Welcome to the Show

by Keene, Brian

  One day, out of the blue, I got a text message.

  LAYLA: I want to see your face when we talk. So does Chaos. Hahaha! Videochat later?

  Sounds stupid, but it was like moving to the next level, you know? Maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s strange and weird and messed up, but it was a big deal. Phone calls and video chats became the norm. We talked about our pasts and she introduced me to Chaos, her cat, and everything seemed like it was going great. Then her messages started getting brief. She kept saying she was just tired. It had been two months since we’d started talking and I wondered if she was getting bored with a virtual relationship.

  I didn’t tell my parents or Layla, but I stopped applying for jobs on the east coast and turned my attention to San Francisco. Near her.

  Two weeks ago, I got an email from BayTech, an up and coming blockchain technology company. Cutting-edge projects with people scrambling to work for them. They loved my résumé and after a twenty-minute phone interview, I got an email saying they wanted to fly me out to meet in person.

  I took several deep breaths as I read the email. It felt like launching off the tree trunk as a kid, soaring into pure blue sky. Except this time, I was going to make the landing.

  ***

  “Are you for real?”

  I smiled at Layla’s question and leaned back on my bed. “The way they made it sound, the interview is a formality at this point and I’ll be the lead programmer on a new project sooo . . . ”

  Layla was silent on the other end and I could hear Chaos meowing in the background.

  “Naz, I . . . ”

  “Look, don’t freak out. I’m not asking to move in or anything. I’ll get my own place. We haven’t really met in person but so what? I . . . ” I took a deep breath and let it out slow. “I’m in love with you, Layla. I’ve never felt this way about anyone and I—”

  “There’s things about me you don’t know, Naz.”

  “And there’s things about me you don’t know. But I want to find out. I want to be with you. I thought you’d be happy about this.”

  “I am, it’s just . . . you’re too good for me.”

  “Yeah, since being on the phone, the butler’s interrupted me twice and I had to yell at the maid because she dropped the good silver. What do you mean, too good for you?”

  The phone was silent again. “I’m afraid once you . . . you say you love me but what if we meet and you end up hating me? It’s . . . there’s things going on you don’t know about.”

  I could tell she was crying.

  I felt sick. Tears blurred my eyes and I sat up on the edge of my bed. “If you’re going to break up with me, just do it and get it over with. But I need you to answer one question for me, honestly. Are you in love with me?”

  The quiet stretched out like an endless ribbon, and softly, so softly, she replied. “Yes.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. “Then there’s nothing you could say or do to make me hate you.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “My flight comes in at 5:23 Friday evening and I’ll see you face to face. I’ll understand anything you want to tell me and more importantly, you’ll understand. Two days.”

  She sniffled on the other end of the line. “Okay honey.”

  “I love you. Baby, please get some rest. I think you’re just working too hard lately.”

  “I’ll try. I love you, too.” Her voice was still tender, but I could tell as she said those words, she was smiling.

  I ended the call, tossed the phone on my bed and leaned back.

  My phone dinged.

  Layla: Naz, are you for real?

  Me: For REAL, for real. I mean everything I said. I PROMISE!

  Me: Two days, honey. 5:23 San Fran time.

  Four hours later, long after I’d gone to sleep, another text from her.

  Layla: Please be for real.

  I got an email confirmation on the flight out of Newark. I texted a screenshot to Layla and got two kissy face emojis in response.

  My parents drove me to the airport. My mother wrapped her arms around me tightly and had tears in her eyes.

  “Y’ know . . . David Bowie said I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.”

  “Nice one. And Bob Dylan said there is nothing so stable as change.” She smiled proudly, and I hugged her tightly. She smelled of lavender. “I love you, Mom.”

  My father smiled at me, put his hand out and I shook it. Still holding my hand, he gave me a half hug and put his free hand on the back of my head, pulling me closer. “Let us know when you land, ok?”

  “I will, Dad. I love you.”

  I texted Layla a selfie with the plane waiting on the tarmac outside the terminal window and got no reply. I figured she was still busy at work. It seemed they had really been keeping her hustling lately.

