by Sarah Daltry
“No outbursts,” my grandmother warns.
“It wasn’t an outburst. He was wasting time.”
“I don’t care. Your actions impact your father.”
“Yeah, well, his kinda impacted me.”
She shakes her head and turns to face the door through which my dad will enter. I hate it here. I hate the way the lights are covered in weird metal mesh grates that make it always feel like five o’clock on a winter evening. I hate the way the voices of other visitors and prisoners bounce off the walls, disembodied and incomprehensible, but invasive enough to remind you that you’ll never be alone in here. I hate how the guards try to treat me like their own kid, as if by being sympathetic it will fix anything. And I especially hate the stupid look of hope that refuses to leave my grandmother’s face no matter how many times we come here. Sometimes, I think maybe it’s that look that makes me limit my visits as much as I do, more so than even hating my father. Because the fact that she believes someday things can be okay? Well, there is just nothing I can say about that.
My father is led in by the same two guards who showed us to the room. He doesn’t make eye contact with me but smiles at my grandmother.
“Janine,” he nods.
“Bobby.”
He sits in the chair across from us, his hands cuffed and the guards standing close enough that if he decided to make a run for it, they could stop him. He has never tried to run for it, though. I feel like if the entire prison burned down around him, my father would be found sitting in the middle, unsure where to go, even with no walls left standing.
“Hi, son,” he tries.
I grunt in his general direction and focus my attention on the flicker in one of the fluorescent bulbs. It’s going to burn out any day now.
“Jack,” my grandmother prods, but I don’t reply.
“Leave it,” my dad says.
They talk quietly about his case, the proposed plan to rehabilitate him, the halfway house program he’ll have to go through if he’s released. It all seems so pointless to me. If there are all these resources to ensure that he stays on the right path, to ensure that he stays sober and clean even though he never really drank or did drugs, then why were none of those things available to help my mom? Why didn’t anyone try to stop this before we were sitting here, in this dingy fucking room, with everything grey and hopeless ahead of me?
I want to leave, to excuse myself, but I stay for my grandmother’s sake. She and my father talk for nearly half an hour before the guards come and tell us time’s almost up. He’s not allowed to hug her, but she brushes his upper arm. Before he stands to go back to his cell, my father turns to face me.
“Jack, I hope we can-”
“No. I’ll fake it, but that’s it. I’ll sit here so it looks like you’re an all-American father and I’ll say whatever bullshit I need to say the next time the lawyers come to see me, but don’t even think of asking me to mean it. I’m only doing this for her.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but then shuts it again and nods. The guards lead him away and we wait to be escorted from the room. My grandmother is sad, but I don’t have more to give her. I came here after all. That’s enough.
Outside, it’s sunny now and it bugs me. Couldn’t the world have stayed ashy and miserable?
Grandma brings me back to school and I’m barely out of the car before I run to the parking lot and hop on my bike. I put as much distance as I can between myself and the prison, wishing that the memories were like the miles, and as easily left behind.
****
For several weeks, school begins to become routine again. Classes, work, band practice - and repeat. I can’t believe how fast the show comes up. I know we’ve been working on my songs, but suddenly it’s the night before and I realize that my words, my music, will be shared with everyone. I know no one knows it’s all mine, but it frightens me. People are so quick to criticize, and criticism of something so personal is intimidating. Still, after we practice for a while, I know the songs are damn good. I just hope it won’t feel like walking onstage naked, with my entire history printed out for everyone to read.
Neil stops me again when it’s just us left after practice. I can’t believe the show is tomorrow and even my practiced calm can’t hide the fact that I’ve bitten down my fingernails until they are bloody. Stupid, I think to myself. You’re going to suck because you can’t even control your anxiety. My self pisses me off, though, so I tune it out.
“You ready for this?” Neil asks.
“It’s not the first show.”
“No, but man, your songs are… well, they’re more intense than usual. And I know you don’t like to be that out there with everyone.”
“They’re just songs.”
He shakes his head. “No, they’re not.”
“As far as they know? They’re just songs.”
“Okay, as long as you’re sure. I think they’re epic and I think they’re gonna give us the boost we’ve been hoping for, but I’m not sure it’s worth the cost of-”
“Neil. Enough. It’s fine.” I don’t want to talk about the songs, outside of their musical parts. Either the songs are good or they are not. No one needs to know how deep every word cuts.
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you at the show then.”
I hesitate. Sometimes I think Neil and I could be friends, not just cowriters and comusicians. With Dave overseas and Alana and I, well, a mess, I could use a friend like Neil. But then I picture coming here, with my whole story hanging over practice, with the constant reminder of my parents, and the constant need to reassure everyone that I’m fine. I don’t want to taint the only place I have that’s a refuge from all the shit that surrounds me during every other minute of my pathetic life. As much as I want a friend, I want peace more, and so I blow it off, this feeling that I’m running away.
“Yeah, see ya,” I mumble.
I take off into the night, wondering if I’ll ever find it in me to make an effort.
