Roar and din. All amps on 10, acoustics so lousy that sound is a hemorrhage darkening the ceiling, dripping down the walls, rising note by liquid note, wail by moist wail, over ankles, shins, knees, till the hem of every pair of knickers sags heavy and wet.
At the backside of the ConArts Warehouse, Mary pushed off from the wall, lurched a few feet and nearly fell over. She noted a hirsute skater to starboard. Big boy beer cup in each paw, slow-mo zig-zag, hairy balls lolling from out the bottom of his sweat-soaked gym shorts on each zag. Step aside, bless him as he wobbles past.
She steadied herself and motlied into a crowd bunched round a pillar.
The band onstage was hammering out a jealously good riff, sad and sinister and relentless, and if Mary was any judge (which she was) a guitar solo was kicking in the getaway stall, ready to spill a few seconds from now. Mary was anxious to hear the first note, so as to check the box labeled cliché or righteous. She held the righteous note in her head and was almost hoping the solo would be worthy of the riff. She might be far from being the best guitarist in town, as Charlemagne reminded her three times per rehearsal, but she was fierce in her partisan hatred of the predictable. There would always be a gazillion six-stringers ready and eager to spooge the obvious. Anything was preferable. Ugly, sour, falsely sweet. Repeat: anything was preferable.
The crowd was too dense, Mary too small, and there was now a sideshow of excitement as two female skaters collided, went down, and stayed down, threatening each other with a solid good ass-kicking just as soon as they were right-ended. Mary missed the visual of the lead guitarist stepping forward as the lead singer pirouetted towards the drummer, shaking his ass in hopes for competing bids from excitable birds when their set was done. The solo was a flop, a cutaway, a fadeout, the prime riff in mere recycle two octaves up. For his failure to even try Mary consigned the unseen guitarist to the sixth circle of Telecaster Hell. She felt in her jacket pocket for her sixth and last stowaway beer, having intended to delay for as long as possible the crush and grope and voice-shredding experience of a trip to one of the three inside bars. As she lifted the bottle to her lips she was sandwiched by Aquinas and Charlemagne.
-Looks like we won’t be going on, Aquinas cupped and shouted.
-No shit, Mary mouthed.
The Billets Doux were penciled in as one of a number of sub-bands in the event any of the advertised acts spunked out too quickly. Just the opposite had happened, with a series of tech fuck-ups between the first two bands and then an extra-long jam by Doctor Owsley and the MPs. The Doctor was a wizard-capped oaf, a John-Lennon-green-tint-spec-wearing buffoon who fancied himself an old school guitar hero circa 1969. Mary had had the misfortune of standing front row through part of his set. Charlemagne had asked what the MP stood for. Merry Pranksters, said Aquinas, with a journalist’s foreknowledge. Oh, said Mary, I would have guessed Mucus Puke. That got a laugh from Charlemagne. Doctor O had monotoned his way through several verses of crap lyric (… in mighty triumph I come riding … Jupiter’s fiery fist shall fall …. swords … spaceships … golden tress-ed Viking sluts ….) before setting forth upon the odyssey of his Majestic Guitar Solo. Ten seconds in and Mary had laughed out loud, as Doctor O spread his legs, bent his knees to a manly squat, positioned guitar right angle to groin and proceeded to embarrass himself. Mary caught his eye and thus provoked, mirrored back her own air guitar, fist pumping from her crotch to a full-length arm’s stretch and back again, laughing and shaking her head oh no no no the while. Mockery was misread as approval, as arousal, and the Doctor redoubled his effort, fist jacking to a blur, notes squirting at random like spray from a punctured fire hose, head thrown back (o the passion). When he recovered Mary was long gone and even the headbanging guys in the front had a subdued and remorseful look on their faces. The Doctor, unfazed, embarked on an exploration of his wah-wah pedal, boredom without end. Wah-wah, wah-wah, wah-wah-wah. Wah…. Wah …. wah.
Now, six bands and six beers along Mary had a decision to make. Exit now or stick around and run the risk of being too drunk to get home without some tagalong lover she had neither the will nor the wit to be rid of. Mary held the bottle up to the nearest string of lights. One big swallow or too littler ones. The band was done and the emcee was urging everyone to hang tight, stay loose, put their hands together for the next bunch of rockers, Driving With A Maniac.