  I boarded the plane, buckled up, and leaned my head back against the seat.

  ***

  In contrast to Newark Airport’s strange alien-nest-in-a-dirty-gutter vibe, San Francisco Airport was clean and light. Vaulted ceilings with enormous glass openings, allowing light to flow into the building. It felt exciting and fresh, full of hope.

  I waited at the luggage carousel and pulled out my phone.

  Me: Landed!! Waiting for my luggage and will be right out!!

  Outside, I scanned the faces for Layla but didn’t see her as I watched cabs come and go.

  For over an hour at the airport, I waited and watched people come and go. Happy families. Businessmen. Even a limo with a suited and capped driver standing outside with a sign: WAGNER. I watched a longhaired guy with dark sunglasses pull his luggage to the curb and step inside the luxury escort. The driver packed the bags in the trunk and they drove off to do whatever rock stars do.

  I checked my phone once more, wheeled my luggage to the curb, and waved a cab.

  Layla’s building. Tan stucco exterior. Side-by-side apartments. Nice landscaping. The sight of it made my heart beat faster. In my mind, I had imagined all sorts of scenarios—her opening the door and the expression on her face as she pulled me into her open arms. Maybe she would cry a little.

  Yeah, I know. I know. Reality very rarely mimics fantasy.

  I knocked and the vertical blinds at the window near her front door rippled and I saw a black cat hop onto the window ledge, rubbing back and forth against the glass. I could hear a muffled meow and I put a hand against the window. “Hi there, Chaos.”

  I knocked again. “Hello?”

  I called Layla’s cell and it went directly to voicemail. “Layla, hey, it’s Naz. I um . . . not sure if you’re putting out fires at work or something, but I’m here. Did you forget about the time or maybe I wasn’t clear or something? Just . . . call me back.”

  I patted the window. “See you soon, buddy. I’ll give you a good back scratch in person.”

  There was a black plastic garbage can at the side of the front porch and I pulled the cap off. Empty and surprisingly clean inside. I tilted it down and lifted my luggage into the can and popped the lid back on.

  “Okay, San Fran. Show me what you got.” The Golden Gate Bridge and stretch of Bay water welcomed me but I shook the idea off. It was important Layla and I were together the first time I saw the waters. Maybe it was the idea of her showing me around, taking me to all the spots she thought were amazing. I didn’t want to spoil anything, I guess.

  I headed in the opposite direction, hands in my pockets, phone on full volume in case Layla called, and breathed in a new city with a smile on my face.

  As I passed people on the sidewalk, they smiled and nodded at me. That was different. Most people in Jersey had a what-tha-fuck-you-lookin-at scowl on their face as they made eye contact.

  I stopped at a crosswalk, undecided on which direction to go. A light pole in front of me had a flyer pasted to it:

  ASCENSION NIGHT

  AT THE SHANTYMAN

  Bands • Drink Specials • O
pen Mic • Good Times

  Two blocks East on Howard St.

  I walked a few steps and stopped. I was moving out here, not only for Layla, but for a new life. New things. New experiences. I turned to look at the flyer again. I smiled to myself and headed in the direction the flyer pointed.

  The outside of the Shantyman lived up to its name—weathered siding that hadn’t been painted in a few decades and a flat black marquee above the entrance. A short blonde in a halter-top walked inside the building.

  Inside, the bar was dimly lit and the ceiling was a flat black sheet of barn roof tin. A few people sat at tables. I took a seat at the bar and a short man with spiked gray hair gave me a nod as he racked pint glasses.

  “Don’t get many techies in here.” The bartender grinned.

  “Techy?”

  “Programmers. Computer geeks. No offense. They’re usually downtown at the trendy spots sippin’ hundred dollar bourbon or some shit.”

  “I’m not from here.”

  “No shit?” His grin grew wider. “No one’s from here, pal.”

  The bartender stuck his hand out and I shook it automatically. “Name’s Gigs. So you’re out here for an interview but something else has got you twisted up. Lemme guess . . . a woman?”

