Horror Stories

by Liz Phair

  The promoter finally sends a roadie out to confirm that the show is canceled. We’re free to call our insurance companies and make our claims. Matt and I walk back to his hotel to rehearse our acoustic set for tomorrow. It’s hard to look at the tired and frustrated faces of all the bewildered citizens who can’t get home, and who probably can’t reach their loved ones by phone, either.

  When we reach Matt’s hotel, reality hits me like a wet bag of sand. We have to walk up fifteen flights of stairs in pitch darkness. It takes three times longer than normal, because we have to wait behind people of different ages and physical abilities, some of whom shuffle along step by step, unsteady on their feet. I hold on to the railing as invisible bodies brush past me on their way down. I get tweaked by the sound of everybody’s breathing, and by the closeness of the air. I smell these strangers’ breath, their deodorant, their personal hygiene.

  Matt uses his cellphone to illuminate our path, wasting valuable battery life. We need to buy some of those tiny disposable flashlights that hustlers are selling on all the street corners. I pause at the tenth-floor landing to catch my breath. My heart is pounding against my rib cage. I keep thinking about the victims of the World Trade Center disaster, who had to make it down far more harrowing stairwells, and in toxic smoke, to escape. I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack.

  Once we’re safely inside Matt’s hotel room, I run straight to the window, sticking my head out and inhaling the fresh scent of twilight. The clouds are pale pink. A hawk soars between two skyscrapers, making slow, lazy circles on an updraft. It’s a relief to be hidden away, high above everything. I don’t know if I want to go back down those stairs again. I’m nervous about being alone with Matt for the first time. I’m sure he’s staring at me. My whole back feels hot. Being with him is what I wanted, but now that I’m here, the bed feels twice its normal size, a looming presence in the room, fraught with meaning, impossible to ignore.

  I turn around. Matt’s packing up his gear. I take in his broad shoulders, the curve of his biceps, his strong hands and thick, dark hair. When he kneels down to retrieve a guitar pick from the floor, his thighs stretch the fabric of his jeans taut.

  I feel paralyzed, like anything I do right now will be the wrong thing. I’ve been staring out the window so long that Matt gets up and walks over to see what I’m looking at. He stands very close to me, our arms touching. Neither of us moves or pulls away; we stay perfectly still, pretending it isn’t happening. Sparks explode in my chest. Something powerful, almost painful, passes between us, a current strong enough to make my toes curl and my spine tingle. There’s no other word for it: electricity.

  The sensation teeters between bliss and agony for a few more seconds; and then, just like that, it’s awkward. We break apart, but the room feels too small now. We need to get out of here. We need to go somewhere else or something is going to happen. Matt’s demeanor changes. He becomes businesslike, as if he’s disappointed in himself and, in a weird way, disapproving of me. Or maybe I imagine it.

  “Listen.” I cock my head, smiling. Far below us, a gang of cyclists shout friendly insults at one another as they speed around a corner, the whir of their spokes pulsing like fan blades as they propel themselves forward. “Let’s go out and see what’s going on, before it gets too dark.” I dance back and forth, feeling like we’re missing out on all the action.

  Matt checks his phone and says his brother wants him to meet up at a nearby restaurant. It occurs to me that I’m not necessarily invited. A cloud of fear fogs up my brain. Are they ditching me? I can’t walk back to my hotel by myself. I can’t sit alone in a dark room all night. I don’t even know where our tour bus is parked. Somebody has to help me. Someone has to take care of me. I’m not used to doing things for myself.

  The truth is, every member of the band and crew is hired by me, including the bus driver, and yet somehow I feel like the baby of this operation. When you’re the star—the role I’m currently playing—somebody is in charge of you at all times. Like animal handlers, they get you where you need to go, make sure you have food and water, anticipate your every need. It’s a system designed for efficiency, but it basically infantilizes you.

  “Of course you’re coming.” Matt empties two large handfuls of loose change from his pants pockets, creating a small coin cascade on the night table. “I wasn’t going to leave you here.” He winks at me.