-Driving with a … Mary smiled.
Years ago she had played and co-written a song with that same name. Different haircut, different time zone.
A skater, thin as a rake, his shaved head a worm-swirl of Celtic tattoos, flew past, separating her from her thoughts. Mary stepped into the skater’s slipstream.
-Head’s up, sissy!
A chick skater, in furious pursuit of tattoo-boy, sheared by so close that the rat’s end of her faux dreadlocks caught Mary across the mouth. She tasted spray perfume and rank meth-sweat.
Driving with a maniac. What was the chorus again? Years ago, too many murdered brain cells. Ah, and here it was, burbling over a manic G chord, bass rumbling spastic beneath.
i took it in a chair i took it on the stairs
i took it up against the wall until i bled
i’ll be yer twenty-minute lover
from my knees up to my head
Mary sang the last couplet out in a wavery drunk falsetto and bumped into a guy who caught her by the shoulders.
-Say what? he asked, leaning in, smiling, curious.
-Say what what?
-Twenty minute? Lover? You’ll be my …?
-Oh, it’s a line from a song.
-Oh yeah? And will you?
Mary felt herself triple-pricked by the lean, the smile, the curiosity.
-Will I let you buy me a beer? Sure.
-Right. Stay here. I’ll be back in a flash.
-Get me one too, dude.
Mary noticed her new friend had himself a friend, slightly worse for wear, oozy bandage on his cheek, eyes unanchored and rolling for focus. While they waited for the beer he talked and laughed and talked but Mary could not understand a single word. She didn’t bother nodding or smiling, in case she might be agreeing to something she’d seriously regret later.
-I’m Dave, by the way, said the lesser drunk, handing round the flimsy plastic cups.
-I’m Jane, Mary said.
-This is Phil, Dave said.
-Yeah, this is Phil, Phil laughed, and punched himself in the face.
Recovering, he took a sip, sprayed part of it on Mary and then, with further sloshing shouted to his friend.
-oooh, bro, here she comes again!
Mary turned in time to see Anais skate by, knees bent, toes pointing east and west, cream-colored tee-shirt tight across her top, lilywhite lingerie below, barely keeping her within an R-rating. Her blonde hair was plastered to her forehead and cheeks, a Caravaggio nymph in a sauna.
-She’s a hard one to miss, Dave said, winking at Mary.
Phil spluttered in agreement.
-She wonner prize! Mose byu … byu… devul thighs weeseen all nigh.
-Yes, Mary nodded, she’s something else.
-Dash fonny … sunsin elz … hat pussy arn rooler bleeds …
-What?
-Man, shut up! You’re being rude.
-Zorry, Phil mumbled.
-zorry, Jszane, zorry I zed pussy infro you …
-What?
-Never mind, Dave said, leaning in again.
-tell me more about this twenty minute lover song.
And it occurred to Mary (for what? 2 seconds? 5 seconds? 30?) that, what the hell, never having set eyes on this Dave before, and unlikely to ever do so again, perhaps the better option among bad choices was to dispose of him here and now, rather than chance finding herself in a blacked-out dream sequence two hours later, contending with not one but both of them. She knew the layout, knew exactly the words to say to keep any further intimacy, further complexity an impossibility, the simple and now iconic twenty-minutes (less than! less than! experience jeered) needed to take him into a bathroom stall and suck him off, and leave the premises while he gratefully bought her another never-to-be-drunk cup of beer. Well, no, it would of course wind up half in and half on Phil, while Dave gave him the blow-by-blow.
A shimmer of white, cream, and gold hazed Mary’s peripheral vision. Anais glided past, craning her neck as though on a scavenger hunt or rescue mission.
-A-Na-Eeees! Mary yelled, and Anais slowed, turned, waved a high hello, golden downy armpit catching a whisper of blue green and red reflected in the dew, and circled back, weaving towards her.
-Hey, Anais said, catching hold of Mary by the waist and breathing out a happy rush.
Mary brushed her friend’s ear and said:
-I need rescuing.
Anais looked over at Dave and Phil, who were clearly awaiting introduction.
-Right.
Anais put her hand on Mary’s shoulder, bent at the waist, unlaced her skates, tugged the tongues up and out and then heel to toe, stepped free and barefoot. Scooping up the skates she took Mary by the hand and they ran for the exit.