was about eight minutes ago,” he said, straining. The hallway was long and narrow, but comfortable. The building, where several private music studios occupied the third floor, was centrally air-conditioned. The room would be warm from body heat and pot smoke and noise, but the vent system would keep the air clean and circulating.

John nodded and put down his bag.  He’d picked Hank up early this morning and they’d gotten to jam out a bit at Hank’s place, on Hank’s five piece, his ‘baby kit’ as he put it. Ever since they’d been on the current schedule, John and Hank drive down to the studio together, their houses being fairly near each other. John would sometimes go over a bit early, knowing Hank had a kit set up in his garage and was always down to play. They would only have around an hour most times, so instead of working on band songs, which they would be doing for the rest of the afternoon, they opted to just play together, John throwing a simple chord progression out there and Hank laying a steady pulse underneath it. Sometimes these turned into quasi-songs that one of them would bring up the next session.  But usually they would usually just do warm up stuff, working on fills. Hank would keep a steady 4/4 rhythm for ten, fifteen minutes at a time and John would wail between two or three chords. They’d see who could come up with the most intense sixteenth bar. John would switch instruments, seeing if he could throw Hank’s timing off. He couldn’t. Hank, already quite a creative drummer, also doubled as a human metronome. John could not remember him ever losing the beat.

“Over and over and over again,” Hank said one night after a gig. “That’s what it’s about. That’s what I do, play drums. In most of my earliest memories, I’m at that kit. My first one. A little five piece Pearl, with no hi-hat.” When Turk kicked him out of the band the first time, he sat in his basement all day. For hours. Drumming. “It beats the hell out of meditating,” he’d said.

            Three-fourths of  The Gateway Drug waited in the carpeted hallway, listening to the current Earth Tones jam peak. Marshall was leaning his head against the door, listening to the song’s admittedly nasty slap-pop bassline. He was trying visualizing the bassist’s hand, simply trying to place the tips of the fingers on the right frets. Coordination was never his strong point, though. John, leaning against the wall James Dean-style, could see Marshall’s thumb jerking, slightly missing the notes. Hank was crouched across the hall from Marshall, picking at his ear.

            “So where’s Turk?” Hank asked. A trumpet squealed on A.

            “He dropped me off,” Marshall said. “He had to go see Papito. Get his guitar.”

            “Well thank God,” Hank snickered. “For a while there I though we were going to become an acoustic band.”

            They all laughed inaudibly. Earth Tones was finishing up. The drummer smacked heads at random while the guitarists, undoubtedly with Fender necks raised, waited to bring the hammer down. Eventually they did. There were job-well-done whoops. The door opened surprisingly quick. The lead guitarist, an I-only-smoke-kindbud longhair hippie, poked his head out.

            “Wuh-sup guys.”

            “Wuh-sup,” the guys said in unison.

            “Give us a minute to cleat the space.”

            “Sure,” John said. The door closed behind him. They could hear satisfied handshakes and instruments being put out of the way. Eventually Earth Tones, all seven of them, filed out, with  nods and wuhsups all around. The Gateway Drug contingent respectfully returned them and filed in. Marshall took his bass over to the giant cabinet in the corner and proceeded to unravel his patch cord and plug in. He waited for John to to do the same, plucking a few notes and fiddling with a few of the amplifier’s knobs. He and John tuned up while Hank moved his kit out from the corner of the room. They ended up grooving on F minor rather quickly, Hank trying to chime in with snares and/or crash symbols on the four- and-one-and, while setting up the drums and cymbal stands, becoming annoyed when he would drop a drumstick or when he would miss.

            Hank sat down and grabbed his microphone. “Hey, hey, wait guys.”

            John and Marshall stopped. “What is it?” John asked.

            “Let’s fucking play something. No musical jerking off. This is band practice.”

            “So?”

            Hank rolled on the snare. “So let’s play something.”

            “Fucking pick it, then,” Marshall said. They were all talking through their microphones at this point. Marshall was always the last one to join in, always feeling self-conscious. Hearing his voice at that volume made him embarrassed. “What do you want to play?” he asked.

            “Let me think,” said Hank, tapping the kick drum. He pointed a drumstick at John. “That thing you were singing in the car.”

            John laughed. “What?”

            “That song, the song you were singing. The one in the car, remember?

            “Oh, shit,” John said. He got Marshall’s attention. “Hey,” he said. He started strumming. Marshall saw it was D major and instinctively hit an open D to match the vibration. Hank hit the hi-hat and the snare three beats apart. Marshall waited.

            John shifted to F. Marshall popped in late. “F,” John said.

            “Let me fucking know,” Marshall sang, on key, having switched to F.

            He would have heard John and Hank laughing if they hadn’t both been playing. “Ballad style,” John said. Back to D.

