11/20 (starlight echo)

I hope you’re happy.  You seem pretty excited about seeing this band, I think they’re called ‘Starlight Echo’ or something like that.  All I know about them is that you have a poster of them on your wall and you keep telling me that the lead singer, Johnnie Clay, is your boyfriend and that you’re going to make out with him.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to hear as I’m driving you three hours to Gary to see these mopey bastards play in some bar.  Did I get a ‘Thanks for calling off work to do this for me, Jonas!’ or a ‘It’s really nice of you to drop everything and take me to this concert!’?  No.  I get to hear about how hot Johnnie fucking Clay is.

You’d think the least you could do is not make me listen to every single one of their seven CD’s on the way there.

You’d think I wouldn’t have to listen to these depressing lyrics about how terrible life is when you’re a teenage white male whose only real problems are how much you love this girl who loves you too and you’re going to get married and have fifteen kids.  That’s what I love about emo music, instead of talking about girls who’ve wronged you, it’s all about how depressing it is to be in love and be loved back.

This is the kind of music I want to listen to as I sit next to you, the girl I’m whipped for, who wants to make out with Johnnie Clay and tell me about it.  I know I shouldn’t be jealous.  After all, he’s a rock star.  What am I?  Just a mere purveyor of porno.  Just an eight-fifty-an-hour clerk in a building where people pay six dollars to jerk off to Isabel Diamond getting rammed between her surgically-enhanced melons.

I’m sure you know all about Isabel Diamond, Melanie, you have a poster of her on the inside wall of your closet.  Oh, I’m sure you know this, but she made most of her movies in the early eighties.  She’s pretty old now.  The real Isabel isn’t as glamorous or pretty as her on-screen counterpart. 

You should watch one of her newer movies.  Have you ever seen a bulldog eat mayonnaise?

But you’re not into the real deal, you’re just into the image.  You just want to picture yourself in the dim shadow of somebody famous.

“Johnnie sent me an e-mail yesterday!” you tell me.

“That’s great.”

“He said he can’t wait ‘til we hang out after the show.”

“That’s nice”

“He said he’s going to make out with me!”

“Wonderful.”

Can you stop?  Can you shut the fuck up for just like, I don’t know…two seconds?  Because it’s not making me want to keep driving to see this stupid band who got one single released on the radio and whose sole MTV video was popular two years ago and who have since faded into oblivion.

That’s why they’re playing at a dive in Gary instead of at the Murat, or at Deer Creek with real bands that actually matter to people.

That’s why they sell CD’s out of the back of their van and on their website and not at music stores.

It’s also why the only people who still listen to them are mopey little emo girls who can’t tell the difference between trite, uninspired lyrics where the lead singer rhymes ‘brain’ with ‘insane’ four (4!) times on one CD, and real music where the chorus doesn’t have to be repeated eleven times in one song so it can meet that 3-minute minimum requirement radio air time.

And don’t get me started on those fucking power chords.

Anyway, we’re two-and-a-half hours away and the show starts in two hours.  You keep telling me to speed up so we make it on time.  Wouldn’t want to miss that great opening band.  I hear their lead singer is fourteen.  Don’t want to pass up a chance to see talent like that.

“Come on Jonas, can’t you go at least five miles over the speed limit?”

“Will you pay my speeding ticket?” I ask.

“For a chance to hang out with my friend Johnnie Clay, I’d blow the cop and he’d escort us there.”

If I hear that name one more time, I swear we’re going off the road and straight into one of these trees. 

So I’m weak.  We speed up and don’t make any stops for the rest of our trip.  You turn the music up to around 250 decibels and scream off-key for the remainder of our journey. 

When we arrive, I’m very close to being out of gas and I would love to pee right now.  The ‘venue’ is a bar with a gravel parking lot and a painted cinder-block façade.  Classy.

There are maybe forty cars parked all around the building at strange angles not at all resembling a real parking lot, and there’s a big crowd of giggling teenie-bopper girls standing by the front door.  I pick a lone open spot by some trees and you don’t even wait until I stop to rush off towards the entrance.

I walk behind you, still managing to be right behind you in line.  I watch as little girls hand a bald black man in a black t-shirt five-dollar bills and clumps of ones and get a little star-shaped-stamp on their hands.

You hand him your five dollars, get your stamp, and head in.  I hold out a five-dollar bill and wait for him to take it and stamp me.

“You got some ID?”

I laugh.  “What, you don’t believe I’m fourteen?”  I mean, I could swear at least a few of those girls were that old.

“This is a bar.  You gotta to be twenty-one go get in.”

Are you kidding?  Is he serious?  Melanie, I’m glad you stuck around to make sure I got in okay.  Thanks.  You’re a real stand-up gal.

“I’m nineteen.”

“Sorry,” he says, “can’t let you in.”

Shikata ga nai.

So I pick a nice patch of gravel around the corner and pop a squat.  It’s not like I wanted to see the stupid bands anyway, but I’d at least like to get in to the show I drove seventeen hours to see. 

