The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  It was early by Thursday night standards and still light outside. Inside, they entered the bar’s dim smokiness, which was intended to keep the patrons in perpetual night, away from the world of bills and responsibility. The few cars in the parking lot matched the number of customers inside; the place felt like an empty cavern. Opposite the long bar was the twelve-by-twelve platform that would serve as their home for the night. Gus and Greg, with the help of Gus’s friend Scott, who did their sound and lights, had the stage all set. Greg’s drums, the two amps, and a small keyboard filled the space. Gus and Sydney would be in tight against the equipment. Ethan would spend little time on the stage. The setup was pretty much the norm on the local bar circuit. Often, there was no platform at all. Only the high schools had stages that afforded a band room enough to move around.

  Sydney walked across the room and set her guitar case on the stage.

  “Let’s suit up,” she said when she came back.

  “I’ll tell Scott we’ll be ready in five,” Gus said.

  “Okeydokey,” Ethan responded as he headed toward the makeshift dressing room. The room, the men’s washroom, had a single toilet and urinal. There, Ethan’s transformation to rock star would take place, an inauspicious start to the evening.

  He put on the white T-shirt and black leather cowboy vest he’d tucked into the duffel bag at the house. He decided to leave his jeans on instead of wearing the multicolored tights he’d brought along. He figured flamboyance might be a little over the top for the night, considering Sydney’s helmet comment. Besides, he’d had enough confrontation for one day.

  As he pulled a red headband out of the bag, the back of his hand caught the sharp edge of the toilet paper dispenser. The pain was sharp and quick, but he couldn’t get the cut to stop bleeding. He was wiping the back of his hand with the small square sheets of toilet paper when he struck on an idea. After wiping away the blood with his index finger, he dabbed a horizontal line below each eye. As the cut continued to bleed, he marked short vertical lines beside each eye that connected with the horizontal lines. He looked in the mirror above the sink. The markings gave his face an angled Adam Ant–like look. He liked it. He stretched on his headband. His hand continued to bleed, but he stopped thinking about it, absorbed in his new look. He wrapped a red tie—one of several in his bag—around his neck. He was ready.

  Sydney came out of the adjacent washroom the same time he exited. White platform shoes made her six inches taller and changed her walk to a strut. How she cavorted onstage in such footwear, he’d never know. Her straight black hair extended at varying angles from her head. White mascara and black eyeliner accentuated her dark eyes, and deep red lipstick made her look even taller. A white scarf completed her ensemble.

  “You shine up pretty good,” Ethan said, staring at her transformation and not for the first time. “I only hope people can hear what we’re playing over what they see.”

  “Or be fucking scared,” Sydney retorted, staring at his face. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m your fucking worst nightmare,” he answered, grinning.

  Her sparkly black spandex pants showed off her slender figure. Her look appealed to most males in the audience, but if any gave her a hard time, they did so at their own peril. She wasn’t one to mess with. Ethan had seen her in action at one of their first gigs. A guy had decided to get a little too friendly. Close to the stage, he’d slid his hand down her back while she faced Gus. She’d turned, held up her hand, and shaken her head, her expression for “Not interested.” Not getting the message, the guy had smiled and touched her arm. A second later, before either Ethan or Gus could react, Sydney had been on top of the guy with her knee on his chest.

  Ethan was anxious to perform. They hadn’t played since Monday. At that show, Sydney had played through her new Marshall cabinet, which sounded pristine and loud. Greg and Gus had been tight. Recalling the night charged him up.

  Standing in the little alcove outside the washrooms, Sydney stepped past him and peeked into the barroom.

  “This may be a rehearsal night,” she said, stepping back. “Lots of empty fucking tables.”

  “We’ll do what we came to do,” Ethan said as Greg joined them, crowding in the tiny space.

  “Let’s get this party started!” Greg shouted over the din of the last bars of Van Halen’s “Panama” playing through the PA.

  Greg headed to the drum kit. Gus, already at the stage, grabbed his black Fender Jazz off its stand. Ethan watched in envy as he strapped on the bass. Sydney seemed to float to the stage in a stream of white and black. Ethan smiled as he watched the eyes of the few people in the bar follow her. In seconds, she had her white Gibson on and ready to play. She handled the instrument like an experienced cowboy wrangling a calf to the ground with both grace and confidence.

  As “Panama” came to an end, the house deejay’s English accent took over.

  “We’re going to change things up a bit,” he said over the murmurings of the few people drinking. “For two nights only, please welcome the Release!”

  Sydney counted them in and then struck down the opening chords to Boston’s “Don’t Look Back,” which were studio perfect to Ethan’s ears and as good as what Tom Scholz had played on the record. Sydney repeated the opening phrase a couple of times, until Greg came in on his hi-hat. Gus pumped out a bass line more intricate than the original, which Sydney couldn’t help but attack. Ethan moved to the side of the stage, doing his best to stay hidden behind Gus’s bass amp. His voice came on strong, but he remained unseen until the second verse, when he burst out beside the small stage.

  Ethan was so into his part and hitting his cues in the songs that it wasn’t until the first song was over and they were into the second—Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way”—that he noticed maybe a dozen people in the bar. All eyes were still watching Sydney.