            “How sweet,” Marshall said. Hank laughed into the microphone.

            “Come with me,” John said. “F… D…”

            “Yes?” Marshall asked.

            “Keep this up. Ballad style, remember. Just strum.” Marshall slid into the next measure’s D. “Twice more, then G, A, B, D….F… Okay?”

            Marshall got it. The change sounded good, and the melody was solid. They went around it once more before John started to sing. His voice was usually strained and thick, described by Hank in all seriousness as a grown man crying, but had an energy that made him want to jump up and down. That was his all-out voice. But this was new, fresh, strength with a hint of vulnerability, the aura of a struggle that suggested vibrance:

                                                You took my face in anger

                                                You left your faith in pain

G, A, B, D…

                                                Questioned me from every angle

                                                Then took it all away

            And around again. Marshall, feeling the song starting to come together, turned towards Hank, wanting to integrate a serious rhythm section collaboration into the song. They held together, locking each other in. John was turned towards the door.

            G, A, B, D…

                                                Left me with a love like this

                                                For you that I confuse with hate

            G, A, B, D…

                                                But I gave you too much credit, shit…

            The word ‘ shit’ was drawn out and hummed atonally, giving it a spoken feel. Hank and Marshall smiled at the phrasing.

                                                That’s my LAST MISTAKE!

            John roared, then shouted “E minor!”

            Marshall and John landed on Em, and paused. Hank held firm and sat on one of the crash symbols. They all looked at each other.

            “IT ISN’T FREE!” John screamed. “F sharp!”

            Marshall hit F#. Hank slapped a tom twice.

            “LOVE LIKE THIS AIN’T FREE!” He screamed again. Marshall went back to Em and guessed right. Hank did a limp fill on the snare. John stopped and waved his hands, signaling them to stop.

            John, into the microphone, said, “Well that’s all I really have.” Hank laughed, and Marshall remembered that it was only something John had been humming in the car. Marshall was feeling a bit left out, and also a tad disappointed, thinking that it had been a good enough thing to continue on. He was just about to say this into the microphone, and John was laughing with Hank, when the door opened. Turk’s guitar appeared first, then his grinning face. Everyone froze. Turk chuckled.

            “Hey, man,” Hank said. He threw up a wave.

            “Sup guys?” Turk said. “Nice jam.” He slid into the room and set his guitar down. He was shirtless. A brown paper bag was clenched in his other fist. Marshall looked at him worriedly. Turk saw and seemed to acknowledge it, but Turk’s breezy demeanor made him a bit uneasy. 

“You heard?” John asked.

            “Yeah, your song?” Turk said. John nodded proudly. “Nice work,” Turk said. “Not bad at all.”

He threw at Hank the brown bag that he’d been holding. Hank, unable to judge the weight of the package, backed away from it and let it land on the floor between his hi-hat stand and his kick drum. “What’s this?” he asked Turk.

            “A small concession. But wait, there’s some-“

            “Open it up,” Marshall said. He turned his bass around to his back and stepped over a patch cord towards Turk, wanting a word. Turk held up a finger and mouthed one minute to him, then grabbed John’s microphone.

            “First of all,” Turk said, his voice booming through the monitor that lay on a makeshift shelf  above the door behind him, “First and foremost, I want to offer up my most sincere apologies for being late to practice. I recognize I am the first to break my own band rule.”

            “It’s okay, no problem,” John said. Everyone nodded.

            “So what’s up, man?” Marshall asked.

            “Second, I wasn’t as late as I appeared to be. I arrived just as the song was starting but chose not to enter and potentially disturb.”

            “It’s fine,” John said. Hank laughed.

            Turk gestured for Hank to be patient. “And thirdly, you guys sounded good.”

            He paused. John and Marshall were looking at him with their arms folded. Hank was unraveling the bag. He peeked inside.

            “Okay, we have a gig on Friday, right. Well, I know that everybody, besides Hank, of course, thinks that it’s a bad idea to play out too much. Potential dilution of interest if the product is readily available, that sort of thing, right?”

            They all nodded. Hank was holding up what he’d taken out of the bag. “What is this?” He asked.

            “It’s a cowbell. Now listen, I told—.”

            “I know it’s a cowbell, Turk. What am I supposed to use it for here?”

            “You put it on your drumset and you hit it.”

            Hank picked up one of the drumsticks that was resting on the snare and held the cowbell by the nub. He tapped it a few times. Tonk. Tonk. Tonk.

            “Well I got us a gig on Saturday,” Turk said. “Out of state.”

            “The next day?” John asked. “Where?”

            “You guys know Wedlock?”

