Punk and Zen (36 page)

“Hey, guys!” I greeted the group at large as we
neared.

Everyone looked up with friendly curiosity except for
Nico. His eyes widened in shock, and he jumped out of his seat.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as his elbow jostled
Jerkster’s beer, spilling it—onto his prized kilt. Jerkster pushed back from
the table and shook his head, dismayed.

“Holy shit is right.” I grinned at Nico as everyone
looked up.

“Everyone,” I said to the table at large, “this is
Samantha.” They all nodded and said their various hellos.

“Samantha? This,” and I waved to include the whole
group, “this is everyone.”

“Hi, everyone,” she greeted the group, glancing from
face to face until she reached my brother and smiled. “Hello, Nicky.”

“Nico,” he corrected tightly.

“That suits you,” she smiled again, “Nico.”

He didn’t smile back.

“Damn, not another of Nina’s girls?” Jerkster asked
Nico in a loud undertone from his sodden perch.

“No. Definitely
not
that,” Nico muttered back,
and hearing that, I glanced over at him. To my surprise, Nico had crossed his
arms across his chest, and his eyes had faded to stone gray as he stared at
Samantha.

“Good,” Jerkster muttered, “because I look like I peed
myself.” Someone threw him a bar rag and I chuckled a bit, full of high
spirits.

“Get a move on there, dude,” I teased unhelpfully,
“we’ve still got work to do. Samantha,” I said, “I leave you in,” I looked
around at the group, “interesting company.” Good hands was certainly not the
description, that was for sure.

Stephie, Jerkster, and I regrouped by the stage to
ensure we hadn’t forgotten anything. Ronnie came over to us as we started to
arrange our shit so we could carry it out. He seemed so enthusiastic he was
almost bouncing.

“Hey, guys!” he greeted. “You know, I just spoke with
Graham, Graham Crack from the Microwaves. Their drummer, Paulie-Boy, was here
tonight!”

We stared at each other in shock—the Microwaves? Dude,
they were one of the coolest ska bands around. And if you don’t know what ska
is, you’re really missing out.

There’s a huge debate as to which came first, ska or
reggae (and guess which side says which), but in a nutshell, ska is reggae sped
up, with lots of horns and totally fun—whether or not the lyrics are political,
satirical, or allegorical, and sometimes all three. The dance is called skanking,
the Toasters are a hot group, and the people into it, who wear gray creepers,
porkpie hats, and super-skinny ties, are called “Rude boys and Rude girls.”
That’s the basics—oi!

I quickly hid my surprise, and so did Steph and
Jerkster—we were cool, after all.

“Anyhow, you mind if I spin off a copy of your tape
tonight and give it to him? They’re searching for a band to take on tour—you
know, open for them.”

Jerkster looked at Steph, Steph looked at me, and I
looked back at them both like my mind had fallen to the ground. What? Yes? No?
Really? No way! passed through all of our minds and faces as we searched one
another for answers.

“Uh, yeah, hey, why not?” I answered Ronnie finally,
swallowing through my dried throat. I kept peeking at the band to see what they
had to add, but they just kept nodding at me like I had all the answers, so I
continued. “Just, uh, we don’t have an official drummer, as you can see.” I
pointed to the vacant spot our hired gun had abandoned. He was probably home
sleeping already. “That’s something—well, we’ve got to work on that.”

Ronnie laughed. “That’s an easy fix—Paulie-Boy loved
you guys! So, I’ll give the tape to Graham?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, nodding with a casualness I ABC
didn’t feel.

“Yeah,” Stephie finally chimed in—I glanced at her
with barely veiled relief, “and uh, let us know what he says.”

“Definitely,” Ronnie agreed, and started digging into
his pockets, pulling out little bits of paper. “Whose number do I have here?”

“Take Nina’s,” Stephie said, and Jerkster nodded
behind her in agreement.

“Yeah, take Nina’s,” he echoed.

“She lives for that thing.” She grinned at me,
jostling my shoulder. I grinned back as I wrote the number down for Ronnie.

