CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER TEN

            That’s it, that’s my paranoia, that’s why I stood her up the other day, and now I don’t know if I’ll see her again, and the whole time, this is what I was banking on, it made me paranoid, it made me afraid. I should have known better. I let her get under my skin… but it wasn’t her that got under my skin, it was some vision of her that I inferred from her situation, thinking, if I were her, what would I do, what would I have to know before I would do that, like putting your head in the criminal’s head to solve the crime. I gave too much to her immediately because I think that she must know, she must have some ulterior motive, she must know something I don’t. I created this, I created her, I created this woman that I don’t know even exists. And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get in touch with her again.

            And this is worse, because I know that if she contacts me, like I know she will, at some point, if she does it will prove that I was right, that she did have some kind of ulterior motive. She saw me see her! She must have! And it must have been the same Buick, it had to have been… but that couldn’t have been the guy, could it have? He looked different… When I got the only good look at him, what I thought was a good look, I thought I’d remember him, the driver. But this was different. And what if it wasn’t her? But it was, and it was the driver, or maybe not, even if it was someone different that’s fine because I don’t think it matters, really.

            But what if it does! The whole time I’m banking on this woman to be exactly what I saw, thinking I could see everything, and now I may have ruined it. Everyone is closing in on me. George has disappeared. Roger won’t acknowledge me on the street, not in the bar. They’re closing in on me, they’ve got something planned and I don’t know what that is either. It’s driving me mad because now I have no ‘ins’ and therefore no information, no intelligence, and I can’t see with my seeing eyes and know what I need to see. I don’t know what to look for.

            I’ve saved up a bit of cash. The Buick does not come around. The time I saw it I was over somewhere where I’m usually not, and now I don’t know, because I have no ins, whether it was random, or if that’s a place I need to visit again and examine with fresh eyes. Whether it was even the same car. I have no evidence either way and my default assumption is that it was, because it would make sense that way. But at the same time I know it’s bad science. I should have gone to the bar, and at least seen if she showed up, and if not, who did show up. Someone to talk to me? But someone could have been there that I didn’t recognize, that was looking for me. I should have gone in disguise. I’ve done it before. It could have been just her but at the same time she could have had a man in the corner, taking pictures, taking notes. Confirming visual. Confirming that I was active and trying to work my way into a scheme they all had. Trying to work my way into fucking up someone else’s business. And then it dawns on me that I have no reason to believe anything. The least I could have done is show up to see, show up to take in every corner, even guys I didn’t know lurking in corners doing whatever they would be doing. I’m positive I would see it, would pick up on it. Would know it. I can run if I need to. I can survive and not just in the underground, using people who owe me favors. I can run by myself and disappear and survive. Know this. Flight is always an option.

            I guess that’s why I’m here. I’m two blocks over from Fore where I saw the Buick turn onto from Filsenart Avenue. This is not a very nice part of town, which makes me think a few things. This is obviously small time action, anything that’s going on here. There’s money flowing through this say three or four block radius from where I am (at the center) for sure but it’s not the kind of money I think Fenster or Rocco’s crew is in on. Unless they’re running a side project. But it doesn’t seem that way. Even the money here drives used cars. The Buick from Division Street while not new is still an upgrade from this shit.  That’s what struck me the first time, what made me think it was the same car. And her. Did she see them and approach them the same way she approached me? She could have, hell, she would have. The buildings here are a bit too run down and unkempt to suggest any kind of maintenance priority in these people’s lives. Middle of the summer grass left untrimmed on the few lawns that are here, lots of concrete and very little space to stretch out and enjoy the sunshine. There is a park an avenue over, but it is empty most of the time. Well it is empty now at least. I can’t see anything about it that leads me to believe that people would go there anyway. Or they would only go there because it is too hot in an apartment without air conditioning. Mostly apartment buildings here, very few air conditioners. No insane buzz all over the street. No water dripping on you as you walk by. As I walk by. So what does she know from here? Was she just passing through? She wasn’t picking up drugs, she didn’t seem like the kind of person that would be into the shit, after all, Johnson Trevor’s reaction to her, and he’s on drugs, seemed something not only frightening to her, but unfamiliar. If she were into the same drugs (and she may not be. Damn!) she wouldn’t have appeared so confused.

            I can’t get anything from here except strange looks. Now not only do I have to change the plan I have to change the plan because of MY fuck up, and I have to sacrifice my motivations for her knowledge. Now anyway. This will be the end of me if I can’t figure out any other way. Because then she will have me where she doesn’t even know she wants me. But if she knows she wants me there, she has me. What did she see to outsmart me? What did she see? How did this happen? I need to take a long walk home. I need to walk the long walk home, and wait for something to come to me. I drop off for a second, lose just that little bit of vision, and I am left behind. I am catching up. I am catching up which implies I am behind. I am no longer in charge. Anyone can get me.

            But at the same time, she doesn’t know that I know, she doesn’t know that I saw her, so in some way I do have some sort of knowledge over her. But she knows that something is wrong, because I didn’t show up. But at the same time she doesn’t know why I didn’t show up. Maybe I had a legitimate reason, some appointment, some more important thing to do than to help her with her little problem with her boyfriend. Maybe I forgot because it’s so small time, so far down on my to-do list.