            John and Marshall said they did. Hank shrugged and went back to being transfixed by the cowbell. He tonked it a couple more times. Marshall turned around and shushed him. Hank looked up, giving everyone an exaggerated dazed stare.

            “That’s fucking great, you got us opening for Wedlock?” John said. “They get huge crowds in Boston. Fucking awesome. This is going to rock.”

            “I’ve never been to Boston,” Marshall said.

            “It’s not in Boston. And Wedlock isn’t headlining.”

            “Who is?”

            “Godflesh.”

            “Even I’ve heard of them,” Hank said.

            The energy in the room becomes too difficult for John to feel like he’s processing it correctly.

            “Yeah, they’re not as relevant as they were five years ago, but still,” Turk said. “We have to make sure everyone understands what is going on here.” He was looking at John, who was nodding.

            “On Saturday we have the biggest gig in the world. Everyone must realize that ninety-nine percent of bands never, ever, will get a gig like this.”

            “Where is it?” Marshall asked. “How many people? How big is it?”

            “Some place called the Civic Center in Lewiston, Maine. There’s like a one thousand capacity, I figure.”

            Marshall whistled.

            “It’s one of Spiro’s gigs.”

            “Spiro?” Marshall asked.

            “He owns The Lounge. Remember the Ted Nugent-looking dude that paid us?”

            Marshall nodded.

            “Well he does a lot of booking for grade B bands that come into the area. Like, he wouldn’t be setting up Pantera with gigs at the Knick, but any band that wants to play the Albany bars like the QE or Valentine’s calls him. He’s part of a management company, and apparently he had gotten this Puerto Rican hardcore band from Amsterdam, like Amsterdam New York, to open for the Wedlock/Godflesh show. Their band has gotten all shitty recently, apparently, like a lot of on stage fuck-ups, and they fired their bassist and shit like that. This morning they were at The Lounge and got all drunk and fought and cancelled out on the gig. Now, Spiro’s employer doesn’t care who the opening band for the opener is, they just want one. They like having three bands on bills like this. The longer the show, the more beer and shit the fucking punks and hardcore kids drink.”

            “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” John said. “How the fuck did you get this lead?”

            “I driving by The Lounge today on my way here. This van in front of me fucking hit is other car and turned over and stopped traffic for like ten minutes. Then I Spiro running over to the van, like he was worried that these dudes didn’t have enough to worry about and that they might rat him out for selling them liquor before hours. So I stopped for a minute to chat with him, thinking that I could work out a gig maybe next month, at his bar. But then he told me what happened and is getting all freaked out, like he lost the band for the gig in three days and is going to get shit for it. He’s talking all this shit like all the bands he’d be able to get are booked and then he looks at me, all drunk, and has this wide-eyed realization that one of the guys from a bands he digs, a fucking pro-fessional band capable of handling the pressure, is standing right in front of him. So I told him to call his guys in Boston and tell them that there was going to be a change in the 3 band for that night. I went in while he made the phone call.”

            “Just like that?” John said.

            “No, the guy, Freddy, was pissed. He’s all, ‘Who the fuck are these guys you got instead?’, Blah, Blah. So I get on the phone and he’s cool with me, I’m just a dude looking for a break. He’s obviously just pissed at this fuck-up Spiro, and he asks me who that he would know would have a tape he could listen to and I said nobody, but I had one in my pocket. So I played it for him over the phone.”

            Marshall laughed. “What a fucking Boy Scout.”

            “Prepared always!” Turk shouted. “I always carry a tape. I had the tape from the last QE2 gig. After the second song starts, he's like, 'Great. Solid. You'll do.' He gave me the address and directions and told me to make sure we were there at noon with all our gear."

            "And you said..." John led.

            Turk smiled, his biggest smile yet. "But of course."

                                                                        ~

<reed> so how long then?

<sloegin> about three months, off and on

<sloegin> mostly on, but off and on

<reed> shit

<sloegin> marcus...

<sloegin> please...

<sloegin> i can’t expect you not to be mad. but it’s really not fair for you to be mad like this

<reed>…

<sloegin> marcus are you there?

<sloegin> are you not talking to me now?

<reed> gina I don’t know…

<reed> I’m not really mad.

<reed> I just wish you would have told me before.

<sloegin> I was unsure…

<sloegin> unsure whether or not to tell you.

<sloegin> you know honestly, I didn’t think I had to tell you

<sloegin> at least not until it became serious

<reed> is it SERIOUS?

