Punk and Zen (3 page)

Skintight black cotton and Lycra covered my body from
throat to not quite midthigh, with sleeves that came to my wrists. I twisted to
see my back—yup, everything was in place, or not, depending on your point of
view. I was covered in the front, but the back was open to my waist, and the
sleeve tops were cut out in such a way that my shoulders, shaped from years of
swimming and a few other sports, were bare to the top of the tricep. Sheer
black stockings, calf-high black riding boots, and a simple silver ankh on a
black velvet choker around my neck completed the outfit.

I like the look, it’s working for me
, I thought. It was
definitely a female look, no mistaking that, but not, you know, girly. Strong,
yes, maybe even a little dangerous. I liked it. Woman with an edge, I thought
to myself, and nodded slightly with satisfaction.

It was my night off, I was buzzed just enough to feel
good but not out of it and filled with restless energy that dancing with a
pretty girl only stoked hotter and higher, making my skin tingle. I was
definitely ready for anything, and I wasn’t going to merely wait for it to come
my way.

A face reflected next to mine in the mirror. “Hey,
fancy meeting you here.” It smiled at me.

“Small world.” I smiled in return at the reflection of
my dance partner and skimmed my fingers through my hair, just to make sure
nothing was out of place. I faced her head-on, leaning against the little ledge
that ran the length of the mirror, and crossed one booted leg over the other.
Of course I had “cool” attitude. Bathroom or no, this was my place to work, to
hang out—my world, my territory.

I watched with an amused grin as she checked her
makeup and decided it was okay, then inspected her hair, which in the well-lit
room was light brown with a few blond streaks. Whether they were from the sun
or chemistry was up to the eye and mind of the beholder.

However it got that way didn’t matter, though. In my
beholding eye, she was definitely, no doubt about it, very pretty, and she had
great legs, too.

“I don’t mean to sound trite,” she started, “but have
we met, before, I mean? You seem so very familiar.” Her voice had a musical
lilt, her words a very slight accent, as she spoke with a little half smile.
The quirk of her lips told me she wanted to play that old game.

Ah, but I was feeling just too good, and I don’t like
to play some games, especially old ones. If she wanted to play, we’d do it my
way. I merely arched an eyebrow at her and recrossed my legs.

“Funny you should say that,” I answered, glancing
casually down at my nails before looking back up at her, “because I know
exactly where I’ve seen you before.” I straightened and put my hand out. “I’m—”

“Nina!” Trace came calling into the bathroom. “Richie
asked if you could take over for Darrel. He’s sick or something.” She barely
glanced as she walked right past Blue and slid next to me by the mirror. “He
said he’ll pay you double your shift. Just remind him at the end of the night.”

Trace stopped herself a moment and studied me, as if
she hadn’t just seen me ten minutes before. I returned her perusal with a bland
look; her inspection bothered me. “Very good look for you, by the way.” She
smiled and lifted slender fingers to tweak the forelock that fell over my cheek.
“God, you’re so fucking cute,” she added, cupping my chin. Her steel gray eyes
locked with mine a moment, and the longer the moment held, the more my
discomfort grew. She was just a little too close for comfort.

Her intensity pulled at me, began to cut through my
shell, and as I felt the muscles grow tight in my neck, I tried to talk myself
down, away, and just somehow out from the feeling that swelled within me.

She always does this, she doesn’t mean anything by it
, I reminded
myself, fixing the image of her draped over Van’s lap firmly in my head. She’d
approach that edge of flirting, though she’d never outright proposition me,
then pull something like, well, making out with Van, and it always made me feel
pretty darn rotten, like if I’d just done this, that, or the other thing, she’d
be with me instead of whoever. Tonight, though, instead of making me feel bad,
it was just pissing me off.

“Thanks,” I answered shortly, and twisted my head away
from her hand. I scowled at the mirror, checking my hair. I hated my hair being
messed up, I hated my head being messed with, and I hated being called cute.
Teddy bears were cute. Puppies and ducklings? They were cute.