            See, the buildings, besides because they are so conducive to small groups of people doing their own thing, their crime is very local. This is not the neighborhood that goes to the docks. This neighborhood works at the malls, at the supermarkets on the overnight, stuff like that. The service sector. Therefore their crimes are the result of not wanting to serve. The stuff that I and George and Josian are involved in, and what I think Johnson is, are crimes of wanting to dominate, wanting to pull-one-over on someone or some group because for us life is a competition, not a rebellion. It’s more networked. More schematic. It’s not random. Ideas are developed to give one leverage in the future, with freedom of movement as the goal. As opposed to freedom of space.

            I think of the dice players down on Butentoch, two avenues over to the right of here. Perfect example of local leverage. Local leverage as the end, not the means. I need the local leverage of K to gain information to make me more fit to deal with bigger problems.

            I got back to town later that day, having kept up the appearance of keeping  myself occupied. I stayed long enough to make a thorough case of the neighborhood for cars and important faces (the faces without fear are the ones I look for because the are the faces I'd’ most likely see again) but not long enough to be remembered, a very fine line which I deliberately came in under, preferring to err, if I must, by not staying long enough. There are the types of choices I have to make now. Before I stepped inside my building I wrote TOMORROW on a piece of paper and taped it to the door frame. Big enough to be noticed by her (who should be confused about my not showing up, whether or not she is as knowledgeable as I suspect) but inconspicuous enough to be either not noticed or ignored by others. I went back to my room and waited for tomorrow. I always have money if I have to run.

                                                                        ~

            The gig Friday was over at eleven-thirty. They packed up the cars and left the same way they came, Turk and Marshall and their gear in Turk’s Aries and John and Hank with the kit and John’s gear in Hank’s pickup. They went straight to Turk’s friend, who was renting them the van for the weekend. They paid sixty bucks and then went right back to Turk and Marshall’s place to regroup and catch some Zs. Caitlyn and Gina came over at four AM with bagels and coffee and woke them up. They were on the road soon thereafter.

Turk had looked at the map and figured the trip could be made in around six hours, two shifts of three hours each. Straight across Massachusetts on the pike and then 495 up to Lewiston. Pretty even. Maybe someone would come and finish up the last leg in one of them got tired. Turk himself would take one. John wanted the other, and got it. Turk insisted on the second leg, and John gave it to him. And soon into Turk’s shift, he understood why.

Even though the band had been able to more or less play it cool in the days leading up, there was an undeniable this-is-it! feel about it. Hank was whispering ‘millennium’ at strange times. Marshall simply could not stop the adrenaline. Late at night his stomach would churn and he would consistently long for cigarettes. He listened to Black Sabbath’s first album, over and over again, for hours. They all worried, out loud or not, about whether or not they would be able to sleep that night, after a show, before the show. John guessed, correctly- as Turk did, apparently- that everyone would be asleep. When John pulled over at a Mobil On-The-Run southeast of Haverhill, Turk had been up for about an hour. Everyone else just popped out at the stop to pee or get something to drink. Turk and John switched. Gina appeared to go to sleep immediately. Caitlyn, Marshall, and Hank were huddled under an old army blanket in front of the kit. They passed out together after finishing their coffees. John stayed up, chainsmoking. 

Turk, like John, left the radio off. Traffic was light and it was just before five. John had never been this far east. There was definitely a lot more nature happening. When they left the On-The-Run and got back on the highway, the road was more obvious an imposition to the land than he had previously witnessed. The trees were tall and densely packed. The roads winded like they had been put down wherever they would fit, and visibility tended to be poor. There was a perfect  C-cup moon to their right. The only noise was the motor until that too became part of the silence. Coupled with what they were doing, right now, the drive became stunning. And who would have guessed this, and insisted on being the driver? But of course…

John had never really witnessed Turk drive. They usually took separate cars to shows and practice, and didn’t particularly hang out all that much. The timeshe had seen Turk drive were usually quick spins for one mission or another, to the store for beer, to Papito’s for strings. But this was different. They were talking some, not enough for their conversations to become background the level of their tires on the pavement, but not enough to get into anything deep. But Turk would do this thing where he would look straight ahead while listening to John, not even peeking over once, and still never saying uh-huh, mmhm as he talked, but when John  would finish he’d look real hard at the road for a second, take a deep breath and exhale and then look right at him and speak. As if visually memorizing what the road would have last looked like would let him avoid crashing. John had to wonder if he always did that. It unsettled him a bit, but Turk would always seem to look back right before John would ask him to.

Eventually they crossed into New Hampshire. John threw the last, cold sip of his coffee and the cup out the window.

“Take note,” Turk said. “The duty-free liquor stores are up the road a bit.”

“No kidding,” John said.

“Yeah my dad told me about them.”

“We should stop by tomorrow after the show.”

“If we can sell some of those CDs, fuck yeah,” Turk said. About three weeks ago, they’d recorded six songs and pressed a CD. It wasn’t going for sale, really; they felt they were about three songs short of an album. But they wanted to have something on disc to give clubs, so they pressed fifty. They had another hundred pressed for the show. As soon as their set ended, Caitlyn and Gina were going to walk around selling them for five bucks each. 

