Rocked by Him

by Lucy Lambert

  If he found out, I’d be fired.

  If he did, it would be worth it. Especially if this went as well as I thought it might. I mean, Drake wrote a freaking song about me! Of course it was going to go well. What other way could it possibly go?

  I looked around the back seat of the cab, wondering if there was any wood in there to knock on.

  I wished I’d gotten in with some crazy driver willing to bend or break the rules of the road to get me to the club faster.

  “I’ll have to drop you here, yeah?” the driver said, glancing back at me.

  Wondering why, I peered through the windshield down the street. The red glare of dozens of sets of brake lights stared back at me, looking especially baleful at night. Crowds thronged on the sidewalks. The street was packed.

  So I thanked the driver and got out. Club 54 was only a few minutes up the road. I stepped quickly down the sidewalk, hands thrust into the too-shallow pockets of my jacket, my breaths misting in front of my face.

  My old jeans, thin and torn, did almost nothing to help with the cold, and I walked more quickly to try and build up some heat.

  Cars, mostly taxis, were pretty much parked on the street going both ways. Many of them were bumper-to-bumper, so close that I could have easily walked over their hoods without my feet ever touching the slush-covered asphalt.

  The closer I got, the thicker the crowds became. Like me, many of them were in their rock outfits: leather jackets, jeans, that sort of thing.

  They couldn’t all be trying to get into the club, could they?

  But then I thought of Lucinda. She knew all the words to Remembering You. They played it on all the radio stations, it seemed. Of course all these people were here to see the band.

  My managing to score a ticket must have been some sort of minor miracle. Either that, or it was a last-minute show and I caught it at just the right instant.

  I had to use my elbows and shoulders to bull my way into the deep semi-circle of hopefuls surrounding the bank of doors leading into Club 54. The ticket booth was closed, a piece of paper taped inside it reading, “Sold Out.”

  Only two of those doors stood open. At each, a hulking bouncer stood. It took me a second to recognize the guy on the left. It was Lawrence! Despite the cold, he wore only a token windbreaker with the club’s logo on the back. He left the zipper open.

  I got into his line, stamping my feet to keep the cold from encroaching too much.

  Finally, my turn arrived. I had my printed off ticket in my hand, my fingers so cold and bloodless they could have belonged to a marble statue. Lawrence glanced at me, then took the ticket.

  He waved a scanner at the barcode and it beeped. Then he gestured for me to get a move on.

  I felt like we should reminisce or something, talk about that time he’d called me using Drake’s phone, that sort of thing. I was a bit miffed that he didn’t even seem to remember me at all, but that irritation passed when I got into the foyer. Jets of warm air blasted down at the crowd, even as a cold breeze stirred around my ankles.

  Not surprisingly, very few people opted to check their coats. The bar, however, was in full swing. Since I’d last been here, they’d added a blue backlight behind all the bottles.

  That brought back memories of a drunken night. Memories far too fuzzy for my taste. No, I wasn’t going to drink. One drink would turn into two, then three, and so on.

  Instead, I joined the disorderly line waiting to get into the club proper.

  More and more memories from that night drifted up into my thoughts, broken loose from my subconscious. I looked over at the door that led to the hall, which in turn led to a certain dressing room. An almost forgotten heat kindled inside me, and I smiled.

  “Hey, have you seen this act before?” someone said, lightly grabbing my arm just above the elbow.

  I looked back. It was a short guy with long chestnut hair (much of it hanging in front of his eyes for some reason) in a brown leather jacket just loose enough on his shoulders to look bad. His ears were bright red from the cold, and he couldn’t stop sniffling.

  “Yeah…” I said, looking back to see if they were letting us in yet. Was Drake on stage? Who did I have to show my pass to in order to get backstage?

  Shorty tugged at my arm again. “Really? I just bought all their stuff on iTunes. They’re awesome!”