  I don’t complain during the unpleasant trip down the stairs. Once we’re outside, the tension between us vanishes. We’re just bandmates again. We buy a bunch of those tiny keychain flashlights from a guy selling glow-in-the-dark rave paraphernalia. The atmosphere is surprisingly convivial. The sidewalks are crammed with people strolling along in pairs and small groups. It feels like a national holiday. Everybody wants to be together, to spend as little time as possible in their dark, oppressive apartment buildings.

  We weave through the crowd, shielding our eyes against the blinding glare of oncoming flashlights. I’m shocked by how many people are planning to stay out overnight. They’ve made campsites with whatever materials they could scrounge up, stretching out on smooth patches of grass, wide stone steps, benches, and low ledges. It’s a terrible situation. This would be a humanitarian crisis, I realize, if it were storming or freezing outside.

  I’m touched to see how many stores and restaurants have stayed open, willing to help out in whatever way they can. At the very least, they provide somewhere safe and reassuring for people in the neighborhood to go. Vendors are generously distributing perishables at no charge. We pass a dozen people eating cheesecake off paper plates, licking half-melted gelato cones, and popping mini-éclairs in their mouths. It’s a freaking block party on the Upper West Side.

  “Let’s go in.” I tug Matt’s sleeve, tempted by the steady stream of desserts flowing out of an attractive bistro a few steps down from the sidewalk. Votive candles glimmer in the windows. Ironically dressed hipsters slouch around the nearest tables. It takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. Candles cover every surface. I feel like I’m in a cavern or a grotto, everybody cast in silhouette, their shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling. In spite of everything, the restaurant is filled with customers. There isn’t a single free table.

  While we wait for something to open up, Matt hears his brother’s voice behind him. In the darkness, we didn’t realize we were standing right next to Saul—our bass player—and Matt’s brother, Nate.

  “What’s up, dude!” They bro-hug. We order drinks from a cocktail waitress and catch up on the surreal events of the evening. The chef is putting out dishes for diners to try for free. The refrigerators stopped working at four in the afternoon, and all the gourmet food is slowly spoiling. The most ubiquitous dish on offer is ice cream. It’s safe, refreshing, and also melting the fastest.

  The staff are drinking alongside the patrons. There’s a feeling of “live for today, because we’re all going to die tomorrow” in the air. Some people are singing pop songs to fill the void left by the disabled sound system. It’s a socially sparkling atmosphere, reminiscent of Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca. Some of the guests are people who have kept their original dinner plans and showed up for dates, regardless of the altered circumstances. It’s inspiring.

  We’re getting plates of food because all of the tables are taken. “Try this.” Nate shoves a forkful of pasta into Matt’s mouth. “It’s really fucking good.”

  “Oh my God.” Matt groans like he’s just tasted Aphrodite’s bathwater.

  I’m getting drunk. We’re all laughing. Matt is speaking for both of us, answering in the plural while I stand quietly by his side. I like how he enjoys taking responsibility for me. In this broken-down city where everything is up for grabs, I have a champion. Moreover, I have brothers-in-arms, comrades with whom I work side by side: all of us traveling in our eighteen-wheel pirate ship all over the country. I’m in a ban
d. Don’t mess with us.

  Matt gets a call from Aaron saying he needs to move the bus. The scene downtown is getting a little crazy. There have been arrests and incidents of drunken vandalism. I’m going to sleep on the bus tonight so I’ll be ready for Good Morning America tomorrow. I have to wake up at 4:00 A.M. to get my hair and makeup done. Most of the guys are going to sleep there, too. We all put in cash to close out our tab and vow to return to this bar in the future to commemorate our wild experience of surviving the Northeast blackout of ’03.

  The crowd outside the restaurant has grown considerably. No one is observing liquor laws. Everyone’s holding a cocktail and a cigarette. We pass a group of tall, attractive men wearing miner’s headlamps and sipping martinis. That’s brilliant, I think, a hands-free light source!

  “Excuse me.” I squeeze between them, intimidated by their bold attire.

  “Liz Phair.”