“We should sell all of them,” John said. “Enough to pay for the van and the gas and still fill up the remaining space in this van with gallon jugs of cheap wine. You know the glass ones.”

“Well that’s up to us,” Turk said.

“C’mon, five bucks?” John said. “As long as we don’t absolutely suck up there we should sell one in ten at five bucks.”

“People aren’t going to buy it if we sound like shit, John.”

“No kidding. But we’re not going to, obviously. They’ll sell.”

“You know,” Turk said, “I’m not actually real worried about them selling. I agree, I think they will sell. What I’m worried about is people not feeling good that they bought it. Like, in the long run.”

“They will.”

“Not if we don’t blow them away live.”

“I thought you were satisfied with the disc.”

“I am, to an extent. I mean, it will be good to be represented there, with something we can make money off of, and to promote the band, and it is good- compared to most of the shit out there. It’s better than the Cast Iron albums, I know that much. As much as I love them. It doesn’t capture our live show, and it’s not even close to how good the album will sound when it’s done, but people will hear that it is good, they will have seen the live show and they’ll know we’re quote unquote better live and that we’re obviously just starting out, and they will look out for us. But if we don’t be absolutely crystal clear up there, it won’t matter that they were impressed enough to buy the CD. They’ll hear it and they’ll remember the show and come away with the impression that we’re quote unquote all right, which to them really means we’re not worth paying attention to. That we’re shit.”

“Meaning they’ll have a worse chance of remembering the name or caring if they see it on a bill.”

“Right. Our job is to eliminate that possibility.”

“Well it’s not just a job, Turk.” John said.

“I didn’t say just a job. If we make ourselves clear, there won’t be a problem.”

“Sometimes you owe yourself a job well done,” Marshall said. His voice was muffled with a pillow. Caitlyn, half-asleep, heard it, but it came to her as a line from a person in her dream.

“That’s fucking right, man,” Turk said, this time turning all the way around in his seat after that deep breath and exhale, and pointing at Marshall. Marshall gave a closed-eye thumbs up and appeared to go right back to sleep. John grinned out a taut laugh and sank into his seat.

                                                            ~

I walked in and froze. I couldn’t believe it. I almost never freeze. I admit I was kind of on the edge, having been taken a bit off guard by this new development, and there was even part of me that was thinking she might not have even gotten the note. I fell asleep when I got home and didn’t wake up until close to one in the morning. It’s strange to wake up in the middle of the night; after the initial disorientation you feel even more awake than you do in the morning. It’s like waking up normally to find that the radio you’d left on all night sounds much louder. Because in the morning there’s more background noise. In the night it’s quiet, and if you’re up to it and seeing it right, everything is enormous.

The rain sounded like loud television static. It made slapping sounds against my window pane. My first reaction was to look out the window, down in front of the building and see if anyone was there, even though of course there would be nobody standing there in the pouring rain. But by now I’ve asked myself “Well, what if there is?” so many times it’s ingrained. I woke up and rolled over and positioned myself out the window and looked. Like I’d been thinking about it the whole time I was sleeping.

I couldn’t see anything. The rain was too thick. It didn’t look like anyone was out there, and none of the cars I didn’t recognize looked involved. Forget about seeing the note. I’d only fucking scotch taped it to the metal frame with a piece of tape I’d peeled off a flyer. I figured it was washed away. I wondered what time it started raining.  

            I was up all night, but not worrying about the note. Just up. When the time finaly came around to go to the appointed meeting place  I’d had only about three or four hours good sleep and was arriving without a piece of information I’d planned on having. It didn’t effect my plans as such with her because she was either going to be there or she wasn’t. Even if I didn’t see her get the note, I would have gone anyway. Even if I knew she hadn’t come home at all I would have gone. It seemed to be something she might do anyway. Thinking she fucked the day up, hoping I was playing with her, or if it was her playing with my head. It was a place that now she knew I knew of; and we had used it as a meeting place. Then in the future if we were to meet, it would most likely be there. She knew where to find me. I wasn’t looking the whole night. I should have been. I should have kept my damn eye on the thing. The note, the fucking door. A constant corner of my eye on at least even the sidewalk. Because the moment I walked in there I knew that there was a situation, a scenario that, had I been on full alert all night, had I at least been more aware that this was something that I needed to see happen, see either her get the note or not get the note, that is, had I been watching, I would have thought of, at some point during the night. Because I would have been in that mode. That keep watch, for ye know not the hour, mode. I would have been mentally active and I knew I fucked up because there was a scenario I could have thought up but because of not being in that mode didn’t. I would have thought, what if she comes home with someone?

            I would have thought they would both see it. Then I would have been prepared for an unknown face sitting with her. But I didn’t, so I wasn’t, so I froze.