<sloegin> well it’s serious enough that I’ll be focused on it more than I will this

<reed> I had no right to expect you not to get in a relationship

<reed> even though I did

            Gina heard the knock at her door but was so drained that it hardly provoked any response. Nobody else was home to answer the door. It was seven thirty. Caitlyn was at work. The sky was cotton. She’d been talking to Marcus for about two hours now, trying to pry a little distance off for herself. She’d actually been wanting to tell him about John for a while but hadn’t, mostly because she hadn’t been around, on IRC, to talk. She’d been avoiding it like the plague actually, since the first time she and John had sex. That night scraped the physical need from her, and relaxed her mentally. A lot of it, the continuous, neurotic typing, the all nighters when she would drench her body in carbonated beverages and stay awake as long as possible, thinking that sleep was something for the weak, that being there for sunset and sunrise, in that order, was noble, a sign of strength, that it was special. All of those that became her motivations were there for a recognition, by her, of some physical activity, for some knowledge of physical endurance. The act of sex with another filled that need, instantaneously. She no longer needed to bleed emotionally over a computer for six hours to feel she’d done something to help her express. Caitlyn did it with painting and drawing, Gina did it by setting out to and actually having an emotional effect on someone she’d never met. It seemed like a particular kind of accomplishment. Like a novel. And she was doing it now, one last time, telling him, finally, to make sure she’d never feel obligated to do it again. Because it was filthy. One more, one last time. To purge. To do the thing and experience herself doing it with the knowledge that it was self-defeating in a cyclical and destrucitve way. She listened to John on the answering machine twice saying he was coming over, he had something to tell her, while she refused to pick up the phone, insisting on letting this climax however it wanted to. It seemed like pretty good timing.

            Knock. “Gina?”

            “Come in,” Gina said, raising her voice a little. “It should be open.”

<reed> and I know you told me.

<reed> or didn’t tell me you wouldn’t. or whatever.

<reed> so will I see you again?

<reed> gina?

            John floated in and clapped the door shut behind him. He gave the living room a quick once-over, as he always did. Seeing nothing happening of any importance, he worked his way towards  Gina’s room. She was sitting with her back to him, facing the computer. There was text popping up still; she was talking to someone. He could see her back perspiring through her tank top, a larger-than-usual pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. He saw her type something.

<sloegin> I’m still here. hang on for a sec

            “Hi, John. I have something to tell you too.” When she turned, it might have been the sudden appearance of light from her head moving, but he could have sworn some of that orange light had briefly stained her face.

            Gina wheeled her chair around and leaned back in it, locking her fingers and stretching her arms out between her legs. She smiled and it was the oddest smile John had ever seen from her. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done,”  she said, sounding amazed.

            “You know that guy in Vancouver?” John nodded. “Well I just now told him that I’ve been with you.” John said nothing. She saw his eyes following lines that she knew were popping up on the screen.

<reed> I sent you the photograph so you wouldn’t feel this

<reed> so it would be a little more real…

<reed> I should have known when you didn’t really want to exchange photos

<reed> I should have known

<reed> I know I told you that that was my idea of making it real

<reed> like visual confirmation, something to hold on to

<reed> I know you’re listening. tell me you’re still there. talk to me

            Gina sighed, turned around, and typed again. John waited for a sentence, a beep of a car horn from out the window, a glass falling. He shifted his feet in the silence.

<sloegin> marcus don’t make this harder, please…

            “I didn’t tell him but I didn’t not tell him. But you know, I never asked him what he believed. He would offer me all kinds of information I didn’t want, and I would take it. I think.”

<reed> gina?

<reed> gina stay…

<reed> keep talking

            “I told him I didn’t want to meet him, I told him. He knew that. I never lied about my feelings to him. So I told him. It would have been so much easier if I had just disappeared. Then to him I may never have really existed. If not for the photograph that is.”

<reed> talk to me

<sloegin> marcus I have to go. I’ll email you

<reed> wait

<sloegin> marcus goodbye…

<reed> goodbye gina.

                                                                        ~

^Z

                                                                        ~

***sloegin has left #privatemarcusgina (19:45  Wednesday June 30)

            Gina turned her monitor off. “So,” she said lightly, “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

                                                                        ~

            Do I know anyone in Maine? Hank asked himself. He knew he didn’t. The question was more to remind himself of the enormity of the situation. The largest crowd to which he’d played was a hundred people, and that back in high school. He was drumming for a jazz trio at the time and they were part of a school concert night. They were one of many bands that night, and while they would be the first of three on Saturday, a filler, a band that promoters threw on the bill so that the crowd would have something to nod their heads to while they filed in, met up with friends, waited on line for beer, they would still be playing to at least a third of a projected thousand Central Maine metalheads and drunk rock-and-roll fans. They were pulling pretty good crowds as the Gateway Drug. Cast Iron drew better, but there was more of a market for pure hardcore, especially back in the Cast Iron days. Things had changed. But this was completely removed from all of that, and they all knew each member of the band understood without saying a word. Turk was saying that this was the way things were going now. Speeding up. Using millennium as an adjective. It was coming. And Hank, who could remember being two and banging on his dad’s baby grand’s keys with a drumstick he’d found lying around, was getting a break. It was why he’d picked up the drumstick in the first place. And now.