“Okay, great, I’ll talk to you guys soon,” Ronnie
said, clapping his hands together as he walked back to his board. “This is
gonna be so fuckin’ cool…”

“Man oh man, the Microwaves—can you
believe
it?” Jerkster asked.

“Nah, it’s all bullshit,” Stephie answered, “this is
fuckin’ show business—everyone is bullshit.”

I kinda sorta agreed, but still…this was New York,
home of the “Hey, you never know.”

“Nothing is nothing until it’s something,” I agreed
with Steph, “still…sometimes things happen, right?”

“Yeah, sometimes, things happen,” Jerkster agreed.<
/font>

“Uh-huh, and it’s usually shit!” Stephie added, and we
all laughed.

We grabbed our equipment and started hauling it out of
there, taking it to the sidewalk so Jerkster could drive around with the van
we’d rented and we could return it to our rock.

“Hey, seriously,” I asked Stef as I hefted an amp,
“would you wanna go?” I walked to the sidewalk, Stephie carrying the bass drum
behind me.

“What, you mean on tour with the Microwaves?” She put
the drum down carefully between broken glass and gum on the cracked cement, then
straightened. “Shit yeah! That’s why Ronnie’s got
your
number—I wouldn’t
believe it, and Jerkster still believes in the tooth fairy!”

“Hey!” I laughed. “I made some good money from the
tooth fairy!”

“You know…” Stephie considered for a long second. “Me
too.” She grinned.

Stephie’s words made me feel pretty darn good—as if
there wasn’t enough of that tonight. I was always a little bit aware that I was
the newcomer to the Stephie-Jerkster friendship, even though we’d started the
band together. Choosing me to take that call meant they trusted me, which was a
good thing.

“But,” I said as together we carried the drum
hardware, “you’d go?” I asked again. Jerkster pulled around and hopped out,
quickly opening a door and getting his muscle under that damn rack.

“Go where?” Jerkster asked as we slid our
all-important shit into the cargo space.

“Tour,” I answered succinctly, “open for the
Microwaves.”

Jerkster stopped what he was doing. “Oh my God, did
they call? When? I need a new bass…”

I took pity on his enthusiastic panic, knowing how
easy it was to rush over that ya-ya-ya-hoorah edge. I patted the arm of his
army jacket.

“No, dude, they didn’t call. But if they did, would
you go?”

He stared at me for a moment, and his face seemed to
glow.

“Nina…it would be my whole life,” he said, his tone
one of wonder and solemnity, something I’d never thought to hear from him. “You
just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

I nodded. I understood. I felt exactly the same way.
Still do.

Stephie came round to stand by us. “Yeah.” She looked
at the ground and spit, then looked up again. “Me, too.”

I studied them both, considering, nodding. “Me too,” I
agreed, “me, too. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

I don’t remember how we got back to the rock we called
home, barely remember the after-party our friends threw for us at the Red
Spot—an after-hours event just for the band and what seemed to be over a
hundred friends.

We laughed a lot, and there was lots of noise and what
I thought was premature champagne, but it was great fun just the same—I think.
Samantha’s presence was like a constant heat at my back even though we weren’t
always next to each other; in fact, she seemed quite comfortable on her
own—although every now and again we’d catch one another’s eye and smile.

At one point Trace went to sit with her, and when I
saw her a little while later, she looked extremely pissed. Poor Trace—I think
maybe more than one person was immune to her charms.

I was tired and drunk off excitement and more than a
little champagne, and I was relieved that Jerkster was taking everything to his
place for the night—I’d go pick my stuff up in the morning—so all I had to do
was carry my guitar (I never let that go) and call a cab. It picked me up in
front of the Red Spot, and Samantha took the ride, sitting in the backseat with
me.

I don’t think we spoke at all. I leaned on my side and
she on hers, and all we did was hold hands and stare at each other. I was so
tired…

By the time we got to my place the night had chilled,
threatening to become early morning frost, and the frigid air woke me up enough
to feel how tired I was as the car pulled away and Samantha and I stood outside
the door that would lead to my apartment, our breath steaming.