            They didn’t even see me at first. I went straight to the bar and ordered a drink. I sat down. I placed my cigarettes and lighter together in front of the ashtray. I decided to just wait, and sit, and see what would happen. I didn’t know what to think. They were just sitting at the table together. It seemed possible that they didn’t even know each other, that he might have just been someone that sat down at her table, laid down a bit of genuine charm, and coaxed a warm conversation. It happened. But it seemed equally possible that he was a hostile presence to me. I couldn’t tell by his face. He wasn’t looking my way. He was smiling. I thought, in the same instant, that he might not even have ever seen my face and that maybe he was here to see it for the first time.

She turned, saw me, looked around nonchalantly, and returned to the man she was sitting with. The slick bitch! I thought. The guy was about forty, moustached, vaguely Mediterranean. Seemed harmless and soft. His skin was sleek and he was in a cheap suitjacket and a white turtleneck. His manner was casual, of course. All I could hear of their conversation was occasional laughter. The jukebox wasn’t on but the television was turned to a baseball game. The volume was turned up but being a baseball game the chances of an extended gap of commentary or fan noise were promising. Alls I really needed was a telling word or two and I’d be able to piece together a bunch. But none really came. Their voices fluctuated with the volume of the television. Were they doing it on purpose? It was unclear.

I took a few sizable gulps of my pint and began, because there was really nothing I could do at this point, to watch the game. I  kept my eyes on them this time, for sure. They both went to the bathroom an inning apart. The guy came to the bar to get two more beers and didn’t look at me. Kept his eyes glued to the game, paid his tab and took the drinks back to the table. Two pints of Bud. How generic, I thought.

They smoked cigarettes. Two innings later, she came up to the bar and asked for a glass of water. The guy had his head cocked, looking at the television above her head. When I looked at her she was already looking at me and smiling. She waved. I waved back. What else could I do? I looked at the guy and saw he was witnessing this. She drank about half of the small glass and put it back on the bar. There was a fly ball, and the inning was over. She walked back, sat down, gestured towards me, and right as the broadcast faded out to commercial, I heard her say, “Old friend.”

The man finished the last sip of his beer and they moved to go. She walked up to me. The man was behind her, putting on his coat.

“Luke,” she said. “How’s it been?”

“It’s been okay,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s been a while. I don’t remember your name.”

“It’s Kit,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said.

She turned to the guy. “He used to date an acquaintance of mine. Luke,” she said, turning back to me. “This is Lawrence.”

He extended his hand and I shook it. “How do you do?” He said.

I nodded. I tried to look disinterested.

“Where are you living these days?” she said.

“Oh, uh, down on Liberty Street. Where it crosses Division.”

“That’s so funny,” she said. “Lawrence, I live on Division and Ontario. We’re practically neighbors.”

Lawrence was looking at me. “Liberty and Division? Those’re street names? That’s interesting.” He was involved in that last word. Innnn-ter-esting.

“Lawrence is from out of town,” She explained.

“Well,” Lawrence said, “We should go, though. It was nice seeing you, Luke.”

“Good-bye,” she said.

Seeing you! They walked out. I watched the end of the game. That was about an hour ago. I have four cigarettes left, and I’ve decided to keep drinking until they are done, till I have to go out and buy a pack. It’s not that I don’t want to or am scared to leave, I simply just do not know what to do next. And it’s been a long time since that happened.

                                                            ~

“Safety in Numbers,” John said. “If I had to pick.”

“Good, good. Go Away Happy?”

The van approached a brightly lit stretch of road. Marshall, his back against one side of the van, stirred. Turk and John were talking quietly in the front. He could not hear them well enough to discern what they were saying. Caitlyn’s head was on his knee. His leg below it was asleep. He had to pee violently.

“I Can Take It. Run the Table.” He moved Caitlyn’s head a little, to create some space for his leg. He shifted as much as he could but could still not see any signs. He looked at his watch. It was ten past three in the morning.

“Safety. Run. Luck?”

“No I Can Take It?”

“Nah, no instrumentals.”

He sat still for a moment, trying not to hear anything but what Turk and John were saying. He started to put together individual words and realized that they were throwing song titles out at each other. The setlist! Marshall was always told the final setlist. On a good night, it would be an hour before the show. On a bad night it would be Turk yelling out songs in threes as they went. He was never really sure if Turk thought about it, much less discussed it with John. He still didn’t know if John had never been involved in making one previously. All he knew was that he’d never seen one in the making, until now.

            “Safety in Numbers, Run the Table, Luck,” Turk said. Three from the thrown-together EP that came to be titled Pre-Demo, after Turk’s initial, sarcastic description of the album.

            “Right. Summit?” John was asking. Summit was the latest big song the band had been working on. Though they hadn’t really played it much, Marshall expected this song to be on the setlist. It had an instinctive quality to it such that it sounded good from the first time the band played it. It was the first song that they’d made that didn’t require practice. They all loved it.

            “Um, maybe later, later in the show. Innocents, Accumulation of Capital?”

            “Accumulation. Safety, Run the Table, Luck, Accumulation of Capital.” John said.

            “Then Innocents.”

            “Eh… Fresh Off a Loss?”

            “Yeah,” Turk said. He sounded satisfied. “Safety, Run the Table, Luck, Accumulation, Fresh Off a Loss. What’s that, like twenty minutes?”

            “At least.”

            “Okay,” Turk said. “Hang on.”