  The voice is instantly familiar, ringing all sorts of bells. I lean in closer, peering past the bright light shining out from the man’s forehead.

  “Courtney? Oh my God!” It’s Courtney Taylor-Taylor, the lead singer of the Dandy Warhols. We’re on the same label, and I was just in a meeting with him back in Los Angeles a few weeks ago. I’m flustered. “What are the odds!”

  “Yeah, I saw you guys were playing here tonight. We’re in town for a gig, too.” He’s nonchalant.

  “This is insane, isn’t it?” I gesture around me, indicating the power outage. I’m acting giddy, puffed up by the attention. I can’t get over the fact that the coolest guy on the street has turned out to be a contemporary of mine. I’m pushing a six on the scale of annoying.

  Introductions are made. Matt dutifully shakes everybody’s hands, but I can tell he’s lost a few ounces of confidence in the face of these older, more established musicians. Being around other artists who are my age, my generation, breaks the spell I’ve been under from hanging out too much with all my young bandmates.

  Courtney and his friends are hilarious. They’re like the Ocean’s Eleven guys. They trade comedic commentary under their breath, mocking the self-important people around us. One minute you’re straining to hear what they’re saying, and the next, they hit you with a punch line so unexpectedly wicked it cracks your ass in half. That’s how these guys roll. They wear their ridiculous headlamps with aplomb. Further proof that rock and roll is supremely well adapted to crisis.

  “Where did you guys buy those?” I’m edging closer to Courtney, examining the details of his headlamp. Matt doesn’t like my casual proximity. He says something loud and laughs, stepping forward so that I naturally step back. But my little bird-face keeps twitching, inspecting. I’m plotting the steps that must be taken in order to get a headlamp of my own. Until I get my hands on this vital piece of equipment, I won’t be able to think about anything else.

  “A guy was selling them on the corner, a couple of blocks that way.” Courtney indicates the direction in which we were already heading, to meet up with the bus.

  “Cool. Can I have a sip of your martini?” Without waiting for Courtney to answer, I blithely take a sip of his drink. He clocks my rudeness but takes it in stride. I’m not the first drunk girl he’s had to deal with.

  He’s talking to Matt and the other guys while I stand there tapping my foot. I’m really only calculating the odds of finding this vendor before he sells out of merchandise or moves on, but it seems like I’m annoyed about something. Matt thinks I would rather be with Courtney. I don’t have time to explain myself; the headlamp vendor is going to leave the vicinity, and I want to buy a bunch of these for our bus.

  All Matt’s talk about Mad Max and Escape from New York is doing a number on my head. In my drunken state, I’ve begun to think like a survivalist. This blackout could last for days or weeks, or even forever. These headlamps could be the difference between life and death for us. These headlamps might be the most important things we own if we find ourselves running from a mob, taking shelter in the subways, or crossing the river at night. It’s potentially a big fucking deal, at least in my imagination. I start interrupting.

  The boys are talking about musical gear. Matt’s really enjoying himself now. Gear is a subject he knows a lot about, and it’s given him a way to be competitive. He’s got everybody’s attention. They’re hanging on his opinions and recommendations. I’m ready to leave; I want to go right now. But all he sees is that while he’s talking, I’m suddenly irritated.

  I interject something stupid like “I don’t understand why rock-and-roll equipment has to be so heavy. Why can’t they make guitars out of graphite?” Nobody wants to explain it to me. They let my non sequitur hang in the air for a beat, then move on. I keep glancing at Courtney’s headlamp. Matt interprets this as me checking out another man right in front of him. He’s hurt, but he tries to conceal it. He doesn’t know me that well yet. He has no idea how hyperfocused I can get when I’m really interested in something.

