Ache

by P. J. Post

  Tonya has pulled her hair into pigtails and is wearing an oversized gray bath-robe; she said she had a surprise for us. I’m guessing this is Carla’s work. Todd is wearing jeans and a New York Dolls shirt. I’ve got on my bloody chucks, ripped black 501’s and one of my white undershirts from the second hand shop. We dressed up special.

  “What’s Larry’s problem tonight?” I ask while I light a cigarette. His antics are worse than usual.

  Todd scowls across the room. “Nothing, just his typical prickish self.”

  “Hey dickless,” I shout over to Larry, “Your mom still giving head out back for nickels and giving change?” He’s just too easy to wind up.

  Larry turns to me pointing and screaming. “Your turn’s coming, motherfucker!”

  I laugh at him, his fake accent sounds ridiculous.

  And then he jumps over and gets in my face, like he’s trying to intimidate me. He’s tilting his head left and right while he stares at me with wide eyes.

  Todd puts one arm in front of Tonya and pushes her back toward the door as he stands between her and Larry. I can tell she’s surprised by how fast Larry moved, she’s never met him. But Todd knows him just like I do and he knows the drill, sometimes shit happens fast and it’s best to not be too close. The worst thing about fights in small rooms is getting rolled underneath.

  I’m jacked up tonight, more than usual. It occurs to me that Tonya’s never seen me fight, she’s seen me be crazy as fuck, but not anything quite like this, and now I’m wishing I hadn’t pushed it like I did.

  But even so, I don’t flinch.

  I just stare right back at Larry and continue grinning. He doesn’t care much for me either and I get that, but if he wants to go right the fuck here, then I’m stoked and ready.

  I take a drink of my beer without breaking eye contact. It’s like some fucking primeval testosterone staring contest. The thing Larry doesn’t know is that I don’t give a shit who wins the fight, just as long as I’m it in.

  “I’m going to fuck you up, fag,” he spits at me.

  I take a drag off my cigarette and then lean in close and whisper, “You want to go — right here, right now?” I blow smoke into his face.

  He tries not to blink against the smoke and then leans back and howls like a demented wolf, before jumping back into the room, pogoing and screaming obscenities again.

  That’s what I thought.

  He’s trying to get pumped and I get that, but Jesus Christ — do it on your own time.

  “You just make friends everywhere you go, huh?” Tonya asks as she joins me again. She’s giving me that odd look she has when she doesn’t know how to categorize something, except this one is tinged with worry.

  A taller guy in a tied-dyed shirt and cargo shorts drifts over through the crowd offering a joint. “Dude, it’s Hawaiian,” he says through a glassy eyed smile.

  Tonya and Todd shake their heads.

  “I’m good man, dulls my rage,” I say.

  “Maybe you need dulling,” he says looking back at Larry.

  “Nah, I’m good, I’m always pumped come show time. Those guys are a decent band; even Larry there gets it done on stage, I can’t take that from them. I just wished I never met them back here, because they’re a bunch of — assholes,” I shout the last word at them.

  “Fuck you, Connor,” the bass player for Scrotum shouts across the room. Larry is still jumping up and down and glaring at me with his pretend psychotic look.

  I grin and he turns away.

  “Starting up kind of early tonight aren’t you?” Todd asks with unusual concern.

  “Not yet, just warming up. This is going to be a good show; I can feel it, like some fucking shamanistic vision.” I ignore the look and finish off my beer. I wasn’t totally honest with Chad, it’s not just at show time, the rage is always there, but I’m dropping the chains tonight.

  And that’s a good thing, a desirable thing — an unavoidable thing.

  “Chad,” the stoner says and sticks out his hand.

  “Connor,” I say, “this is Todd, bass, and this is our totally bitchin’ singer. It’s your turn to get more beer, by the way.”

  Todd shakes hands and Tonya nods, mumbling under her breath to me, “Don’t get killed before Showtime, okay?” And then she heads back to the bar.

  I look around. “Where’s Kevin?”

  Kevin is our drummer, he’s an animal, but he’s also a non-stop partier, so we’re never sure if he is going to make it.