At least, the one good thing, is that I can smoke a cigarette without you killing me for it.

I reach into my side pocket for my cigarettes.  I open the pack to find that there are none.  Son of a bitch.  Magdalene must have taken the last one.  Dammit.

And I still have to pee with ferocity.  I doubt Mr. Clean’s African brother will let me in to use the toilet. 

But, lo and behold, what is this big shining beacon of toiletry right in front of me?  It’s a van with the words ‘Starlight Echo’ painted on the side of it.

Score.

As I’m relieving myself on the front right tire of the van, I can hear some faint talking coming from inside the vehicle.  My piss is reverberating with a consistent tinkle off the side of this hubcap before it patters onto a surviving patch of grass, and I can hear the tone of the conversation switch from subdued to concerned. 

I’m still pissing as the side door slides open and a skinny twenty-something year old kid with long, curly hair and a brown t-shirt emerges to investigate the miscreant pissing on his sorry excuse for a tour bus.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

I don’t make eye contact.  There’s still a little more to go, and only when I’m done will I switch to defense mode for the beating that I sense is coming.

“Dude, that’s our van!”

Ah, and I’m done.  “I’m sorry about pissing on your van.  I only did it ‘cause I hate your band.”

Instead of getting mad, he seems a little sedated.  It occurs to me that he smells much too much like pot to pick a fight with me.  “It’s okay, man.  Mostly it’s chick music anyway.”

I’m happy to hear honesty from a pseudo-famous person.  “Who are you?” I ask, “Are you the notorious Johnnie Clay?”

“Nah, he’s inside making out with some girl.  Megan, or Melanie, or Melissa or something.  I’m the bassist, Derek Marsh.  Nice to meet’cha.”

He holds out his hand and I shake it with the hand I just got a drops of piss on.  Sweet.  “Nice to meet you too.  You got a smoke I can bum?”

“Sure, man.”  He produces a pack of Lucky Lights and hands me one.  My number-one favorite brand.  Things are looking up.

And we stand outside of the van, saying nothing for a few minutes as we take puffs of our cigarettes.  Just a couple of cool guys blowing some fags.

That’s Brit slang for smoking.  Get your mind out of the gutter.

“So why aren’t you inside?” He asks.  “Don’t have five dollars to drop on a band you hate?”

“Nah, I’m only nineteen.  Bouncer wouldn’t let me in.”

“Bummer.” Derek says, “Not a big deal, though.  I’ll get you in.  Me and Reggie, our drummer, are getting ready to start taking a few things in.”  He reaches inside the van and pulls out a little amplifier and hands it to me.  “Just carry this and follow me.”

“Thanks,” I say as I pick up the deceptively heavy amp.

“Yo Reggie!” he yells. “Finish that bowl and let’s go!”

Reggie staggers out of the mystery machine in a cloud of smoke, buried under dreadlocks and dark sunglasses.  He’s got a big scar on the side of his pale face, and I wonder if it was made by a knife or by a broken drumstick.  He doesn’t say anything, he just follows us into the side door of the bar, where my bouncer friend has migrated, probably to make sure I’m not slashing his tires.  But he seems a little calmer now.

We walk by him and he says to me, “Sorry, man.  You shoulda told me you were with the band.”

I shrug and follow my new friends into a dim room with couches where the waiting musicians are drinking mixed drinks and chatting it up.  In the corner, I see you and some poster boy sucking face.  You don’t stop, but you glance at me, looking a little surprised.  I just set down the amp and walk right through the beaded doorway, down a hallway, and into blaring, deafening guitar and a group of bouncing, sweaty people, most of whom are girls in white tank-tops.

I am this close to leaving right now, this close to abandoning you in the crime-infested depths of Gary.

Something in the sound system is messed up, because all I can hear is the fuzzy crunch of guitars and no vocals.  Every drum beat rattles off my skullcage, and the nice little buzz I had from that cigarette is gone, leaving a headache and a faint urge to vomit in its place. 

Lining the wall, I see some empty booths where the stuffing is popping from the slashed cushions and legions of bored barflies have written and etched into the tabletops.  I pick the one farthest from the stage and I drop myself into it, resting my head on my arms as the music stops for a few seconds while one song ends and another begins.

I don’t know the name of this opening band, nor can I make a qualified statement about their talent because the house speakers aren’t coordinated well at all and I have to admit I’m already very much biased against them.  I’m feeling tired and cranky.

I need a hug.

I’m not quite sure how it happens, but I manage to fall asleep for an indefinite period of time amidst the chaos.  It could be days I spend in this relentless assault on my eardrums and vibrations that are working in small increments to shake my bones loose from their respective joints and hinges.

I’m awakened by a dainty tap on my shoulder.  I look up, expecting to see you.

She’s not you.

She’s wearing a white t-shirt with the Starlight Echo logo emblazoned on the front and she is smiling at me.  Her teeth are white enough that they shine in the muted light and her hair is straight and long, going past her shoulders and dangling over her breasts.