  They’re talking about Def Jam, for Christ’s sake. I’m frustrated beyond belief. We are in a crisis situation. Does anyone remember that? We need headlamps! I’m certain that this is the best idea I’ve ever had. I’m already imagining, twenty-four hours from now, the band and crew thanking me, congratulating me for being smart enough to purchase these ultramodern lifesaving devices. I want to be the rock band that makes it into the papers for having come through the emergency against all odds. If the Dandy Warhols somehow make it into the New York City blackout winner’s circle and Liz Phair’s band doesn’t, I will never forgive myself. I finally drag Matt away from his rock-star conversation. Believe it or not, we actually do find the headlamp seller, exactly where Courtney said he’d be, and he still has plenty of headlamps available in a range of colors, for a very reasonable price. It shocks Matt almost as much as it satisfies me. It doesn’t end up saving our lives, but I do sleep better that night knowing that if all hell breaks loose, we can go 007.

  It’s getting late. The streets are starting to empty out. New Yorkers are reluctantly going to bed to spend a fitful night worrying about tomorrow’s fresh horrors. Matt and I stroll down the sidewalk, in no hurry, enjoying a silent rapport. After he realized that our safety truly was my motivation, his hackles smoothed down, and his affection flowed toward me again. After every misunderstanding, our trust in each other deepens. I don’t know how I would have gotten through tonight without him. He tells me to look up at the sky and points out how many stars there are above us right now. It’s a beautiful sight. Very romantic.

  It’s incredible to think that there was a time on earth when the stars were so visible that they mesmerized our ancestors, the same way the billboard lights on Forty-second Street and Broadway transfix tourists visiting Times Square today. Their distant, twinkling fire is so steady and eternal that you can’t help but contemplate your own improbable and fleeting existence. Humans have created their own nighttime light show, and in the absence of it, here before us is the original inspiration. How life arose on earth is still a mystery, but I’m willing to bet that the process has something to do with electricity.

  Two cyclists whip by us, so close I feel their wind-drag snap my clothing. It’s official. The city belongs to bicycle gangs. The menace on two wheels is growing. Bike messengers act like they’ve been waiting for the chance to dominate the road for years and their moment has finally come. It’s a reminder that when we finally do run out of fossil fuels, we’ll still have bicycles.

  “Oh, thank God! You guys are here!” Aaron sounds like a worried mother as he opens the door of the bus. He’s beaming from ear to ear. He wraps Matt up in a side-hug. “Liz! Matt! See? The family is all back together again!” He checks over his shoulder as some teenagers run screaming down the street. “Heyyy!” Aaron suddenly bangs on the door when some guy drags his backpack along the side of the coach. “As you can see,” he says with a sigh, climbing up the stairs behind us, “it was getting
a little rough down here.” He stops for comedic timing. “Down here”—he wags his finger to make sure we understand—“in this part of town.” He draws a line under the point. “I’m sure it’s fine up by you guys, but…down here it’s Night of the Living Dead.”

  He’s teasing, mostly, but he wants to get going, to find a parking spot closer to the Good Morning America studio. It’s awesome to be inside our climate-controlled, fully operational bus again. We flop down on the lounge couch and bask in the air-conditioning. I’m safe and secure, prepared for anything. I marvel at the luxury of television, dimmer switches, music playing, the cold soda I pull out from the refrigerator. It’s only been eight hours since the power went out in New York City, but it’s given me an entirely new perspective on what our lives would be like without the grid. I don’t ever want to go without electricity again unless I’m camping. Maybe not even then.

  “There were some serious nutjobs in the streets who showed up just to be dicks.” Aaron fills us in. “Like, ‘Hey, we’re here. Remember those signs we were carrying, warning you about Armageddon?’ ” Aaron shakes his head. “Nobody’s happier about this situation than those assholes. It’s been a long night—let’s just say that.” He sits back down, smiling proudly. The brakes release and our big beautiful coach rumbles along on its way.

  We settle in and shrug off the chaos of the world outside for a few minutes, watching the news on television. They’re calling it a butterfly effect, blaming the entire Northeast going dark on a series of small but snowballing errors that had catastrophic consequences—aging infrastructure in America exacerbated by poor maintenance of utility lines in rural Ohio or some such bullshit—likening this national disaster to a situation where one of those pesky little Christmas tree lights goes out and takes the whole strand with it. Officials parrot the explanation at regular intervals to calm the public and dispel suspicions of foul play, but none of us believe it for a second. The disruption is too widespread, too unprecedented.