  Todd shrugs.

  “So, what’s your vibe, dude?” Chad asks.

  “Vibe?” I ask.

  Todd puts his arm around Chad. “You do know this is a punk bar, right?”

  “Oh yeah, dude. We’re from L.A., gnarly scene out there, new sounds. We’re totally plugged in, funk, rap, heavy shit. I never heard of you guys before, so I guessed you’re local. So dude, what’s your — vibe?” Chad asks again.

  Chad’s got this calm, Zen personality, but I can tell there’s something crawling around under his skin. He’s just learned how to control it better than most.

  Todd grins and hugs Chad tighter.

  “Chad, it’s all pretty loud, fast and fucked up. Our fans are special, head-cases; it gets dangerous, like it’s supposed to. If we puss out, they get unpredictable, like rabid dogs,” I say.

  He takes another drag off the blunt and holds it in as he narrows his eyes and nods real slow. He lets the smoke out as he speaks. “Dude, I’m down. Dangerous is good.”

  I’m a little afraid of Chad now, whatever that thing under his skin is, I just saw it in his eyes. They suddenly remind me of a serial killer’s eyes, not like the Larry show, but like the real thing — like he’s not all there. It gets me stoked about their set and I grin at him.

  Something just past between us, I don’t know what it is, but it’s fucking cool.

  He gives Todd the peace sign and then leans over and head butts me softly. I’m pretty sure he just gave me a huge compliment. He starts head banging to London Calling as he makes his way back to the other end of the room.

  Larry glares at him, but moves out of his way.

  The bar’s been open for about an hour and Scrotum should be going on soon, which will improve the air in here.

  “Where’s the beer?” Todd asks.

  “I’ll check,” I say and head back to the bar.

  The Green Room is off to one side of the stage across from the toilets. I walk out to see two guys giving Tonya a hard time. She’s trying to get by them, holding the pitcher of beer.

  This is so not cool.

  And then one of them grabs her arm.

  I take a deep breath, trying to remain in control — I’m on a razor’s edge. The night is already unpredictable, without expectations or consequences and right now, I’m seeing red.

  Not all that long ago, I would have resolved the situation by nailing them in the back of the head with a nice heavy chair or mic stand, but I’ve gained a measure of control recently. In spite of my encounter with Larry tonight, I’ve been trying to put the days of vandalism and picking fights behind me — for the most part, anyway. It’s a small measure of control.

  Baby steps.

  I walk up on an angle between Tonya and the two assholes. I meet her eyes and glance at the pitcher of beer. She gets it and steps back, holding the pitcher out. As I near them, I pretend to stumble and knock the pitcher out of her hand, drenching asshole number one, who lets go of her arm. He’s trying to work the New Wave fashion thing, and I grab him by his skinny tie as I fall to my knees, dragging him down with me.

  As I begin to stand and help him up, I look into his eyes from inches away. “I will fucking kill you, in the goddamn ground dead, if you ever touch her again.”

  And by God, right now, in this moment — some part of me, deep inside, means every word of it.

  His eyes get really wide; the whites are showing around the irises.

  I absently wonder if my eyes look like Chad’s right
now.

  “We cool?” I ask.

  He nods very slowly, like he’s afraid the slightest sudden move might set me off. And he’s probably right to think that.

  We stand back up, and I’m aware that there are two of them and they are both bigger than me, so it’s time for diplomacy. I’m jacked, but I also want to play the show and getting into a fight is going to get my ass thrown out into the parking lot.

  I probably should have thought about that earlier.

  Probably.

  “Dudes, so sorry. Let me make it up to you,” I say.

  Tonya has disappeared, forgotten by the two pricks, but I doubt she’s gone far.

  I slip my arms around each of them and hug their necks like we are old friends. “Come on guys, it’s going to be a great show.”

  “Motherfucker,” asshole number two shouts as he starts to jerk away, but I have leverage and tighten my arm and pull him back in. I’m using asshole number one as an anchor. He doesn’t move at all. He’s still staring at me with nervous eyes.

  Asshole number two is surprised. I don’t look nearly as strong as I am.