The van began to slow down. Marshall leaned forward, knocking Caitlyn’s head off his knee. She mumbled and woke up for a second, fighting off a dream, and looked at Marshall. Marshall had never seen Caitlyn woken up before, and decided he never wanted to again, not in the middle of the night. She glared at him for a second with wide, clear eyes, worn with REM sleep, then decided to put her head back down.

“What’s going on?” asked Gina.

            John turned around. “What, babe?”

            “We’re stopping.”

            “The toll,” John said. Gina did not reply. She was sitting diagonally from Marshall. He could see her eyes were closed. He was unsure if she had even woken up.

            She hadn’t woken up, but she had made it a large part of the drive without sleeping. She remembered John telling her that they were about ten miles east of Boston but she fell asleep shortly thereafter. She’d had no interest in sleeping. She had been up thinking about why she’d come. Not that she minded being along for the ride, far from it. She thought that part of her had expected this trip to be a singular experience with John. But she ended up getting everything from so many angles that she was unable deconstruct it to that level. She couldn’t just take that one thing and honestly feel like she was getting all she could out of it. She decided to remove herself from the equation. Because there were some important things going on that, though she may not have felt directly a part of, she had access to and, by keeping a level head, she could add to (and therafter be a part of) by committing it to memory. Hell, because she was witnessing it and because she knew, it would become history. She’d fucking make it important! I must let the world know how important I think it is that I feel and experience things in real life and in real time. I am up to speed now. John was, once again and always, goading her. Saying get on with your life. GET ON. GET ON WITH IT. ON!  And he’s watching in the same way she is now. Of course! Let me watch it happen to know what to do with my head when I get my shot.

It turned out to be a good thing. She felt the on-again, off-again thing she had with John get less interesting with every pass and she sensed a turning point soon. He was still a person that she felt good about feeling love towards, though. When their scene was off, she would explain it away to herself that she didn’t want to invest emotionally not knowing what she was going to be doing or where she was going to be in three months, but in reality she (and Caitlyn, who was loathe to admit it) was staying put. When it was on she would get caught up in his animation and live like that. But now it was off again, and it couldn’t be she and John experiencing it as one emotional connection. She was in the back seat listening to the conversation between two people that were definitely not staying put, and she could no longer vicariously feel empowered. She could notice a story in any random detail and make it clear to herself. Bumper stickers (Support Your Right To Arm Bears! Thank You Jerry! Just Another Mass-hole!), The alarming State Trooper uniforms, the number of different brands of cigarette butts (three) in the metal-flip ashtray in the back of the van that probably hadn’t been used (nor emptied) in months to years, the way Massachusetts’ E-Z Pass was called Fast Lane. The fact that she realized about halfway that she had never actually gone to Massachusetts before seemed like a book in itself. Much less Maine. She knew where it was and vaguely what it looked like but didn’t think she’d be able to find a Lewiston (or any other city for that matter) on  a map. And she felt appreciation for its newness. 

            Marshall found himself free of Caitlyn’s head. Gina turned so aggressively that she either woke up or came damn close. “Hey guys,” he said, leaning forward.

            “Marshall!” Turk said. “You been up?”

            “Um, where are we?”

            “Maine. Didn’t you see the sign?”

            “No,” Marshall said. “We’re in Maine already?”

            “Yeah, I pointed the sign out to everyone but I guess you were all sleeping. It said ‘Welcome to Maine.’” Turk’s hand swept, sillouhetted against the tollbooths, illustrating an enormous sign. “’The Way Life Should Be.’”

            “Fucking shit,” Marshall said.

            “I kid you not, brother.” The van stopped. Turk took a bent dollar bill out of his wallet and flicked it towards the toll lady with a smile. Marshall cricked his neck to smile at her, too. John snickered. “Thank you,” Turk sang.

            “Take care, son,” Marshall heard the lady say as they drove off.

            “Hey pull over,” Marshall said as they pulled away from the toll. “I got to piss wicked bad.”

            Turk huffed and checked his rearview. He slid the van over to the right.

            “Yeah me too,” John said.

            “Anyone else?” Turk said. Nobody said anything. He smiled. “We’ll see. They’ll get up.”

            Turk pulled the car over and got everybody out of the van to pee with different amounts of prodding. They stretched. The boys lined up to piss behind the van. “Look at that,” Caitlyn said, tapping Gina’s shoulder. “There’s a fucking album cover. How ridiculous.” Gina looked, blushing, and rubbed at her eye. Caitlyn was smart enough to be wearing a skirt. They marched quickly towards the woods, about fifteen feet from the side of the road.

            Caitlyn pulled her skirt over her knees and squatted behind a tree, facing the road. Gina, not having as bold a bladder as her housemate, went into the brush a little deeper. She couldn’t remember the last time she pissed outside. Finally finding a spot that met her privacy specifications, she pulled her jeans and underwear off one leg and spun them around her. She felt the warm night against her naked leg. She leaned against a tree and slid her back down until her knees at right angles. Bark scraped against her back through her t-shirt. There were the sounds of several cars wooshing by, one after the other. Though she couldn’t see either Caitlyn or the guys or the road, and although she was glad they stopped because she had actually woken up a little before the toll booth and had to go quite bad, she couldn’t quite make herself. She waited. Her sneakers pressed into the soil. The tree pushed her back. When she heard Caitlyn walk off, she let go, lingered a moment, and set back for the van. Everyone was loading up.