****
Show night, the club is packed. We’re only opening, but I know a decent amount of people are here for us. Neil knows everyone it seems and he’s managed to develop quite the Facebook following, or so I’m told. I don’t even use Facebook. Who would I possibly talk to?
He’s told us that he’s been getting a big fan base established, but I didn’t expect there to be this many people. It’s both thrilling and terrifying. I focus on the sound check and don’t think about all these people and my own songs being introduced. I think I’m actually going to be okay, too, until suddenly I’m not. I don’t know what happens. The room spins, the walls grow closer and closer, and I run from the stage, managing to hold in the puke until I reach the sidewalk from the loading door. Neil is right behind me, but he hovers in the doorway while I vomit in the street.
“We don’t have to play those songs,” he suggests.
I wipe a strand of sticky puke from my lips. “Fuck you. We’re playing them.”
“I don’t think you-”
I stare him down. “We’re fucking playing them. There is no way I’m backing down because I had a little case of the nerves.”
I walk past him to the little area backstage and grab my messenger bag. I find the bottle of whiskey in the front flap and drink half of it. Neil’s followed me, of course, but he says nothing. He just shakes his head.
“Don’t fucking shake your head,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine in like five minutes.”
I put the bottle back and grab my cigarettes. Outside, in the fresh air, even with the tastes of whiskey and vomit mixing in my mouth, I feel better already. I breathe in the smoke from my cigarette and try to forget the momentary anxiety. Neil stands next to me the entire time, but doesn’t speak until I’m done smoking.
“Look, Jack. We aren’t really friends, I guess, but you’re a damn good musician and I don’t know what’s happening with you. But, you know, maybe you should see someone.”
“Fuck you.”
�
�Okay. Whatever you say.”
He’s not angry, because there is nothing to be angry about. He made his obligatory suggestion to help my mood and I denied it. The end. I wish more people were like Neil. If I wanted to stand out here and have a fucking moment, I would have it. I don’t need someone forcing it or harassing the shit out of me when I clearly don’t want to talk.
We go back in and get ready. The other guys are onstage still, finishing the sound check, and we don’t have much time. I grab a mint from the table in the corner to get rid of the lingering vomit taste, and I splash my face with water. The lights in the club dim and someone announces us. Neil looks at me and I nod, following him out on stage. My bass is already set up and I put it on, feeling like a different person. It’s like the sounds that the instrument produces are all the words I can never say and playing is cathartic.
We’re barely a verse into the first song when I see her across the room. She looks so out of place; her jeans and t-shirt are too clean for this crowd. It’s like she ironed them. Her gaze darts around the room and she’s biting her lip. Damn, she is adorable. I almost call out to her when she starts chewing her fingernails nervously. She glances my way and we make eye contact for a moment. The lights are bright, but she’s standing in just the right area that I can still see her. I can’t explain it, but I think I love her in that instant. This silly, foolish girl whom I cannot get out of my head.
When we perform the new songs, the crowd erupts. They love them. I think of what Alana said recently, that I need their approval, and I wonder if she’s right. As much as I hate most of these kids during the day, here, at night in this club, their opinions define me. I wish I understood why, because they haven’t shown to be people with much taste. Yet their applause drowns out reason and I feel whole when they react to my songs this way.
I don’t even like playing in front of people, but when they’re like this… it’s euphoric. They even demand an encore, which never happens for an opening band. We’re offstage when we hear it and Neil claps me on the shoulder.
“Whatever is fucking you up man, hang onto it.”
It’s a weird comment, and it rests on me funny. Should I be offended? Is my life nothing but inspiration for art? As we play our encore, though, I realize it’s the first time my past has not shamed me. In fact, I feel a slight bit of pride that the darkness settled on me the way that it did. Without it, I’d probably be no different than the empty people I see all day, every day.
After we perform, someone says we need to talk to a reporter from the school paper. What a joke. They probably sent some uptight asshole who won’t even get the music. Then the reporter will write a stupid review that complains about the noise, because he or she listens to crappy pop hits that replicate the same shit the radio has played for years.
I get my bass into the van and we load up the rest of the equipment, except the drums.
“Hey, can you talk to that reporter?” Neil asks. “I’ll be right out. I just want to make sure they don’t fuck up the load in again. Last time, it was a bitch getting everything into my garage.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I don’t want to talk to the empty-headed reporter, but I suppose I should.
“Feel free to brag about your songs.”
“Right.” Neil knows me so little. I wasn’t even going to mention that I wrote them.
I push the felt curtain aside and nearly trip over Strawberries, who’s sitting in a metal chair, looking lost. Huh. Did she come here to talk to me? I can’t deny that my body hopes she did. My cock is already getting hard just thinking about bringing her back to my room tonight. The energy from the show is still making me twitch and now, near this girl, I want to put that energy to good use. I lean in closer to talk to her over the noise of the club.
“I thought that was you. Doesn’t really seem like your scene, princess.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s Lily. And what’s my scene?”