  Midway through “Don’t Tell Me”—a song the band had written to Ethan’s lyrics—Ethan looked down to find the red tie he’d brought onstage tied to his mike. He pulled the mike from the stand. Without thinking, he tossed the mike sideways and began to swing it in a circle beside him. He caught it just in time to sing the chorus. Sydney was watching and winked her approval. The Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane” followed. Gus’s rhythmic bass riffs matched Sydney’s guitar dexterity. Ethan thought their arrangement was kicking. The Eagles would have been jealous. They rounded out the first set with their version of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Refugee” and Greg’s favorite, Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out.”

  In the closing notes of the song, Ethan knew what he would do to end the set. Using the edge of the stage as leverage to get higher, he leaped into a flying scissor kick, imitating what he’d seen Van Halen’s David Lee Roth do on Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert.

  As he jumped, he saw his right leg go up high, but that was all.

  CHAPTER 13

  Thursday, July 12, 1984

  “Don’t move,” said a woman’s voice softly. The voice was direct and almost familiar. It made him feel safe—a nurse’s voice maybe. A hand touched his arm. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” he said, questioning whether he did or not. His head was sore. His arm hurt. Where was he? The hospital? It didn’t feel like his room. It was dim and smelled of smoked cigarettes and spilled beer. There was nothing white or hospital-like he could see. It was too dark. No, thank God, it wasn’t the hospital.

  Soft fingertips brushed the side of his head.

  “Really?” the kind voice asked.

  “I think so.”

  He tried to lift himself up.

  The soft fingers turned firm and held him back.

  “Don’t try to get up,” the comforting voice said.

  He stopped. Faces surrounded them. Some he recognized.

  “You have blood on your face,” the woman said, her face close to his, examining, “but I don�
��t see any …” Her voice trailed off.

  Fragments of what had taken place were coming back. He could see Sydney behind the nurse woman. He saw Greg. Then, as if he were waking from a deep sleep, everything came back—the stage, Benny’s Bar and Grill. They were ending their first set. He was jumping.

  “You have a small laceration on the side of your head,” the woman said, her warm hand brushing his cheek.

  “A what?” Ethan replied. It sounded serious. The woman’s fingertips pressed against his head. Ethan raised his hand to find a painful lump.

  “Sorry,” she said, her gentle voice in control. The tone was familiar, but he didn’t know why. “You’ve cut your head.”

  Ethan turned. Their eyes met. There was an instant of recognition, followed by a sudden need to turn away, as if he were seeing something he wasn’t supposed to, but it was too late to avoid it. He didn’t know why he had the feelings he did. Something was familiar, but he couldn’t place from where.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, knowing the answer before the woman replied.

  “No, sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m a nurse. I saw you fall.”

  Ethan got the sense there was more, but he only looked at her. Her hair was tied back. Her pretty face was unsmiling, a face of concern. There was something familiar in the way her fingers touched his bruised head, as if she’d been there before comforting him.

  “Do you feel dizzy or light-headed?” she asked, her eyes looking everywhere but into his. Her closeness charged the air, as if electricity passed between them.

  “No, but my head’s a little sore. I think I’m okay.”

  More people seemed to be standing around them. Maybe the bar was filling up. He wanted to get up.

  “Give this man a drink!” someone shouted through the chatter that hovered in the air above him.

  “But the blood on your face,” the woman said, rubbing her thumb and fingertips together.

  “It’s okay. It’ll take too long to explain.” Ethan smiled.

  He sat up. The wood floor in front of the stage was dirty, not that he cared. Gus and Sydney squatted alongside the woman. Greg was standing at his feet. Ethan looked up at the overhead stage lights, but nothing looked out of place.

  “You’re a fuckin’ hardheaded bastard,” Greg said, shaking his head.

  Ethan then looked at the unknown woman. What he said next, he’d never said to a woman before.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Thursday, July 12, 1984

  “No,” the woman replied, recoiling as if he’d offended her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to recover as best as he could from what he couldn’t believe he’d said. “Ethan Jones.”

  He stuck out his hand. The woman did not reciprocate. He felt awkward; he couldn’t say what he wanted to, and what he did say seemed wrong. She didn’t look at him. Those around them began to disperse.

  Ethan spoke again, unable to remain quiet, self-conscious of his bruised body and now bruised ego.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, not knowing quite what to say but feeling the need to say something. “I didn’t mean … Please don’t … You’re so …”

  He stopped. He was mumbling.

  “I can’t,” the woman said as her brown eyes swept past him like a giant hand he was powerless to escape from. The moment both shook and exhilarated him. It was like looking over the railing of an open balcony twenty stories up. It only takes a second to jump.

  “You feel okay?” she asked again.

  “Yes,” he replied, wishing that more of the right words would come.

  The woman stood up and left.

  Ethan, dumbfounded, got to his feet. His head was sore. Sydney was behind him.

  “Strange,” she said, flipping back her hair as she looked at him. “Kind of an odd response, don’t you think? How’s the head?”