They were being given a half hour. The guy said go under rather than over and don’t even think about an encore. Turk, who had a strange ability to judge time while playing, said he already knew the perfect set list. It was twenty eight minutes long. John noted to Hank after practice that nobody said anything regarding whether or not it would be a good idea to give themselves such a small margin for error. Hank shrugged and said, “Don’t worry, that’s just Turk being Turk. Trust me, this is different. He has no idea what he wants to play yet.” John sat there with a blank look. “Expect it to make perfect sense though,” Marshall added.

            Oddly enough,  John was the most weirded out by the whole thing. Hank wasn’t all that surprised, as John had never even played out before The Gateway Drug. He’d been playing music most of his life, but mostly in his makeshift basement studio, blazing tape after tape. All the same, the crowds they played to, some as big as seventy people, never really seemed to bother him. In fact, Hank was impressed at how he performed the nights that they played on mostly-hardcore bills in front of crowds he had good reason to believe might be hostile to his music, his style, the sight of this awkward kid setting up a keyboard stand in a musical world where the difference between fucking awesome and shitty could be something as small as a major chord at the wrong time or a ‘misplaced’ tempo change. John wasn’t worried about the size of the crowd. What John was occupied with was the way Turk was approaching it, that is, as a major fucking event in all their lives, a once-in-a-lifetime. In their brief conversation before John dropped Hank off, John said that he ‘found it strange’ that although he was pretty sure that he and Turk were seeing the same thing ahead, Turk was acting like it was already a success, that it was over and had been great. John was visualizing a countdown clock, like the Y2K countdown clocks in Times Square he’d seen on the news, but this one was down to 3 days and change. He said he felt a bit guilty for not being on Turk’s wavelength. Marshall said he appreciated that feeling but cautioned John to remember that Turk was unpredictable but always grounded, always conscious of what was important.

            Instead of going into the house to see if his parents were around (both of their cars were in the driveway, but that was seldom an accurate indicator of their being home), Hank walked around the side to the garage to be with his backup kit and his car for a while. The sky was darkening and layered with clouds. He flipped the latch on the door and rolled it up. His kit was set up to the right, his car’s headlights and grill smiling at him to his left. Behind the kit were his acoustic guitar and  keyboard and an old pawnshop bass, unplugged and leaning against the wall with a thin layer of dust on it. There was the same old murky garage smell, enhanced by the brief, but intense, rains of the previous two evenings. He walked over to his car and bent over it, resting his upper body on the hood like it was a women, closed his eyes and stretched out a bit. He felt the cool metal against his cheek. It felt great.

            After a minute he began to pace around the garage without realizing it. He fastened his new cowbell to the snare, changed a head that had needed changing, and cleaned out the front seat of his car. He gathered the trash in a Shop N Save plastic bag and took it out to the curb to put it with the rest of the trash. On his was back to the garage, he saw his mom walking out the front door. She waved to him.

            “Hi, Mom.”

            “Hi, Hank,” she said. She was wearing a short pink dress that hugged her slim frame. Her strawberry blond hair bounced on her shoulders. “You been home all this time?”

            “Yeah,” Hank replied. “I’ve been in the garage.”

            “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”

            “I wasn’t playing.”
            She smiled. “Well that makes sense then.”

            Hank looked around. The block was quiet. He heard his mom call for his dad.

            “Me and your dad are going to the movies. You feel like coming?”

            Hank shook his head. “Not tonight.”

            “Something up?”

            Hank offered a low-key laugh. “You could say that.”

            His mom descended the front steps. “Good or bad?”

            “Oh, good, god, it’s good. I think. It’s just…” He paused. “Well, it’s large. I think I’m going to stay here tonight. I can’t think of what to do with myself right now.”

            “Everything okay?” she asked. His dad popped out the front door, rubbing his glasses.

            Hank waved to him, and looked back at his mom. “It’s fine, yeah. Like I said, I’m just going to do some mental preparing.”

            His mom leaned close to him. “Is it about the gig Friday? Something up?” Her voice was concerned and a bit tense. Hank couldn’t help but feel a bit calmed by her worry. He smiled and his head lightened.

            “Well,” he said, “There might not be a gig Friday. There probably is, but Turk was thinking about canceling it. Thinking briefly about it. I don’t think it’s going to happen though. I mean, life on the road, you know? We’re going to have to get used to it.”

            “Hank, you’re rambling.”

            “What is this? The gig is cancelled?” His father said, joining them. “What’s that about? Your mom and I haven’t seen you play in a while. We were hoping to catch this one.”