            “Everybody ready?” Turk asked, starting the van. “Good,” he said, pulling back onto the road.

                                                                                    ~

            John strummed an A minor chord on the heaviest distortion he could find at soundcheck. He let it ring.

            “Hi,” Turk said. “We’re the Gateway Drug. We’re from Albany, New York.” Hank lowered his foot on the one-and and the three-and-four. “We know there’s a great show lined up, that these bands kick ass.” Marshall thumped As from the E string on Hank’s kickdrum. “And we know how much ass we’re going to have to kick to make you remember us. And we want you to remember us.” John strummed A minor again. Turk pointed. “Turk. John. Marshall. Hank. Thanks for showing up.” He brought down his right arm and launched furiously into Safety in Numbers. The riff was fierce rollercoaster through A minor pentatonic. Caitlyn, looking from the crowd up against the stage, observed that, as he would have said, he ripped it. Guys around her started banging their heads. She got pushed from behind. A few guys deep behind her, a few dudes were throwing elbows. Gina was next to her, but simply watching and nodding her head quickly. Turk began to sing: “Run for cover/ You’re in my way/ there’s safety in numbers/ so you can’t possibly stay”

            Caitlyn was ecstatic. She was jumping up and down (out of time), screaming (non-lyrics) and flailing her arms. Gina had to jump and flail just to keep from being overwhelmed. Guys a few back started their arms dancing. There was general motion throughout their pocket. The crowd had come ready. Gina was impressed at how well Caitlyn created space, and positioned her jumps to be in synch with Caitlyn’s. Caitlyn grabbed Gina’s arms and screamed, raising a fist to the stage as the boys pounded away. Gina noticed how attractive Caitlyn really was, the lights spreading across her as they blinked and changed. Her face was electric with pleasure as she sang along to the chorus. “Why do you think I came here/ Don’t think it’s because you asked/ The fast and the agile eat the slow and the outstretched hand/ Your prejudice is dethroned and unmasked” Having acquired her own little space in which to dance, Gina turned to find herself in front of John in time for his solo. It was always his strongest, every show. There were less notes than usual, but the way he held the ones in the middle of his phrases it didn’t matter. He was on, and the band reeked confidence. The crowd was into it. Turk began the second verse and Marshall and Hank began to step up the rhythm’s intensity a notch or two. Gina saw John turn around and watch Hank for a bit, then step on three pedals in the middle of a ringing chord in the last measure of the verse. The first turned off the distortion, making the guitar swim for a second. Turk was watching, intensely, grinding the chorus riff to balance it. John then stepped on another pedal that brought his sound down an octave. The third pedal, tapped on the one, made the echo and the chorus of chord brought down with it shine like a wide-spread Beethoven keyboard fingering. It was triumphant. The song came to a close. They broke it down and ended together. Hank rolled on a closed hi-hat. The audience cheered loudly.

            Marshall was stunned. He was looking at Turk, but Turk knew! He was already staring at

him! Look. See? his face was saying. Marshall knew the next song- Hank banged out the 1-2-3-4. Turk jumped. Marshall turned towards the crowd and stayed there until the last song.

            Hank had a microphone mounted by his cheek, but wasn’t using it. He didn’t sing much as it was (he had the coordination to sing and not lose the beat but thought his voice too hokey to be effective unless accompanied by an acoustic guitar) and the first few songs had Turk singing almost exclusively. But he was aware of it as it was stationed a little too close to him, and he couldn’t move it until the first break, after Luck, the third song. Good thing, too, because after that they were to play John and Turk’s first collaboration, Accumulation of Capital, which included gang vocals. He couldn’t hear himself breathing through the  monitor but it felt it was picking up every breath. It occurred to him to sneak in a vocal during one of John’s harmonies to judge his comfort level, but let each one pass. He focused on his job at hand. Tight rolls, omnipresent bass drums slaps, watching Marshall’s hands. It came easy. His vast stage experience was one of his biggest assets and as a result, he had gotten very good at being able to see what the other band members were doing with their backs turned to him. He half expected Marshall to turn around for changes or cues, but he only glanced back once, and to Hank it seemed like Marshall was only checking if Hank were okay with Marshall not turning around. Hank nodded, gave the hi-hat a splash, and briefly pointed the tip of his drumstick at him in salute.

            “One by one, our worlds collide/ I can’t see your love, let me borrow your eyes…”

            Hank had never played with a sound system that even came close to the theater’s. Turk’s vocals soared and everything they played rose up. The theater was more of a converted warehouse, and it reminded him of the SUNY Albany RACC, where he had played in a battle of the bands three years prior. Only without the basketball hoops suspended from the similarly exaggerated high ceilings. The bleachers were pulled in on three sides. Hank’s kit wasn’t raised, so he couldn’t see the crowd up front at all, only the tops of bobbing heads and hair flying. But he could see about seventy-five people sitting on the bleachers in the back, legs spread comfortably, drinking, laughing. Here to see Godflesh, no doubt. But laughing and drinking and enjoying themselves nonetheless. Those were the types of guys that would throw cups or wait outside if the band sucked. But they stayed. They didn’t know who this band onstage was and probably would never care who the first of three was. But among them Hank saw people coming in from the outside, walking down to the floor and not stopping to sit on the bleachers.

