Punk Like Me (41 page)

“’Smatter, baby? You okay?” Trace asks in throaty concern, her hands reaching to pull me back into her.

I run my hand distractedly through my hair, making it stand up higher. “Yeah, I’m Þ ne,” I tell her, and smile as reassuringly as I can.

• 265 •

“Pre-performance anxiety. I’m just gonna get some air.” I stand up, make my way through the press of bodies to the door, and step outside.

It’s a cool night for April, but I stand outside anyway and let the breath of the city brush over my face, alive and vibrant as always. I breathe in that energy as deeply as I can, and I look up at the night sky, right there on the Bowery, and let my breath out slowly. Just above the reddish black skyline, because for some reason that’s what the sky looks like at night sometimes in Manhattan, I can make out a few stars.

I make a wordless prayer to the universe, not really knowing what I’m praying for or who I’m praying to, just please, please, please, this time, please.

Enough communing with the cosmos. It’ll soon be time to hit the stage.

I’ll tell you something. In rock and roll, no one really cares about anyone but themselves, and by that I mean unless you’re friends with another band, you don’t usually stay to watch them play, unless they’re going on before you and you have to wait.

We’re the last act on the bill tonight, and believe me when I tell you that it’s no small feat to have a big crowd on the worst night during the worst time slot of the week—and have the two bands that precede us stay to watch and rock along, and baby? It’s magic—we’re magic.

We run through our set, and the crowd gets wilder and wilder. By the end, when we’ve Þ nished all of our material, they still want more, and we repeat the set—to enthusiastic cheers.

It’s incredible, the feeling of communion with the music, with each other, with the audience. No words exist to describe it—the overß owing, humbling, beautiful feeling, the power and the passion, the certain knowledge of the immanent, the ineffable, the divine, channeled and ß owing through you to the band, to the audience and back again, a complete circle, part of the dance, part of the whole.

The applause is very sweet when we’re Þ nally allowed to stop, and there’s much backslapping and congratulating as we disassemble our equipment and make our way down from the stage.

We’re offered another gig by the sound guy, who’s none other than Ronnie the Bouncer Boy from all that time ago with Kerry, only now he has a long-in-front crew cut, and his beard is trimmed in a military style. I don’t ask if he remembers me; it’s enough that I do, and the memory makes me smile.

• 266 •

PUNK LIKE ME

I quietly pack my guitar and equipment, and Nicky comes rushing over.

“My God, you guys are fantastic! I always knew you were good, but wow!” He hugs me and lifts me off the ground.

“Thanks, bro, thanks,” I laugh as he spins me around, “Nicky, you can put me down now before I—yelp!”

Nicky slings me over his shoulder and starts to bounce me up and down. “Hey, I’m your little brother and it’s Nico, remember? Be nice!” he teases as he bounces.

He’s right, everyone’s been calling him “Nico,” as in “nee-ko,” for a while now and I promise myself for the umpteenth time that I’ll remember it, but right now I’m going to puke, I swear, and the feeling from the stage is rapidly decreasing as the nausea increases. “Nico, I’m going to puke very nicely and neatly down the back of your shirt if you don’t stop soon,” I manage to gasp out between jolts.

“Sorry, sis,” Nicky, um, Nico, says, not at all repentant as he puts me down. He gestures to straighten my clothes out and down, and I playfully smack his hands away.

“No, no, you’ve done enough, thanks. I’m going to go get something to drink. Watch my guitar, okay?” I ask him, and I hear him agree as I walk away.

My head’s buzzing, and I need to get clear, get a grip, get some focus. I’m also parched—a two-hour performance is exhausting, believe me.

I nod polite thanks to the people who come up to compliment the band and make my way over to the bar, which is now rather empty. Most people are still up front, by the stage. I get the bartender’s attention.

“Water?” I ask, and he nods.

Trace comes up to me out of nowhere, grabs my head, and plants a solid smooch on my lips. “That was great, baby, just great!” she breathes, and kisses me again.

Oh, those lips are baby soft, but I’m tired and fuzzy, and the kiss I return is sincere, but just as tired. “Thanks, Trace, really. I’m just going to get something wet. I’ll be back by the stage in a minute, okay?” Trace studies my face with concern in her own, then smiles. “No problem, Nina, no problem. Sit here a moment, get your drink, I’m gonna hang with Nico and the rest of the band, and I’ll see you in a few.” She kisses my cheek again and strolls away, and I turn back to

• 267 •

the bar.

The bartender Þ nally comes back over with my glass of water, and I sip it in silence, head blank and muzzy from the show. Again I’m struck by that sense of, I don’t know what, something, but I shake my head and dismiss it. Probably a result of stage anxiety and postshow blues, I tell myself.

Someone comes and sits next to me, but I ignore them, focusing alternately on my water glass and the wall in front of me, without really looking at either. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an arm raise to signal the bartender. He nods in acknowledgment, then goes back to whatever he was doing, drying dishes or something.

Finally, he slides a beer over, money hits the bar, and the person leaves. I don’t care—I’m just going to Þ nish this water, then get my ass back to my guitar. I toss my head back and the water down. I can feel its coolness radiating through my body, and it’s a welcome feeling. I hold the smooth glass in my hand longer, enjoying its texture, then set it back down on the bar, and as I do so, something catches my eye.

It isn’t money on the counter like I’d originally thought—it’s a coiled jewelry chain, with a shiny and worn miniature sword attached to it. I stare at it dumbfounded while my head roars with the sound of the surf in storm. I reach down with a tentative hand to touch it and suddenly someone’s behind me, so close I can almost feel the heat radiating from their body. I feel them lean over me, whisper in my ear.

“I don’t like your girlfriend,” says a voice I can’t believe I’m hearing.

I gently, unbelievingly, close my Þ ngers around that shiny little piece of silver, sit up straight, and carefully push my seat back. “She’s not my girlfriend,” I answer with a steadiness I don’t feel. I put both hands against the edge of the bar to balance myself as I stand up.

This will be a hell of a dream to share with my roommates tomorrow; I think to myself, I must be losing it. I’ve never read anywhere that this is a part of the post-performance reaction. And if this is a joke? It isn’t fucking funny.

I make myself turn around, to face who or what’s behind me, and my heart hammers in my chest like it had before the show, but with a shakiness that hadn’t been there earlier.

I raise my head and look straight into eyes that are the blue of the water under moonlight and a smile like the sun breaking through the

• 268 •

PUNK LIKE ME

clouds on a stormy day.

I open my arms wide and am enfolded next to a heart that thuds against mine. “Welcome home,” I choke out as tears come to my eyes for the Þ rst time in years. “Welcome home.”

• 269 •

About the Author

JD Glass lives in the city of her choice and birth, New York, with her beloved partner. When she’s not writing, she’s the lead singer/

guitarist in Life Underwater, which also keeps her pretty darn busy.

JD spent three years writing the semimonthly
Vintage News
, a journal about all sorts of neat collectible guitars, basses, and other fretted string instruments, and also wrote
Water, Water Everywhere
, an illustrated text and guide about water in the human body, for the famous Children’s Museum Water Exhibit. When not creating something (she swears she’s way too busy to ever be bored), she sleeps. Right. Oh, and she’s what Dilbert would call “a sexy engineer.” She is hard at work on the forthcoming sequel,
Punk and Zen
.

Look for information at www.boldstrokesbooks.com.

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