            Hank cut him off, shaking a spread palm. “No, it’s not like that.” He looked at their equally confused looks and smiled. “Guys, we, me and the boys, we got a break.”

            “A break?” his dad asked. “Like, a break?”

            “Lewiston, Maine,” Hank said. “Opening for Wedlock, who’s opening for Godflesh.”

            “Holy shit,” his dad said. “I’ve heard of Godflesh.”

            “Yeah,” Hank said. “One thousand capacity. It should be pretty epic.”

            His parents looked at each other. “We knew it, Hank, we knew it.”

            Hank nodded. “Thanks, you guys. Thank you.”

            His dad clapped him on the shoulder. They stood there like that for a moment before they turned away, arm in arm, and walked towards his dad’s truck. They looked proud, Hank thought, watching the sky dissolve into full night. Hank saw them drive down the road, turn the corner, and disappear. He went back into the garage, leaving the door open, and pulled the chain that hung on the single hundred watt bulb that dangled with wire and duct tape. Then there was the hum of the fan in the window, the crickets, and Hank, sitting over his baby kit and scratching the drums with his brushes, letting every thought that was possible to think inflate his mind. There was room in there for many.

                                                                        ~

            Turk was off to the store to pick up extra strings and drumsticks and advice from Papito at the store. John was off to see Gina, to take her out for a beer and tell her and hope that the news would make up for his rather cool demeanor over the past few weeks.  Hank was going to get a way-out-of-John’s-way ride back to his place. Marshall was at a loss. Everyone just left. He was left outside the studio, figuring he had to take the bus somewhere, anywhere, to do something other than stew. He ended up getting off at Fuller Road, to see if Caitlyn was working, to tell her, figuring someone had to.

            He stepped inside Royal Burger and the place was hushed. A car passed by the building’s side, fresh from the drive thru. A couple sat at a booth in the corner, each reading a section of what appeared to be the Times-Union, sipping coffee. Two kids sat with coffee and cigarettes at a table by the door, and looked at Marshall as he walked in. One of them gave him a thumb and pinky wag, which confused him until they started banging their heads, and Marshall felt the weight of the bass strapped on his back in a gig bag. Marshall couldn’t tell whether they were rock-on-ing him or whether they were razzing the longhair guitar player, so he walked up to the counter. Out from the corner where the drive-thru window was, a short, chiseled man with visible veins on almost every inch of skin walked up to him with an annoyed look on his face. He was wearing a headset and not really looking at Marshall, so Marshall just stood there, looking over the guy’s (Henry, according to his nametag) head to see if he could catch a glimpse of Caitlyn.

            “Can I take your order?” Henry said.

            “What?”

            “What do you want,” he said.

            “Oh,” Marshall said. He hadn’t even thought he might want something to eat, but as soon as Henry said it, it registered that he’d had a huge day and not a bite to eat since cereal in the morning. “Yeah, let me get a double cheeseburger and fries. And a coffee.”

            “Anything else?”

“No.” He handed Henry a five. “Hey listen, is Caitlyn here tonight?”

            “Yeah, she’s in the back. Want me to get her?”

            “No, well, yeah, but take your time. I’ll be here.”

            Henry punched some buttons on the register and gave Marshall his change and a styrofoam cup and what Marshall thought could have been interpreted as a harsh look. Marshall thanked him anyway and went over to the drink station to make his coffee, keeping an eye on the back. A college-age, olive-skinned girl without a nametag was putting together his sandwich. Caitlyn appeared from a door off to the side, which he guessed was the office. He smiled and called her over.

“Marshall!” she said, walking over to him, an arm thrust in the air.

“Cait, what’s up babe?”

“Not much,” she said, gesturing around. Henry walked over to the fry bin and scooped some into a purple sleeve. “You here for a bit?”

“Yeah, they’re getting my order now.”

“You paid yet?”

“Yeah,” Marshall said.

“Hey, let me cancel it. It’s on me.”

“Nah,” Marshall said. “I’m fine.”

            “Sure?” Caitlyn asked. Marshall nodded. “Hang on,” she said. She unclipped her headset and placed it on one of the counters, walking towards him. They shook hands. The girl placed his sandwich on the rack; Henry picked it up, grabbed the fries from under the warmer, and brought the tray over to Marshall and placed it on the counter. “Ketchup?” he asked.

            “Yeah,” Marshall said.

            Henry picked up three ketchup packets, politely flicked them onto the tray, and walked away.   “Hey can I get some extras?” Marshall asked.

            Henry turned around and took a step towards him. Caitlyn, who’d reached for them in anticipation, produced a handful and lightly tossed them onto the tray. They separated, sliding across the waxy paper placemat. Caitlyn pointed to the one booth in the smoking section, which she rarely saw free. Marshall picked up his tray and walked over to meet her there.