  I shook my arm free and readied a line designed to get him to stop talking when I realized just how distracted I was. All my attention was on Drake and getting to talk to him. I’d almost totally forgotten that I was about to experience another real live concert in my rush to get to him.

  So I bit back my comment about his having a comb over beard and smiled.

  “Yeah, they really are. I can’t wait for the show to start! It’s been so long since I’ve seen them perform live,” I said. I had to raise my voice to be heard of the swell of conversation around me. Aside from getting a drink, there wasn’t really any entertaining way to pass the time before the show here.

  Kind of odd, really. You’d think they’d have a bunch of TVs or something set up, or at least some music playing.

  “You’ve seen them already! That’s awesome, man! You think they’re going to do Remember Me?” he said.

  “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t they? It’s their biggest song, right?”

  “It really is. I heard Drake wrote it a while back, but that they couldn’t record it for a while because he was so broken up, you know?”

  “No…”

  This was news to me. I’d tried to keep my cyber stalking to a minimum, checking out The Icons’ official site and their YouTube channel and whatnot. I never really was one for celebrity gossip.

  Shorty used this as his opportunity to divulge the juicy gossip. He seemed to relish every syllable of it, and he talked as though he personally knew Drake and the other guys in the band.

  “The message board I run had a whole thread about it! Apparently Drake went through some nasty breakup. He really liked the girl and she just shut him out of his life. Can you believe it? Anyway, I was saying I think it was a good thing. Without Remember Me, who knows how long it would have been until they had their first real hit on their hands…”

  He kept on talking, but I didn’t really hear any more. I really thought about the song, about the genuine pain I felt in it. Yeah, it was about me. But was that really how he remembered me, as the girl who’d broken his heart and dumped him?

  “This was a mistake,” I said.

  “What?”

  I shouldn’t have come down to the show; I’d misread everything! I felt so stupid and embarrassed. I’d been some little girl stuck in a fantasy world where I was a princess and Drake was the knight, come to rescue me.

  In reality I was a muse for him, a tool to write a hit.

  I wanted to leave. And I tried to. But the crowd started moving. Like a bit of driftwood, I got caught up in their tide and dragged inexorably towards the main hall of Club 54.

  “Excuse me? Sorry. I really need to get through…” I said, still fighting. But for every person who shifted aside to let me past, two more blocked my path and then looked at me indignantly.

  So I let them take me. I could just let myself out when the crowd dispersed from around the door, or go out through the emergency exit or something.

  The bar at the back was already being swarmed, the few standing-height tables already claimed.

  My sweet memories of this place turned sour while I looked around. No, I couldn’t be there any longer.

  Turning to go, I happened to glance at the stage.

  Unlike last time, the band was already there. As soon as everyone noticed, the area around the stage got crowded. People reached up, trying to touch Drake and the others. Big bouncers in their black tees had to fend them off.

  When I saw Drake, my feet refused to carry me out of there. He looked good. Same jacket as before, same hair, same stubble dotting his cheeks. He actually knelt down to talk to some fans, to shake hands with
people.

  I really did miss his smile, one corner of his mouth cocked up a bit higher than the other, even when it wasn’t directed at me.

  The guitarist tuned his guitar, plucking at the strings. The melodious notes attracted everyone’s attention.

  I wanted to get closer, to make Drake notice me, but there were too many people.

  “Drake!” I said, waving.

  The screams and cheers of his new adoring fans drowned me out with ease.

  I waved harder, trying to get his attention. If only he would direct that devilish smile of his my way.

  He went over to the mic and pulled it off its silver stand.

  “Hey guys. How you doing tonight?” His voice sounded clear and strong. I’d forgotten how good the acoustics were in this place, and just how pleasant his voice was in real life.

  Everyone cheered. Drake waved, then waited for everyone to calm down a little.

  “I don’t know how many of you know this, but our first show here at Club 54 was definitely the turning point for The Icons. And we’re really psyched to be back. Now how about we try to make this show as unforgettable as that one…?” Drake said.