“Tea parties and knitting circles?”
I try to lighten the mood, hoping she’ll play along, hoping that it will be enough to loosen her up and maybe even get her to my room. I notice she’s not here with anyone. Hopefully the boyfriend is no longer in the picture. Smiling at her, I do my best to flirt, but I feel weird about it. I don’t flirt. I meet girls who are horny and I fuck them hard. This girl is not in my toolbox.
“You’re an asshole,” she says.
Well, that didn’t work. Although asshole I can do. Far better than awkward flirting. And she seems to keep coming back, so maybe asshole it is.
“Yet you can’t deny you want me,” I tease.
I take my fingertips and run them along the lower side of her arm. The hairs on her arm stand up; she definitely wants me. I just don’t know how to play this game, because girls I fuck don’t play hard to get. Maybe that’s why I want her so badly; I’m not used to chasing girls who say no.
She pulls her arm away from me, irritated.
“Did you like the show?” I ask. I’m dying here.
“It was good.”
“How about a private performance? Just you and me?”
She opens her mouth, but then Neil and the others appear through the curtain. Damn it.
She turns to Neil and takes out a steno pad. “I need a quote from the band for the paper.”
I try not to laugh. She is the airhead reporter. Perfect.
“Well, we’re really excited that our outreach has worked and we’ve been able to establish a stronger fan base. I think that along with the amazing new songs Jack here has written, it will really boost our exposure. I know we’d all like to see our own show by the end of the semester. That’s really the goal.”
Strawberries writes down what Neil says and I watch her. She’s biting her lip again and, holy hell, I want her right here, right now. I almost rip the steno pad from her hand and drag her to the bathroom or somewhere private. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who would be up for wild sex in a club bathroom. Oh, but how I wish she was.
She gets up to leave and the other guys look at me, waiting. I move close to her, whispering in her ear. “Remember. 401. When you’re ready to admit you’re interested.”
It doesn’t work. At all. She walks away and doesn’t look back. I watch her ass in her tight jeans as she goes. Fuck. Now I definitely need to find the kind of girl who is up for wild sex in a club bathroom. Because I am desperate and horny and I don’t even know how to make it happen with Strawberries.
Or Lily. She said her name was Lily.
“Are you sticking around?” Neil asks. I’m grateful for the interruption of my thoughts, because my cock is going to burst if I keep thinking about that ass, but I also kind of want to punch him for cutting my moment with her short.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“That girl’s here.”
“What girl?”
I turn toward the bar, where Neil is pointing. Did she come back? Did it work? But it’s not Lily. Alana is sitting on a bar stool, not looking at us. We haven’t talked lately and it’s partially my fault. Well, that, and the fact that the last time we did talk, she made me watch her get fucked by some old dude she met in a bar.
I go to her and she turns to face me, her eyes sad.
“Hey,” I say.
“Was that her?” She tilts her head toward the door where Lily just walked out.
“Was who her?”
“That girl you were just talking to? Is that the princess?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s cute,” she says.
“Can we not talk about her?”
Alana looks at me. “Why?”
“I just-”
“She’s not that cute, Jack. Control yourself.” She reaches a hand down to my crotch and rubs my cock through my jeans.
“That’s not helping, you know.”
“So put it to use and fuck me.”
“This is unhealthy,” I say and lift her hand away.
She downs her glass of whatever sh
e’s drinking. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fucked me in a dirty club bathroom. It’s okay. You need it and she’s not giving it to you.”
I actually do debate. I’m not as pathetic as I appear. There’s a full on discussion in my head that involves me arguing against doing this, a loud voice that suggests that I go back to the dorm and try having a conversation with Lily, that reminds me that I continue to use my best friend because I can’t seem to control myself. Of course, the full conversation in my head looks to a normal person like a grunt drowned out by Alana’s lips on mine and her hand down my pants.
I drag her into the bathroom and lock the door. She pulls her pants down and sits on the nasty sink, spreading her legs for me. I enter her and stare at myself in the mirror behind her while I fuck her. It’s dirty and grimy and I look dirty and grimy. Of course, my stupid, fucking cock doesn’t care; it’s having a grand old time in Alana’s pussy.
She clutches at my back and screams my name. I am a fucking idiot, I think, but I keep right on fucking her. She comes, biting my neck, and I finish inside of her. It’s dirty and wrong and I feel terrible about it, but it doesn’t stop me from coming.
“That girl is never going to be enough for you, Jackie,” Alana says and she sinks to her knees, taking me into her mouth. I’ve barely lost my erection before she gets it back and she blows me like a whore in the bathroom. I think about Lily’s tight ass and I come in no time, shooting the load down Alana’s throat. I really hate myself, but nothing seems to stop me.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” I tell her once she’s back on her feet.
“What? Fuck you? Suck your dick?”
“You know I’m a fucking loser. You know I won’t say no.”
“Yup, and I love that about you,” she says. “You think you want that sweet little girl, but you can’t function without a girl you can treat like a whore.”