This girl, this girl with enough purple mascara packed on to choke a calf, she hands me a small, folded piece of paper.  She turns and walks back to a cluster of girls, all of them looking maybe just a year or two younger than me, and I open the paper.  I expected a phone number, but it looks like a TextMeister screen name.

It says:  Rachel  gameyhaiku212

Wow.  Haikus.  I instantly find myself liking her more if not for the mere fact that I love haikus.  Maybe I was a little harsh with that mental comment about her eye shadow.

Still, I can’t help comparing her to you.  You’re cuter, without a doubt, but I have this sneaking suspicion that you’re going to destroy me.  The more I think about it, the more it seems like a certainty.

I’ve got that taste in my mouth, the taste of stale cigarettes and sleep.  It occurs to me that I could go outside, so I rise and head for the door.  After jostling through the packed room, past flailing limbs and hair, I’m outside.

It must’ve rained a little, because everything is covered with a thin film of water.  I see a group of people huddled under one of the lights attached to the outside of the building.  I recognize Derek and Reggie and none of the others.  Still, Derek waves me over to the group.  “Hey guys, this is that kid that was pissing on the van earlier.”

“Hey.” I say with a small nod, not sure if that’s a positive introduction.

I’m standing in a group of tattooed and pierced musicians, including two girls with dyed red hair who I’m thinking are sisters.  Reggie is sparking a joint, and he asks me if I want a hit.

“No, but I’ll take a cigarette if you’ve got one.”

Derek gives me another one, with feigned resignation.  “Damn, man.  You want me to light it for you, too?”

“Nah, I got it.”

Ah, nick-a-nick-a-nicotine.  I feel happy again.  You know what?  I don’t even care any more about you and whoever you’re giving it up to on some couch.  I don’t even care that you made me drive all the way up here just so you could ditch me.  Fuck Johnnie Clay.

Seriously, go ahead.

I am so over you.

“Thanks guys,” I say as I walk back to the door, “you’re not really all that bad.  Maybe I’ll quit burning your CDs.”

Derek is a little stunned.  “I thought you said you didn’t like our music.  Why would you make copies of our stuff if you think we suck?”

“I meant with a lighter.”

I’m almost back inside when the long-haired girl comes very close to knocking me down.  “Wow.  You know them?”

“Um.  Sure.  We go way back.”

“That is so cool.  So yeah, I’m Rachel.”

“I guessed that from the paper.”

“Heh.  There’s gonna be like thirty minutes while S.E. sets up.  Wanna go for a little walk with me?”

I nod and follow.  It seems that’s all I’m able to do when girls suggest things to me. 

And we’re walking through the weeds that ring the parking lot, through some trees.  Rachel must be a local, because we’ve found a trail.  I feel like a coward, but it’s dark and I’m afraid of snakes. 

Something tells me that Rachel isn’t.

It’s really not that far before the trees open up and we’re in an elementary school playground.  It’s wet and deserted, and I can hear the far off echo of some sirens.  She sits down on the whirl and motions for me to sit next to her.

And it’s so obvious that things are going to get kinky.  In a torrent of rolling and writhing and twisting and sloppy kissing we are just touching each other all over and inside my head, I’m calm. 

I’m not thinking about you.

I’m not thinking about Johnnie Clay.

I’m reaching up Rachel’s shirt, under her bra, down her pants.  She’s grabbing my bulge and I’m kissing her cheek and her neck and her ear, licking around her silver piercing.

If I could do this all day every day for the rest of forever, I might be able to forget you.  She’s grinding on me and licking my chest and my ass is wet and my back is wet from rolling around on this playground equipment and she’s running her hands through my hair.  This is the most intense physical activity I’ve had since high school gym class.  I might even break a sweat.

And then she stops, stands up, and straightens herself out.  I’m lying on the whirly thing, with my hands behind my head, watching to see what she does next.  And she looks at her five-dollar wrist watch.

“Starlight Echo comes on in three minutes.  Let’s get going.”

Bah.  It’s always about pandering to those goddamn poster boys.

I get up and follow her back, follow the back of her white shirt through the trees and tall grass back to the bar.  She doesn’t look back, she just crunches gravel and scurries inside.

Instead of following, I climb inside my car and lie down in the back seat.  I drift off for I don’t know how long, only to be woken up by the random flashes of headlights from cars maneuvering their way out of the parking lot now that the show’s over. 

Still drugged with sleep, I trudge back inside the venue to see a few people cleaning up.  The house lights are on and I see you and your band buddies sitting on the stage ledge, your head in repose in Johnnie’s lap.  If I had a camera, I’d take a picture so I could blow it up and use it for cross-bow target practice. 

“Are you ready to go yet?”  I ask.

“Five more minutes, pretty please?”

“Fuck it.  I’m leaving,” is all I can muster as I stagger back out to my car and start the engine.  You come running out a few minutes later, and you don’t say anything to me as we start to drive off. 

We’re three miles down the interstate before you will even talk to me, and of course you say, “You’re such an asshole.  I was having such a good time.”

Me too.  Until I met you.

(c) j baugher 2004