  “How . . . ”

  “Spend enough time behind here and people’s expressions are an open book.”

  He reached beneath the bar, withdrew two shot glasses, and started pouring Jack Daniels into each one. “On the house, along with my advice. You’ll do fine on the interview.” He set the bottle down and swung a dishtowel over his shoulder.

  “Don’t get all worked up about the girl. If women didn’t smell nice and look pretty, we’d be hunting them from horseback. I once dated a girl who told me I was making my sandwich wrong. Bitch, I’m the one who’s eating it. How am I making my own sandwich wrong? Whatever. I hear she’s blowin’ guys from Microsoft for meth down in the Tenderloin district. Life’s a funny thing but it works out how it’s supposed to.”

  I pulled one of the shots closer and sniffed the liquor. “God’s master plan and all that?”

  Gigs put his hands flat on the bar top. “Fuck no, kid. God’s a blind man with Alzheimer’s. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith all on your own.”

  I put the liquor against my lips and sipped. It burned against my tongue and tasted of charcoal and oak.

  “Jeeeezus Chriiiist. You pack your tampons on the flight? Do the shot!”

  I laughed, then tilted the glass and swallowed the rest, feeling the fire flow down my throat and into my stomach.

  “My man.” He nodded his approval. “Enjoy the show tonight. There’s an opening band called Cutthroat followed by Balls Deep in Hell. Then it’s open fucking mic for the rest. Music’s loud enough to make your ears bleed but the crowd will be fun. Loosen up. It’ll all work out.”

  “Thanks, Gigs.”

  He went off to the other side of the bar to some customers. Stagehands were setting up equipment and checking lights. My first shot. I could already feel it working, the mild buzz taking hold. I waited until Gigs wasn’t paying attention and took a sip from the second glass.

  I checked the messages I’d sent to Layla. Still unread. I turned my stool away from the bar and dialed the main number of her office.

  “Stapleton and Baker.”

  “I’m trying to reach Layla Zimmerman.”

  There was a pause on the line. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “I’m Nazir Bahl.”

  “Frommm?” The receptionist drew the word out as she said it.

  “I’m . . . Layla’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh, I . . . ” Another pause. “Hold please.”

  Classic rock kicked in on waiting and Don Henley’s voice filled my ears.

  “Hello, this is Ann Wildasin. I’m head of human resources. May I help you?”

  “Um, yeah. I’m not sure why uh . . . I’m trying to reach Layla Zimmerman.”

  “Layla Zimmerman hasn’t been an employee of Stapleton and Baker for . . . two months at least. Is this a job reference or for health insurance?”

  “Health insurance?”

  “In her condition . . . ” I heard the sound of papers being pushed around on a desk. “I’m sorry, they didn’t tell me your name. I assumed this was a query for health insurance. I’ll put the paperwork through myself to extend it for her if she needs it. Unethical to talk about, but screw it, this place is closing the doors next week anyway. They did that poor girl wrong. Wasn’t her fault that predator son of a bitch boss of hers–”

  I hung up the call. What the hell was going on?

  I drank the rest of the shot straight down and pulled a twenty from my pocket, setting it on the bar. I caught Gigs’ attention, pointed to the shot glasses and nodded.

  The place was starting to get crowded. A couple of girls wearing black corsets and leather mini-skirts flirted with a guy near the stage. Waitresses catered to groups sitting at tables ordering drinks. A man in a sleeveless T-shirt did sound checks on the stage.

  I could feel the warm glow of alcohol in my stomach and the looseness of my body. It made me smile and nod to myself. Even with Layla’s silence, I had to admit, I was feeling pretty all right.

  Among the crowd, I could hear snips of conversation.

  “What did it feel like for you?”

  “I couldn’t take it back.”

  “It really was the best thing for everyone.”

  A couple shouldered up to the bar beside me. “It was finally over, you know? I didn’t have to deal with what he was doing to me ever, ever again.” The girl was speaking to a guy in his mid-twenties, wearing a saggy sweater and a beanie.