  His smile faltered a little then, and my heart went out to him. Maybe, just maybe he really did miss me. Maybe I wasn’t just some muse to him.

  If anyone else noticed his change in attitude, they didn’t show it. All five hundred or so people in the room erupted with cheers.

  But Drake stayed quiet, adjusting his grip on the mic as though it didn’t quite feel comfortable there. Then the quiet got a bit too low. The bassist, a big guy in a muscle shirt with those tattoo “sleeves” struck a deep chord that seemed to shake the whole room.

  The light show started then, too. Bathing the stage once more in reds, greens, blues, and other colors.

  It was as though Drake came out of a trance. He looked out across the crowd. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, and sang.

  Since it was live, the band apparently decided to add a couple bars to the beginning of the song.

  When those first few familiar notes played, the room erupted again. Drake poured his heart and soul into the performance, never missing a note or skipping a word. Even standing a few rows back from the front, I could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the way his whole body trembled when he belted out each verse.

  And, even more shocking, everyone knew the words to the songs just as well as I did. My throat went hoarse when I tried to keep up.

  Just like the first time, the music permeated my body, touched me deeply. It was that feeling of being perfectly in tune with something, my body resonating with the harmonies.

  It was so good, swaying there with everyone else, closing my eyes and feeling the energy of the crowd build as the music washed over us, that I almost forgot my original intention in coming out.

  So I started working my way forward, nudging past people as gently as I could. Thankfully, it actually wasn’t that difficult. Everyone seemed so mesmerized that no one put up a fight, or even really shot me any dirty looks.

  And then I was so close to the stage I could almost reach out and touch it. A red velvet rope, drooping lazily in the middle, was all that prevented me from getting any closer.

  It was so hot there, too. Sweat glistened on the brows of all the band members, and I wondered at the physical toll playing a show like this took. If I hadn’t wanted to get to Drake so badly, I might’ve even let myself get pulled back deeper into the audience.

  I waved, tried to get Drake’s attention. But every time I did, the roar of the crowd swelled to greater heights, or the guitarist would shred a solo.

  It got to the point that my inability to reach him interfered with the almost spiritual experience of the live show. I began to lose that feeling of Zen oneness, replacing it with a growing irritation and worry.

  Twice at least, Drake’s eyes swept the crowd. I saw and felt his gaze move over me. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t acknowledge me in any way.

  I wondered if whether I was dreaming, and wasn’t actually hear. But the sensations were far too real for that. The heat of the crowd, the thud of the bass that reverberated throughout my body, the scratchy sensation at the back of my throat from yelling at the top of my lungs. No, it was real I right. I was there, Drake was there, but he either didn’t notice or, worse, didn’t care.

  Those doubts from earlier crept back into my mind, and my body stopped moving to the music. I stood there, watching him, seeing his teeth flash when he opened his mouth wide.

  Finally, after several non-stop sets, the band quieted. The thrum of the bass faded until it was only a memory in my bones. The hall grew as quiet as a room full of hundreds of people could.

  Again, Drake paused. He surveyed his subjects, his eyes once again passing by me without seeing.

  “Amazing! You’re all wonderful. I thought you knew the words better than me a few times!” he said. The crowd cheered.

  “I know that the bill said we’re supposed to play for another hour, but I feel like this needs to be short and sweet. We’ve got one more song for you guys.”

  The cheering stopped. All around me, people looked at each other. Even in the semi darkness, I could see their frowns, see their mouths move in whispers as they questioned each other.

  What was Drake doing? Not even his band knew, apparently. They also shared looks. Drake pulled them all in around the drum set. I couldn’t hear them at all, but it looked heated. The guitarist shoved his finger in Drake’s face, and the bassist threw his arms up in disappointment or defeat, I couldn’t be sure.

  Then they parted, Drake walking right onto that little projection of the stage that jutted out a few feet extra.

