Page 1 of Rock Out Together
one
. . .
Cody
It’s late,and I’m on stage at the Underground, a seedy club in the back ass of nowhere in Seattle.
My days are spent in a dead-end job, entering numbers into computers, but most nights I perform in dives like this one, trying to make it while I fake it.
Sweat stings my eyes from rocking out, guitar in hand. This place is so rundown it doesn’t even have any fucking air-conditioning. The crowd is a sea of flannel shirts, and there’s an overwhelming smell of beer and cigarette breath.
The onlookers aren’t ignoring me, but they aren’t exactly singing along either. Someone near the front shouts something I can't hear over the music. He pumps his fists in the air like my words are his salvation, and I know immediately he’s too drunk to understand their meaning.
So far, the show has been one of my better ones, and there’s been some interaction with the audience. However,when I see the big, burly dude pushing his way through the crowd, swaying with an excess of alcohol, I know the mood’s about to change, especially when he knocks a beer out of someone’s hand.
I'm still onstage when I hear the first fist connect, and as people in the audience start screaming, a body crumples to the floorboards. My final note turns into a screech of feedback as the venue erupts into an all-out brawl. As security pile in like riot police, I can't stop thinking I'm getting too old for this shit.
Frustrated, I pack up my guitar.
My set is over!
My friend Otis is sitting at the bar. I’ve known him since our high school days. If I’m all rock and roll, Otis is country and western with a touch of something darker.
As I carefully maneuver toward him, avoiding the fight, I can see his gaze is focused on the glass of whiskey that’s clasped tightly between his hands. He looks like hell with his hair exploding from his head, like it’s trying to escape, and his green eyes, cold and empty, conceal the genius hidden beneath. We all know he's trouble. I’ve seen, firsthand, the angry outbursts, violent brawls, and smashed up kits.
Here he is, again, just waiting to blow. I’m not sure if he's come to see me, to out-drink me, or to join in the fight that’s escalating around us.
“Good set.” Otis slides the glass with the remnant of whiskey he’s been nursing along the bar to me, and I down it in one.
“Maybe one day it’ll be appreciated.” I roll my eyes, andwe both duck down at the same time when a chair comes flying overhead out of nowhere and smashes into the back of the bar before falling to the floor.
We look at each other, nostrils flaring with frustration.
“Too old for this shit,” we mutter in unison.
“If you get blood on my shirt, I won’t be pleased.” The familiar voice, low and commanding, comes from behind us.
My other high school friend, Norrie, is moving toward us through the crowd. He doesn’t tell anyone to move—he doesn’t have to. His presence is so electric that people take one look at him and give him space. He’s the only guy I know who can look composed and menacing while drinking beer from a Solo cup.
Norrie's been trying to get me on board with his latest project. He’s forming a new band, and he wants me to join. It's flattering if I don't think about it too much, but the truth is I think about everything too much. Especially when it includes my brother, Sebastian, a man I haven’t seen eye to eye with for a long time, and I know Norrie wants him in the band as well.
Norrie was the same in school—he was always trying to save someone. Now he’s acting like a band messiah come to lead us, mere mortals, to greatness. It’s a shame we couldn’t make it happen in school, but there was too much shit going on, mainly at the hands of my brother.
Sebastian and I both play guitar, Otis is a drummer, and Norrie has a fantastic voice, and on the few occasions we played together in school, the music and lyrics just flowed,but Sebastian always managed to make me feel I was never good enough.
As the club security motion for everyone to leave the bar, it’s clear that no more music is going to be played here tonight. The three of us exit through a side door, scuttling like rats escaping a sinking ship. We make our way into an alley that reeks of old piss and rotten trash.
Norrie lights up a cigarette and stands silent and motionless. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, maybe for luck to be on our side for once.
“Hell of a night,” I say, massaging the pads of my fingers. They’re swollen and calloused, rough from the strings. I should be getting used to the discomfort by now, but after all this time, maybe I never will.
Otis looks at me then at Norrie, who has a scowl on his face which could set ice aflame.
“Who pissed in your beer, Norrie?” Otis asks.
The sound of a bottle breaking echoes from inside the club, as if to answer his question. Here we are at the end of another night, and we’re no further forward with our dreams of success and fame.
“Let’s not do this here. We should leave before the cops arrive,” Norrie urges.