  “Relax, man. You look like first timers,” I continue, “so be careful, this place can get rough, if you’re not careful.” I look back to asshole number one. “Right?”

  He just nods.

  “Besides, you don’t want to fuck with him, do you?” I ask as I extend one arm over his shoulder and point to Ringo standing over by the stairs. Ringo is the head bouncer and is built like a pro football player, a pissed off pro football player that was released from prison as recently as this morning and is looking for an excuse to kill someone — anyone and preferably soon. “Or do you?”

  They sober up long enough to accept the skinny and then nod, both of them are drunk and dumb as a fucking stick.

  “Tell you what, let me buy you a couple of pitchers to make it up to you?”

  Asshole number two’s drunken grin returns as I guide them over to the bar. I make good on my promise and leave as they begin drinking from the pitchers. Beer’s streaming down asshole number two’s face, everything forgotten.

  The other guy though, I made him a goddamn believer and he’s still sweating.

  I grin as I head back to the Green Room to check on Tonya, but I see her standing by the door with her arms folder across her chest. She’s staring at me with gratitude and something else, a smirk maybe?

  No harm, no foul, but it was close — closer for me than for them.

  9

  The Ritual of the Tribe

  Our band is called Ache and we’re on stage, waiting. The lights are down and Ant Music is playing. Cigarette smoke drifts through the light cast by the stairwell fluorescents and bar pendants. The Exit lights glow at the far end of the room. The other bands are forgotten. Everyone in the crowd is standing, sweating and facing the stage, also waiting. I recognize many of them, they’re like a fucked up family that loves and needs us, and hates us for it. The room is packed, hot and restless. The air is electric and the crowd has become a living thing — like a viper waiting to strike.

  The mosh pit hungers for the sacrifice of blood and the tribe is eager to give it.

  I kneel on the side of the stage, holding my ’59 Explorer guitar. It’s beat to shit, but plays like a dream. Tonya is standing in front of the microphone and focusing somewhere out over the crowd. It’s too dark to see Todd, but I know he’s stoked. Kevin showed up just in time, he’s sitting on his throne, softly tapping his kick-drum to the beat of Adam Ant.

  The energy is building.

  I see a half-full beer cup fly towards me. I don’t move. It hits me on the shoulder and splashes everywhere. I grin.

  This has become a ritual.

  I can feel my heart pounding in my temples, I’m trembling now.

  Tonya kneels down, grasping the mic stand with both hands and lowers her head as though praying to the crowd.

  Kevin starts to hit the kick harder.

  I’m nodding my head in time now. I roll on the volume of my guitar and hear my Marshall amplifier begin to hum behind me.

  Adam’s on the last chorus now.

  The viper is pulling back, poised.

  Tonya slides out of her robe and tosses it back towards the drums. She’s wearing tight jeans, unlaced boots, a football jersey half-shirt and fingerless mittens. I think she’s being ironic, considering her lyrics. I’ve never seen her dress quite like this, especially not in public or on stage. It’s overtly sexual and it looks good on her, I guess change can be a good thing. But I’m still a little worried about her just the same; she didn’t come by those baggy clothes and gloves by accident.

  She glances over at me. She’s hot and I think she knows it, but I can tell she’s still tense. I flash her a reassuring smile, but I’m not sure she can see me in the darkness. I can see her though; her face is silhouetted against the glow of an exit sign.

  It occurs to me that it looks like a halo as the music dies and silence settles over the room. She turns back and I can see her grip the stand, leaning into the mic.

  She’s pumped too.

  Dust motes drift through the smoky air and the only sound is the buzz of my amp.

  Calm.

  My rage is cranked up to ten.

  The stage lights come on as we explode into the fastest, hardest cover of Green Acres ever played. The crowd strikes, over a hundred full beer cups fly into the air drenching everyone as the pit instantly erupts into a swirling churning battle for survival — knees and arms flying.

  I jump to the front of the stage, channeling my emotions through the strings. I can’t stop grinning.

  Tonya is jumping around like never before, screaming the lyrics along with the crowd.

  I love this place. This is going to be a great night even if Shauna doesn’t show.