            They sat down. The smoking kids two tables ahead of them turned, interested. Marshall sat facing the window, away from them. As Caitlyn pulled the small copper aluminum ashtray towards her and reached for her pack, Marshall cocked his head behind him. “What’s up with those guys?” he asked.

            “Don’t know, haven’t seen them in here before, that I know of. Though a lot of kids come here to smoke, so…”

            “They seem real interested in me for some reason.”

            “Maybe they know you.”

            “What?” Marshall said. “How?”

            “I mean,” Caitlyn said, “Maybe recognize you. From the band.”

            Marshall stopped. “What?”

            “You are part of a sick group, you know.” Caitlyn said, smiling at his can you please repeat the question look. “People have seen you play. People might recognize you.”

            Marshall shook his head. “That doesn’t register,” he said.

            “It better.”       

            “What do you mean?”

            “Turk called.”

            “Well, shit,” Marshall said. Caitlyn was stretched back and pointing at him, saying, “I can’t fucking wait! I’ll make you guys a sick flyer, fucking crazy! All over the whole damn state of Maine!” “Maine!” Marshall said. It was hysterics, as if he were just hearing it for the first time. Caitlyn expressed her joy as physically furiously as she could from the confines of the booth, stomping her feet and rolling imaginary drums with her fists, her face squinted and tight. “Can you believe this,” she said, twice, fucking incredible, and he could, sure he could. This was peak.

                                                                        ~

            When her shift ended, Caitlyn walked out front and waited for the last bus to take her downtown. She saw it across the way, making awkward, wide turns around the Stuyvesant Plaza parking lot, approaching its final stop, usually right on schedule. It would usually wait in front of the CVS for about three or four minutes because, even though all of the shops at Stuyvesant were closed by ten-thirty, at eleven there would usually be a few stragglers trotting toward it. No matter, Caitlyn would (usually) think; the delay gave her time to catch one last cigarette. Racing to finish her cigarette as she followed the winding bus around the parking lot was her usual routine, unless Turk happened to surprise her for a ride home. He would usually do it as an excuse to check on the plants’ status, but since he and Marshall had been by the other day, and with the news and all, she had hardly expected it this night. And she was kind of glad anyway; she had a new canvas she wanted to keep up with, among other things.

            The bus kneeled in front of her. She stepped on the last half-inch of her smoke and boarded, sliding her dollar in the slot. The bus was air-conditioned to the point of being slightly uncomfortable. She moved towards the back and found an unoccupied double seat and crouched into it, placing her backpack on the seat beside her, wiping the sweat off her forehead. She exhaled noisily. There were a dozen or so people on the bus, all in their own seats, staring out their respective windows.

            When the bus pulled into SUNY Albany, the regular, though severely diluted, crowd of students got on, paying their fare, weakly clutching their bags to their stomachs and finding their seats without losing a conversational beat. One familiar face stood out, though, peculiar, waving, and bounced towards her. She smiled and waved back excitedly, pushing her bag to the floor and sliding over. Finally, someone to tell who’ll understand, she thought. She patted the purple plastic and Jerry sat down.

            “Why do I only run into you on these busses?” Caitlyn asked. The bus jerked itself forward and turned to leave the campus.

            “Dunno. Must be some kind of cosmic fate thing.”

            “Must be,” Caitlyn said. “How’s school?”

            “Eh,” Jerry said. “Summer classes. You know how it is.”

            “No,” Caitlyn said, laughing. “Actually I don’t. I never took any.”

            “You should,” Jerry said. “What do you need, seven credits?”

“Six, and fuck no way. I’ve had enough of this campus to last me forever.” She poked

her thumb at the window. It was silent and dark, save for a few brilliant streetlamps dotting Perimeter Road. “When I do finish, it wosn’t be here.”
           “Where will it be?”

“Fucked if I know.”

            “Will it be?”

            “Yes,” Caitlyn said. Her tone suggested answering a nagging parent.

            Jerry raised his hands, fingers spread. “Just asking.”

            Caitlyn stuck out her tongue at him.“Where are you headed tonight?” she asked.

            “Just down to Forest Ave. I’m meeting Gwen. We’re going to go over some of the new tape and talk about what we want to do when we go to the studio Saturday”

            “Finishing it up?” Caitlyn asked.

            “Finally. Bout fucking time.”

            Caitlyn sensed a break. “Okay, check this shit out,” she said. “Speaking of Saturday. You know Turk, right? And his band, The Gateway Drug?” Jerry was nodding. “Well, they’re fucking opening for Godflesh on Saturday.”

            “What?!”