  “I know, right? Like all this weight was gone.” The guy waved at Gigs.

  “Good evening and welcome to Ascension Night at The Shantyman!”

  A man’s voice boomed over the speakers and the crowd yelled and raised their glasses in response.

  “We’ve got a lot of good music lined up, and let’s give a warm welcome to Cutthroat!”

  The crowd went nuts as heavy bass and electronic music cut through the noise. The stage was still dark but a spotlight flared on and I watched someone descend from the ceiling on a cable, upside down, wrapped in yellow crime scene tape.

  That set people into a frenzy and as the hard-hitting industrial music filled the place, the crowd moved and swarmed as one. Yes, indeed, not in Jersey anymore.

  Gigs had filled my glasses and left change without me even noticing. I drank one quickly, shaking my head at the burn. All my life I’d stood against the wall, watching other people live life. I suddenly wanted to be a part of all this.

  Grabbing my drink, I left the bar stool and moved into the throng of people, swaying and bouncing in sync with them. Leather corsets and lace neck collars were everywhere. People smiling and laughing. A bearded man wearing a suit and a pained expression on his face bobbed his head to the beat. A girl with purple dreadlocks danced beside him. As I maneuvered, I saw him turn to her and blatantly stare at her breasts and speak loudly over the music.

  “Incredible cleavage, but in the right bra, they would be amaaaaaazing!”

  The girl threw her head back and laughed, grabbing his hands and putting them on her chest, pressing her tits together. His hands left a wet angel-wing impression on the shirt as he pulled away. They laughed and the man turned to look at me as I stepped around them. His gaze looked raw and red and bloodshot. I gave one last glance behind me and the two of them were staring, odd amused smiles on their faces.

  The first song came to an end and the lead singer tore free of the crime scene tape and stood to face the crowd and their roar of appreciation. Dry ice machines began to spit out fog from corners of the stage and the band started their next song.

  A waitress glided through the crowd holding a tray of empty plastic shot cups. She was dressed in all black and had some sort of dark green lei draped around her neck. She smiled and winked as if she kne
w me, moved closer, and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek before she vanished into the group of people.

  A pair of men, both dressed in suits swayed to the music. The older man gave the younger one a fatherly clap on the shoulder and they clinked beer mugs. Beside them, a thin rail of a man wore a leather jacket and had a safety pin pierced through his right eyebrow. Everyone seemed to belong. It was a bar full of diversity and I melted right in. I felt like I was part of something.

  I arrived at the edge of the stage. The bass was so deep and loud, I could feel the fabric of my jeans vibrating against my skin. I drank the rest of my shot and set the glass on the stage. The crowd became one, surging and moving like a school of fish in deep waters.

  “Thank youuuuu, Shantyman!” The music ended and the lead singer upended a bottle of water over his head, shaking his hair side to side and spraying the crowd. “We’re gonna take a short break so grab another drink and tip the staff, dammit! They’re working hard to get you fuckers drunk. Balls Deep in Hell is gonna rock the stage next!”

  The lights in the bar rose to a dull glow. Like a tide, the crowd turned for fresh drinks. I leaned back against the wooden platform, feeling the dry ice fog curling over the sweat on my skin. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, catching my breath and smiled to myself.

  And I felt her.

  It had happened before, that feeling. I’d know right before Layla was going to text or call me. I’d reach for my phone and it would go off in my hands, making me smile. I’d just . . . know.

  I put my hand in my pocket, then froze as I gazed at the crowd.

  A split-second view of a girl’s face and I saw Layla. People moved and she disappeared behind them, but it was her. Leather jackets and black T-shirts hid her like a stage curtain and when they moved again, there she was, a soft smile on her face. She wore jeans and a faded Nirvana shirt. Her hair and the shoulders of the shirt looked damp and she was holding a bundle of wet cloth close to her chest.

  There it was—the Hollywood love story moment. I took a step toward her, then walked faster as she moved from the group of people toward me.