My mother thought I was cute. Then again, my mother
also wanted me to be straight. We were working on that—my mom understanding,
not my being straight, I mean—fuck that, and fuck cute. I didn’t want to be
cute, I wanted to be hot. Woman with an edge, dammit, not Lil’ Bo fuckin’ Peep.
Besides, she was making me lose points in front of this girl. Cute, damn.

You know, points are all about the respect of your
peers and your chances of getting laid. That’s it. Period. On the imaginary
scoreboard, “cute” was dismissible, not desirable. Cute and horny did not, do
not, and will never go together. Hot, though. That’s something else altogether.
Hot gets some; cute gets a pat on the head. Did I mention that I hate that? I
felt like Trace was trying to say, or rather imply, that I was a teddy bear
with teeth, and how ridiculous is that?

But I didn’t let any of that show. My boss needed an
answer, and Trace was waiting to deliver it. What the hell, I thought. I could
lose myself in the music, which was always a good thing as far as I was
concerned, and I could earn a few extra bucks toward a guitar I wanted.

Work was work, I decided, and besides, I was only a
little buzzed—just enough to feel the edge. So as long as I didn’t drink
anything fermented for the rest of the night, I’d be fine. It’s not like I was
operating heavy machinery or driving. “Tell Richie I said yeah, and see if he
can have Darrel cue up the next one. I’ll be there in half a minute.” I decided
to not to theorize out loud exactly why Darrel was suddenly so ill he couldn’t
spin tunes anymore, but I suspected one too many jello shots mixed with some pharmacology
up in the booth.

“I just want to—” I indicated my hair to Trace.

“Ohmygod, you’re Nina, the DJ!” Blue interrupted
excitedly from behind Trace’s shoulder. “I’m here every Friday and Saturday you
spin the Elemental Experience, and for your Experience-the-Experiment
Wednesdays.” Her eyes were wide with recognition (or admiration or something I
didn’t recognize at that time), and those eyes staring over Trace’s shoulder
were green, like a pine forest at dusk, and I’ve always been a sucker for dark
green ABC eyes.

But sure, right, like she didn’t know who I was
before, I thought a little cynically with an inward smile. I remembered what
nights Darrel and I had both seen her—and debated which of us she’d rather
date. I told Darrel I didn’t fucking care one way or another, but I also didn’t
tell him I’d have put the money on me. Outwardly, I grinned at her anyway over
Trace’s shoulder, and Trace spun so quickly to face her, I’m surprised she
didn’t hurt the floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “didn’t mean to
interrupt.” Trace didn’t look the least bit repentant as I watched her check
the girl out for herself. “Okay, well,” she addressed me, her inspection
complete, “I’m gonna drop off your message and grab everyone. See you in a
few,” and she strode off to the door.

“Oh, one last thing?” She poked her head back in.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She smiled evilly at me and nodded her chin
toward Blue.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “That leaves me with a lot
of options, you know.” I shook my head in mock confusion. Trace just kept
smiling her wise-ass smile and disappeared.

I took a step in that direction, then stopped and
looked over my shoulder at Blue and that incendiary dress. I didn’t want to
just leave her hanging. She seemed nice enough, and the lines she used could
have just been a casual, sincere attempt at conversation. Besides, that would
have been rude. Right?

“Hey, I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go,” I excused myself
with a smile. “Work calls. It was very nice meeting you. See you out on the
dance floor.” I returned through the corridor to the back room.

Darrel had left a slow ambient track flowing through
the sound system and the dance floor lit by a dim orange-red glow. The last
tune had filled the room with a dark and throbbing energy, a low and restless
feeling, not so much sexual as sensual, but lacking joy. Darrel had brought
these people down. Where was I going to bring them, I asked myself as I made my
way to the booth in the very back corner of the room. I opened the door and
leaped up three steps to my little world.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

This little square in the sky, the “skybox” as we
sometimes called the DJ booth, was surrounded by walls on three sides, and the
front that faced the dance floor had a sturdy bench that held the sound board,
microphone and headset, two turntables, a disc player going from the middle to
the right, all the way to the wall, and a space for discs, drinks, or
sometimes, dates, all the way to the left. A Plexiglas wall separated the DJ
from the crowd so that whoever was spinning could observe and be observed, but
still have that illusion of separateness. Except for the empty space all the
way to the left—there was no Plexi there, because that’s where people could
call up requests or attempt to talk with the DJ, and the waitress could drop
off water or whatever other substance had been requested.