            “One by one, our fears rely/ On each of your hands just getting by/ I won’t let you beat me while you’re able/ If you want my faith you better/ Run the table!”

            That was the story to Hank. He had never set up a big show before. His crowds were generally already there when he went on. He’d played late and seen people leave but had never had to welcome somebody there for something else. The crowd was warm to them. Turk was more animated than Hank had ever seen him. He had forgotten (deliberately?) to give John the ‘stop soloing’ signal so John was still wailing on what Hank could see was at least the sixteenth fret, three measures into the final verse. A well timed slice of feedback cut into Hank’s ear and, combined with the generic light setup bathing him, gave him slight vertigo. Marshall, on new strings, sounded crisp and defiant, all the bass a drummer could want. He brought the measure down an octave, signaling the last measure. Hank followed with the triples that were the last phrase. Turk turned around wild-eyed and brought down his neck. Hank crashed. The lights dimmed briefly. There was affirmative applause.

Turk stepped to the mic and said, “Thank you.” Then, “This is called Luck. John Alkman.” He gestured to John. John started the song’s main riff, a chugging E minor in ¾. Turk was anxious to work this song in, being some of John’s best composition, vocally and musically. To be honest, Turk really loved John’s voice, especially songs like Luck, where he would really show off his range. Turk probably had the advantage on smooth octave shifting and octave range, but John could go from a growl to a whisper in the same octave better than anybody he had ever seen, much in the same vein as Mike Patton. Caitlyn had said of Luck, “He breaks my heart as seriously as he turns it to righteous violence. It’s gorgeous.”

“Fast receipt? Luck!/ Spot deceit? Luck!/ Can’t stand the people you meet? Luck!/ Can’t stand the bleak mind that ties you to the street? Luck!/ Luck!/ Luck!”

“Ten minutes after the best love of my life flew north/ I met a women with her greed splashed all over my shoes/ She said she could forget the things I’d kept behind (Luck!)/ but not forgive anything I may find (Luck!)”  

            A brief chime of a ringing G sharp major and a splash from Hank, and for the first time during a song the lights fell on them at the right time. John’s growl vanished and Turk imagined most of the people thought someone else had started singing, someone who they would have thought was terrified if not for the unsettling control that voice had on its tremor: “Forget/ The hard way/ Forget/ The world you play/ Forget/ what you were going to say/ Remember the luck you had yesterday/”
            Now the light guy was getting it. Turk listened to Hank progress the rise out of the slowdown perfectly, and the lights came up on the one, bright red over the crowd, and Hank beat the snare in double time as everyone riffed and screamed “Luck”: “Why the hell are you counting on/ Luck!/ What the hell are you counting on/ Luck!” And this went on, and Hank, his neck crooked at a weird angle, joined in. “Ain’t luck grand?/ Luck!/ Ain’t love grand?/ Luck!/ Only thing that will make you/ Luck!/ Pull your head out of the sand/ Luck!”

            After the song, they paused, as planned. Turk wanted to make sure that everyone had a chance to tune a string if they needed to, get a drink of water if they needed to, scratch their balls if they needed to. Turk took it as he had planned to all along. He figured after three of their best songs he would be able to have a somewhat educated reaction from the crowd to judge. He tried to pick out individual faces, but it was impossible. He only knew that the band had impressed them enough to have their undivided attention for the rest of the set. “Fuck yeah!” he screamed into the microphone as John tuned his D string. “Hey, this is our first time in Maine, but we’re coming back. You guys kick some ass.” He meant it. The crowd cheered in earnest. John laughed. Turk smiled and started Accumulation of Capital. It undeniably bounced, and the crowd was in too good of a mood not to throw down with it. A pocket started right in front of Marshall. Turk saw Marshall was transfixed, looking down at the faces, trying to catch as many eyes as he could. He envied how new it must have been for him. He didn’t perceive it as a cherry-popping as Marshall must have. He didn’t see it as years of hard work paying off, like Hank must have. But he at least new where the two of them stood. Marshall would always be blood, and if Hank could come back after Cast Iron, he understood enough to see it through to the end. That’s why he had asked Hank back. Hank’s versatility was what Turk saw and wanted. Hank was happy to play. That was all he’d wanted to do from the beginning.

            “Stockpile your violence before you fight/ Be sure your army knows you’re right/ Accumulate your capital and stand your guard/ Counterfeit your false dreams all night”

            It was the first song they had written together: Turk’s words and vocals over John’s music. Turk had written the words with a plea in mind, convincing enough that it would have won himself over had he heard it. Turk had never written songs with anyone before, but he felt that for The Gateway Drug he would have to let someone in on it. He felt too distanced from the audience. He felt that he needed some way to gauge how well his songs were communicating. He found John (or did John find him?) and when John told him that he’d already heard some of Turk’s stuff and liked it, he decided to bring him in for a rehearsal. Since Turk trusted his taste and style he was able to bring his songs to John and see, more or less, where he was. Turk sought an interactive audience. That way, for Turk there was always some way for Turk to prove whatever he felt needed proving. And as much as he knew John was on his level, he was always in a sense writing for John, writing to John. And John would either add what was needed or bring up something else. And it worked. Turk thought if he could clarify things to a mind his equal, well, then fifty thousand or more wouldn’t be a problem, would it?  