  “I think you all know this one, too,” he said.

  He raised one hand. When he dropped it, the band started playing the song everyone had been waiting to hear.

  My heart dropped in my chest. It was Remembering You. I couldn’t move. I stayed still, watching Drake as he sang. Behind and beside me, the crowd swayed to the rhythm. People pulled out lighters and cell phones, waving them slowly in the air.

  It was yet another spiritual experience I couldn’t share any more.

  It felt like I stood out from the crowd, if only by not doing what they did. But Drake’s eyes still passed over me.

  Slowly, I let my eyes drop to the indistinct shadows swirling around on the floor. I couldn’t look at him anymore. That emptiness inside me that I’d been covering up these past few months suddenly yawned wide again, swallowing me up.

  Unlike all the previous songs, the crowd stopped singing with Drake when he drew close to the end. They all wanted to hear him croon those last few words.

  I even found myself leaning forward a little, my breath held in anticipation. The words were so perfect, such a poignant end.

  Drake paused right before, the true showman knowing just what his audience wanted. The band obliged as well, holding that final note, letting it fade, letting everyone feel the last few tremblings.

  “Maybe someday I’ll find you again,” Drake finished. He seemed to barely breathe the words. The audience got so quiet, straining to hear them. I heard them well and clear, being so close. The words were sad and tortured, lonely and longing. And they tore me up inside.

  Those words faded all too quickly from the hall, leaving the only sound a slight hum from the speakers. Still, everyone waited. What was Drake doing? I wasn’t sure.

  Drake’s head bowed down, his chin resting against his chest. His hair fell about his face so that I couldn’t make out his eyes. He sighed, the sound amplified by the mic he still held close.

  Then he dropped the mic. Through the speakers, it sounded like he’d let go of a cinderblock from the crashing it made. He walked off, Lawrence and another bouncer moving to fend off an anticipated rush of fans that never came.

  We all just watched him leave, even the rest of the band.

  I can only liken the sensation I felt moving through the crowd
and myself to when you go see a movie. It’s a great movie. Sad and funny and inspirational. But then the director pulls a fast one on you. The movie ends in mid-scene, the white credits sliding up the black screen. You know what you saw could have been amazing, should have been amazing. But then it hits you that it really is the end.

  That feeling of incompletion, of melancholy frustration, that was what I felt in Club 54.

  ***

  The crowd shuffled out towards the street numbly. I meant to follow them, to see if I could get a taxi or find the nearest subway station and get home. My clothes felt uncomfortable on me, my jeans too tight, my jacket too short.

  But then I saw the sign above the door beside the bar. It read Backstage, and Lawrence stood beside that door, examining the pass of a girl with spiky pink hair and then waving her through.

  I needed to talk to Drake. It felt like if I could just explain everything to him that it could all still work out. My backstage pass was my final lifeline, and I didn’t mean to let go of it.

  So I went over to the door, presenting the pass. Again, Lawrence showed no sign of remembering me.

  “At least you didn’t have to call me to come help this time,” I said, giving a laugh that sounded awkward even to me.

  Lawrence’s mouth tightened, his eyes flicking to my face and then back to the pass. He returned it to me. I started going forward, expecting him to move out of the way.

  I would have ran into him if he didn’t put his hands on my shoulders to stop me.

  “No admittance,” Lawrence said. He didn’t even have to speak loudly despite his high voice. Really, it was creepy how quiet everyone was while they shuffled out of the club. Even the bar wasn’t busy.

  “What? But I have a backstage pass!” I said, holding up the bit of paper.

  Lawrence gave me one of those French shrugs, his shoulders going up while the corners of his mouth turned down.

  “Don’t matter. No admittance.”

  At first, I didn’t get it. I looked at the pass. It was clearly marked as a backstage admittance to see the band following the show. It had that day’s date, the words “PAID IN FULL” in bold near the bottom and everything…