The back wall was filled with bins of records and
discs, as was the space under the turntables. I flipped through ABC the
discs Darrel had set aside. No, no, no, I thought as I quickly discarded each
selection, not where I was going. What the hell had he been thinking? Sure, the
music he’d picked was decent, but he’d provided no direction, no theme, not
even a unifying mood, except for the bleakness his ambient tune was setting.

I had a few more minutes to pull out the next set of
tunes that would create the mood I wanted, but no way could I just abruptly
alter the environment Darrel had created, even if it was confused. That would
have been terribly uncomfortable for the people out there and would leave them
feeling disoriented.

No, I was going to evolve it—bring them down, all the
way down, then raise them to where I wanted them to be, the fall and the
redemption, all in one night; and I’d provide the soundtrack that would guide
them all the way through.

I ran my fingers lightly through the racks, pulling
this disc out, discarding the next, setting my program up and in order: the
songs, the occasional patter, the lighting. I was set.

I took my selections and, instead of placing them on
the prep area, put them on the stool before the turntable so I could make
faster changes. Besides, since I just had to move my hands, I wouldn’t have to
break my groove. It’s always a good sign if the DJ’s dancing too. But this
arrangement had another benefit: it made me less accessible to the crowd, since
I almost never had to step directly in front of that open space.

Under the counter was a small shelf (and under that
was a wastebasket) crammed with paper towels, electrical odds and ends, and
baby wipes—you know, premoistened and soaped towelettes, but without the
lotion—and I grabbed one of those, quickly wiping my hands free of any detritus
they might have picked up. Hey, have to keep those discs clean. My hands now
lemony fresh, I hung the headset around my neck so that I could slide the
phones up to my ears without messing up my hair and set up the first disc,
listening for the groove I wanted to slide myself into. Oh yeah, that low dark
throb I was going to take down, all the way low down through, then twist it up.
Take that musical moment and dance, baby
, I thought as I brought the
faders up for the first piece I’d selected.

I raised my eyes from the board to scan the room and
feel the vibe, and watched as Trace and Van ambled into the dance area and
settled about fifteen feet away from the booth. Trace waved to me, then
pointed. I followed the line of sight she drew out for me and saw Blue dancing
her way over to the booth. I shrugged. “So what?” I mouthed to Trace.

Trace just smiled back at me, and, maintaining eye
contact, she slowly and deliberately snaked out her tongue to lick Van’s neck.
Why did I keep looking as his eyes fluttered shut? Though I couldn’t hear it, I
could feel the groan that I knew was making its way from his lips. Still watching
me watch her, Trace proceeded to trail up into his ear. At that point, he
pulled her into his arms and they were mauling each other again.

I shook my head and broke eye contact. I didn’t have
time for this shit; I had work to do. I slid my headset over my ears, careful
not to mess my hair, then smoothly set my mix, letting the heavy opening
cadence of that first tune fill my head and the room.

I took a breath and let it out slowly. It was time.
Reaching for the microphone, I keyed it open. “Darrel and the Daze have left
the building for the night,” I intoned solemnly. “You are now…” I let the first
riff swell through and watched with a small smile of satisfaction as the music
started to take effect, “in…” I let the chords build through and conquer the older
tune as it faded out of hearing, “Dominion,” I breathed, letting the song of
the same name sweep through the room. This was another Sisters of Mercy tune,
and by the by, the Sisters of Mercy is a very cool band, sort of. Well, dark
and sensual and danceable all at the same time, the
Floodland
album is
phenomenal. But still, what a tune to pick for first choice, I reflected. Boy,
I was in some mood.