“Will you stay with me?/ Will you see what has been and will be?/ What have you brought up to face?/ Make room because the past won’t erase.”

But he still didn’t know what John would choose. Because all bands broke up because of burnout or loss of purpose. And while there was nothing he could do about burnout, he thought it would be in the band’s best interest that they all had the same sense of  what they were trying to do. But he was banking on John’s blinking first, on nodding to him, and saying, yeah, I get it, here you go, all fine now? And let’s move forward. He had been waiting for a while but still had no definite word. He feared getting left behind in John’s manic progressiveness. He couldn’t tell if John was here because of the band or just staying in playing shape until something he’d been wanting to do presented itself. And if John was using them, even subconsciously, as a stepping stone or a warm up, everything they did would be a fraud. Everything would have to be scrapped and redone.

As the song finished up, Marshall began the bassline to Fresh Off A Loss, a song Turk had written about starting the new band disguised as a song about not wanting to get into a rebound relationship after a bad one. It struck him as he sang the lyrics how transparent they were, “Don’t tell me you don’t see it ending/ Don’t expect me to sing without avenging/” Turk, who was generally a verse ahead of what he was singing at any given time and had long ago mastered thinking and singing at the same time, tried to place himself down in the crowd hearing the songs. The people were banging their heads, some were dancing, but they all seemed to be appreciative. If John had not been fully engrossed the whole time in the songwriting, the communication end, would the crowd be receptive? Wasn’t this his proof? John was matching his vocals and playing with tremendous energy. He was, as Hank would say, right there with him. Just give me the stage, he’d told Caitlyn years ago. Just give me the stage and the right people. I’ll change someone’s world, if only mine. But I can do it. Just give me the stage. He’d had a response in mind and always hoped to play well enough to earn that response. He knew it was inevitable with the right band. He always took a lot of pride in the bands he’d assembled when they took the stage with him, but knew that this was it, that The Gateway Drug was his ticket, and it was because of the collaboration. Because John’s music could speak Turk’s music’s language. But would John want it to? Does he understand? Turk asked himself, deliberately sheepish, feeling embarrassed even asking it. It was so ridiculous that it meant everything sometimes. But all the same Turk wanted to know for sure. He didn’t know exactly what he was expecting when he told John to pick the last song, but guessed he’d be able to deduce a few things that he simply didn’t have the desire to ask John. Do you understand?

They ran through Summit in about three minutes. Turk nodded to John after it was over. John winked  Marshall and Hank looked at each other and then at Turk, not knowing the last song. Turk gestured to John, who was saying, “This is going to be our last song. We’re the Gateway Drug. If you’re ever in Albany, look us up. Cause when we make it back here, we’ll look you guys up.”. Turk mouthed “His call,” and pointed at John. John turned and, said “One, two, three,” and then came down on the four with the opening riff to Cast Iron’s Protect This Shell. Hank and Marshall were playing along instinctively before they even realized what was going on. A stunned Turk joined in on the second measure, as natural as ever, taking it as a slap in the face and an affirmation. Caitlyn, who’d seen the whole thing from ten feet away, was shouting “We Win!”, jumping up and down on a delighted Gina, who said to nobody in particular, “Hey, I know this song!”

                                                                        ~

TO: IN%”gb0720@cnsvax.albany.edu”

FROM: IN%”dbecker@hardknocks.gettysburg.edu”

CC:

SUB: you won’t believe it

date:

     Hey Sis,

I just tried to call you but either you’re still sleeping or not hearing your answering machine again. either way I have some news. I’ll be going to new york a little earlier than I thought. this Sunday, actually. remember that girl donna I knew last semester? well we’ve kept in touch somewhat and she sent me an email the other day saying she was in nyc for the foreseeable future (she’s from ft.lee nj) and she left her phone number. well I called her and we had this huge talk, ended up talking for a few hours. it seems a grant that her aunt had written came through and as of last week she’s gone  on a photojournalism assignment that will last her through spring and she left her huge upper west side apartment to donna to basically do whatever with. so she invited me to come stay with her while I find a job and an apartment (that way I don’t have to live in underclass dorms). it seems the rent is a bit more than she realized when she told her aunt she could sublet it. so I told her that you and caitlyn could come down here too and help out while you look for a place of your own (or both of you or all three of us, whatever)

but the point is that she needs to know pretty soon, within a week or so before she starts putting out ads. I’m on, I’ll be there Sunday most likely. my classes start the following Monday. my sched. is pretty light so I  can work a lot. so I know you talk all the time about getting the fuck out of albany, and I know caitlyn does too, so here’s your chance. let me know soon. I’ll call you if I don’t hear from you.

I love you babe,

Dawn (the cute one)