  The songs come fast and the energy in the room is amazing. Security is non-existent, so I guard the edge of the stage and kick the fans trying to climb up back into the pit and Todd follows my lead.

  When we launch into the bass heavy Cramps, a song dedicated to Tonya’s hatred of men, I set my guitar down on its stand and run to the edge of the stage and without even slowing, launch myself over the pit. My hair flies and the crowd screams as they catch me with shoulders, arms and punches. I feel hands and heads on my back, ass and legs, holding me up and pushing me along the top of the crowd like flotsam on a wave. I trust them in some unhealthy and dysfunctional way, even though the concrete floor is one slip away from breaking my face.

  When my feet hit the ground, I’m in the middle of the pit and a forearm catches me in the face almost immediately. I move with the crowd and taste blood. I see Larry shoving his way through the chaos, staring back at me. It was a cheap shot and for now, doesn’t matter. It’s the law of the pit. But I know we’re going to have an accounting one day soon.

  Shoulders, fists, hips and bodies slam into one another, pushing each other around in a vaguely circular pattern. When in the pit, you go downstream. I feel the sweat, smell the beer and taste the violence — it’s anarchy, and it’s wonderful.

  I shove and jump and stomp my way through the milieu, the thump of Todd’s bass line drives me onward, flesh against flesh, pain against pain — devoid of memory, guilt, worry, a past or future — the pit is ever-present, a threatening and demandingly immediate Now.

  I realize the song is nearing its end and work my way to the edge. I slide out of the pit panting; my shirt is soaked through with sweat and beer. I don’t want to leave. I’ve never been more at peace than in the pit. I miss the comfort of the known.

  It’s the only place I ever feel like I truly belong, except for the band, that is.

  I jump-crawl back up onto the stage and see Tonya and Todd, both grinning and shaking their heads at me. I’m the only crazy one in the band. I wipe the blood away from my nose and grab my guitar, holding it up by the neck, I start pumping it in the air as the crowd shouts for more.

  I drop the strap around my should
er, roll on the volume, and we’re off again into the next song. I’ve given approval. Fans start jumping up on the stage and by ones and twos and then threes and fours, they start diving off into the pit. The set is half over.

  We keep up the pace, cranking through our set, dodging fans and the expanding chaos as we progress with harder and faster songs — when I notice this blonde in a mini-skirt is hanging out in a safe zone off to my side of the stage. She’s dancing, like a normal person and staring at me.

  She’s wearing a black and red striped mini-skirt, red heels, those lacey ankle socks with black nylons and a blousy, white pirate-shirt. She has long permed hair and it’s big, with crispy bangs. She has Revlon eyes and tire-shine glossy red lips.

  And I know who this hot chick is. Under all that fashion, the dancing girl is Shauna. I grin at her and wave in between chord changes and she waves back and smiles. She’s a great dancer.

  The night just got way better.

  For the rest of the show, I do my best to avoid fans and elbows and kick the stage-divers as necessary, trying to remember the crowd and not play just for Shauna, because in some weird way, it feels like we are the only two people in the vast hall.

  We launch into the last song, which begins slow and then builds into a full on assault of the senses as the crowd goes nuts and begins climbing up on the stage in mass, pogoing and stomping around with us. This is another ritual reserved for the few Halls that let us play again and The Underground. I lose Tonya in the frenzy as the stage devolves into total chaos. We race up to the last chorus, pounding away on our instruments while Tonya’s screaming out the lyrics and then, suddenly, it’s over.

  We finish and a powerful silence hits the room, no less powerful than our opening chords — it’s the awareness and acceptance of the catharsis. It’s like everyone just came. And then the shouts and cheers of the crowd return.

  And just like that, trembling with the rush of adrenaline, the stage lights go out, the house music goes up and we’re done. The crowd reluctantly leaps off the stage.

  I’m pumped, but we don’t have time to celebrate, we have to get off the stage so The Freaks can set up. The set was fucking unbelievable, but all I can think about is Shauna. I put my guitar down and get to unplugging cords. I’m on my knees unplugging my effects boxes when I see these red high heels, lacey socks and black nylons standing next to me.