            Caitlyn nodded. “Fucking right man, God Flesh,” she said, stressing each word. They were talking loud, and Caitlyn couldn’t have cared less. She wanted someone to hear. Hell, it was something she would have loved to randomly hear on the bus ride home. She noticed someone subtly peek over his shoulder, but other than that, nothing. “It fucking fell into their lap. Fucking break of a lifetime! Can you believe it?”

            “I can,” Jerry said. “Turk’s got the charmed life. He deserves it.”

“Doesn’t it seem like that, huh?”

Jerry made his hmm face: lips turned inward, brow furrowed, head slightly inclined, hold for a second, look up: “Where is Godflesh playing around here?”

“Well,” Caitlyn said, “It’s not really around here.”

“Boston?”

            “Lewiston, Maine.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            Caitlyn shook her head.

            “Where the fuck is Lewiston Maine?”

            “I’ll find out.”

“Are you going?”

            “Of course,” Caitlyn said. “Turk is my boy. I’ve got to see this.”

            “I don’t blame you. Shit should be fun.”

            “We’re leaving at like four in the morning,” Caitlyn said. “They’ve got to be at soundcheck at noon. They get a half hour set before Wedlock. Then Godflesh.”

            “Wedlock, I know them,” Jerry said. “Good for them, man.”

            “I’m pumped. I can only imagine what they’re going through.”

            “They’re probably shitting in their pants.”

            Caitlyn laughed. “Nah, they’re ready,” she said. “This is what Turk has been dreaming of.”

            Jerry got up. “My stop is next,” he said. “Tell Turk I said congratulations and good luck.”

            “I will.”

            The bus slowed to a halt after a long pause. Jerry pushed the doors open and waved. “See you soon.”

            “I’ll let you know how it is, how it went,” Caitlyn said.

            Jerry swung back into the bus, his arm on the door. “Knowing Turk, it will either kill the band or put them on the road to becoming one of the biggest rock bands of the decade. Just bring me a tape. I’ll be able to tell you.”

            Jerry released his hand and dropped out of sight. Caitlyn thought she saw a wave. The bus rolled on, into downtown Albany. Caitlyn went past her regular stop and got off near Last Call. She wasn’t quite done telling people other people’s good news just yet. When she stepped into the bar, no heads turned, but Chuck, who was just standing staring at the door, greeted her with a look she could only describe as disinterested recognition. She walked to the bar, barely hearing a song on the jukebox that she did not know over the drone of the two industrial fans in the back corners of the space. Chuck was sweating through his tee-shirt. There were three people in the bar besides him. He was holding a towel.

            “Chuck, right?”

            Chuck nodded.

            Caitlyn waited a moment for a ‘Caitlyn, right?’ or something similar but got nothing. She asked if Nick was around.

            “He was here earlier. But he’s upstairs now.”

            “In for the night?”

            “Yeah,” Chuck said. “Writing again, I imagine.”

            “Oh,” Caitlyn said. Her fingers inadvertently tapped the bar. “How’s that coming?”

            Chuck shrugged.

            “Don’t bother telling him I stopped by. I’ll catch up with him at some point.”

            Chuck didn’t do anything, as if trying to avoid being redundant. Caitlyn said take care and left. The streets were a bit darker than usual. She walked down Division Street, back to Broadway, to catch the bus. On her way she reached her head up and looked towards Nick’s apartment. His was the only light on in the building but she didn’t have the angle to see him, even though his desk was right by the window. The shade was up. She found herself stopped there, waiting for some movement, but saw none, and walked on, wondering what she would do for the rest of the night. Gina would want to talk about it, and they’d want to get some travel plans together. There was also a closet full of marijuana plants, budding fiercely and just about ready to blow, that could use some extra attention. There was the beginning of a painting on her easel, a faded hunter green background for the portrait of the plants in the closet that she’d been wanting to do.There would always be stuff to do. She was fine with that.

Caitlyn jogged across the street against the light and hopped in the empty, idling bus that sat in front of the State Education Building, ready to begin its route. She briefly thought about nonchalantly slipping in the driver’s seat while he was chatting to the guy at the counter of the magazine and coffee shop. She could see him. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Instead she dropped four quarters in the slot and chose a window seat near the front. It would have been too cruel and nobody in the city would have gotten the joke. Surely there was more than this. Every little last detail seemed uninterested. The  padded plastic was cool and slick with air conditioning and made her thighs uncomfortable. She waited further for the driver, annoyed, eager to get back to where things were moving. If only the fucking driver would come. I’ll fucking leave, she told herself, It won’t be pretty but I’ll leave. Soon nostalga will become pleasureless and not worth holding on to. She stuck to the seat to the bus to the road to her stopped watch. Her mind was elsewhere. If only the driver would come.