  Ethan couldn’t shake what had happened and hardly noticed his hurt head. The caring concern of a nurse followed by such sudden derision—he seemed to have confused schoolboy infatuation with professional care.

  “What?” he said, looking from the entrance back to Sydney, trying to act as though nothing had happened.

  “I think you’re more hurt by the woman than your fucking flip,” she said, and she looked away. “But beauty like that is hard to get over.”

  Ethan didn’t say anything.

  “Come on. Let’s get some ice on that head of yours. You’re one lucky son of a bitch. I didn’t think you were getting up.”

  They moved to the bar. Gus and Greg were already there after retrieving his mike and making sure their equipment was in order for the next set.

  “You okay?” Greg asked.

  “Yeah, just fucking stupid is all,” Ethan said, annoyed about not being more aware of how low the ceiling was and even more about the woman leaving.

  Sydney slid two draft beers and a small bag of ice in front of him.

  “This place is so small,” he said.

  He grabbed one of the glasses. Beer helped a lot go away. He held the bag of ice against the lump on his head.

  “Here’s to taking one for the band,” Gus said, raising his glass.

  “Ooh-rah!” shouted Greg, using an expression he’d picked up in the States. Raising his almost empty glass, he clinked it against Ethan’s. “Right on, bro!”

  “It was a pretty awesome jump,” Sydney said, “before the light got in the way.”

  “It was fucking fantastic!” Greg said. “Without that, it was just another set.”

  Ethan didn’t want to talk about it. In his mind, they’d performed their best set yet. He didn’t want his overexuberant move to take away from the show.

  “It was a killer set,” he said, punching Gus’s shoulder. He looked at Sydney. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re like two players in one. ‘Don’t Look Back’ was fucking crazy. Gus, you’re funked up.”

  “Funked?” Gus replied, putting his beer on the table. “You sure your head’s okay?”

  Sydney smiled then walked back to the stage.

  “You may think you can fly,” Greg said, laughing, “but can you remember the words for the second set?”

  “Fuck off!” Ethan quipped. He and Greg had been through a lot over the years. Greg was playing well that night and knew it.

  “What did you say to the lady?” Greg asked, picking up the other glass of beer. “She left pretty fucking fast after rushing to your side. Thought you had a new friend.”

  “Dunno,” Ethan replied. “She wanted nothing to do with me after knowing I was okay.”

  The bartender wiped the bar in front of them.

  “Thanks for the ice,” Ethan said, and then he thought of his throat. “Do you have any tea and honey?”

  “You’re welcome, and yes,” the bartender answered, dropping the cloth in her hand behind the bar. “Need a minute for the tea, though. You sure you’re okay? Looked like you hit that light pretty hard.” She smiled—another kind face.

  Ethan nodded. “It wasn’t planned.”

  He kept the plastic bag of ice on the side of his head. The crushed coolness was soothing. He’d have a good lump in the morning. He turned and looked back at the stage. He was lucky to be sitting there. What was I thinking? His tea came. The warm sweetness relaxed his throat. Even from his short time singing, he’d learned that when his throat felt dry, it was too late. He’d wake up hoarse or worse. An irritated throat had a way of turning into a cold. Lately, he’d practiced shifting the sound of his voice to a rougher, grittier sound in the likeness of AC/DC’s front man, Brian Johnson. It added an edge they all liked to the songs, but it had a tendency to irritate his throat, sometimes painfully. Honey in the tea seemed to ease the tension and act as a kind of lubricant for his vocal cords.

  As he sipped his
tea, he watched as more people entered the bar. It was almost ten o’clock. Coincidence or not, the bar was filling up after his stunt.

  The in-house deejay came by and introduced himself. He’d give them ten more minutes. If their second set was anything like the first, more people would be coming. Word got around quickly when something special was happening, he told them. The Release was special. Many of their regular customers lived close.

  “Where’d you get the name?” he asked.

  “He stole it from a book,” Greg said, pointing at Ethan.

  The deejay looked at Ethan. “What book?”

  Ethan shook his head. Greg still couldn’t believe they were named after a fictional band from a novel. He’d warmed up to it, though, after hearing others remark on it.

  “There’s not much to explain,” Ethan said. “Ever heard of Browning Station?”

  “Nope,” the deejay responded. “Not much of a reader, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, that’s where it’s from.”

  “Fuckin’ cool,” said the deejay, and he picked up the glass of soda the bartender had set on the bar. “Ten minutes to rock.”

  Ethan took another sip of tea. His thoughts drifted to Browning Station. He wondered where his copy of the book had gone. He’d been unable to find it since getting back and had pretty much given up looking for it. Randolph’s girlfriend had had a copy. He was sure he’d seen his in the car but now figured they’d left it behind. Funny, he didn’t know where it had come from in the first place. The hospital didn’t have a library. He hadn’t bought it. It seemed to have appeared from nowhere and now had disappeared to the same spot. He wondered whether the band’s name really had come from the book. He’d never finished reading it that he could remember.

  Sydney rejoined the three of them at the bar. She held a yellow piece of paper listing the songs for the second set.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said, holding out the paper. “Want to hear it?”

  “Does it involve me?” Greg said quickly.