“Coming?” I asked her with a tired smile. I shifted my
gig bag on my shoulder and held out my free hand.

“Where else would I go?” she asked me seriously, her
eyes glittering in the streetlight as she took my hand.

I opened the door, then led her through the
common-area kitchen in the back to my room, where I snapped one of the dimmer
lights on. I can’t deal with bright ones when I’m that tired—they hurt my eyes.

I spied small glowing embers on my bed. “Hey, scoot!”
I chuckled as I put my guitar down in a safe spot nearby and reached with my
other hand to pet a fuzzy head—one of Mr. Rabbitz’s cats had gotten into my
room. The fur ball scampered.

“Good-bye, Mr. Chubbles!” I called to the retreating
waddle I recognized.

Samantha stood in the doorway, looking about. “Nice
space,” she commented, “it suits you.” She indicated my art studio set up at
the end of the room.

“Thanks.” I smiled back in appreciation. Her eyes were
the same blue I’d remembered, the same blue I’d dreamt about, and they held me
in place as they came closer and closer.

When I barked my shin on the edge of my spare amp, I
realized I’d been the one walking, which shocked me back to a reality where we
stood face-to-face, alone together for the first time in years, maybe ever. She
had the very lightest of lines around her eyes, and her face had grown thinner,
perhaps a bit sharper, but the same soul sparked in those eyes and gave me that
half-pursed smile I remembered so well.

“Let me have your coat,” I asked her through dried
lips, my voice sounding low and raspy to my ears. I shucked mine as she
wordlessly removed hers, then handed it to me. It was a relief to move away
from that intense connection. I walked to the closet to hang both up, and as I
closed the door I felt her at my back, heat radiating like a rock left out in
the sun to warm. Her arms closed around me, and I leaned back a moment to
absorb her warmth ABC before I faced her. I put my arms around her
waist, and she buried her head in my neck.

“I thought…I thought you didn’t want to see me,” I
told her quietly, my head pressed into her collarbone.

Samantha’s hands tightened around me. “Not that, never
that,” she spoke hoarsely, her lips against my skin. “I died without you.”

She sighed and shifted her grip, her hands strong and
warm in mine. “I can’t let you go,” she said finally, quietly. “I never could.
I can’t go back to living without you.” She took a deep breath and looked down
at our hands a moment. Her eyes caught mine again, and she breathed out slowly.
“I won’t,” she said vehemently.

I tried to remember to breathe as the sheer
impossibility of everything rode down on me—the high of the gig, the perfect
fit-feeling of Samantha, the dim ache in my gut over Fran. The right thing to
do was to send Samantha back—back to London and Candace and her arrangements
and her life, whatever it was she had created for herself, and for me to go
back to the life I’d finally started living—my job and my band and, yes, my
Fran, my Kitt.

I would, too, I absolutely would, but…not now, not
this second. If Fran had brought me back to life, then just being with Samantha
was that bolt from the blue that woke up something in me long sleeping. I was
simply going to have to face it and, somehow, move on.

Oh hell, who was I kidding? “Me either,” I admitted
softly, “I can’t do it either.” I took my hands from hers, sat on the edge of
the bed, and studied Samantha in that half-light.

“You’re with Candace,” I reminded her as she sat on
the other side.

“No, I’m not, not since I spoke to Fran—it’s way
over,” Samantha told me through tight lips. She wrapped her arms around me
again, and I snuggled against her.

“I’m with Kitt—Fran,” I corrected, and I admit I
couldn’t help smiling a bit thinking about it.

“I know,” Samantha answered, her voice muffled in my
shoulder. “I know she loves you.”

“Sammy.” I spoke quietly, and while I enjoyed the
sound of her name in my mouth, she had to hear this. “I love her too.”

Samantha’s hands tightened on me convulsively. “I
know,” she answered, her voice an anguished whisper, “I just had to see you.”