this chapter is in such desperate want of editing i'm apologising beforehand :(
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f i v e
The show is a continued shindig of psychedelic spotlights and a multitude of classic and alternative rock; it lasts for another forty minutes.
Atlanta’s Heel gets off stage close to midnight. Within minutes Mikaela’s dragging me behind her and then she’s squealing to Jake about how good they were, who’s grinning at her with a glass of beer in his hand, and there are other girls with us too; one heads straight for the drummer in the Ramones shirt and settles in his lap in one corner of the couch in the room. Everyone is settling down on something to sit on and I see, from where I’m standing, the lead guitarist, slumped on the couch like he was before the show started. Nobody is sitting with him. He is, evidently, girlfriend-less, and he is also evidently unbothered by his solitude. The conversation and music in the room isn’t affecting him in any way. He’s in a bubble. He’s protected.
I think Micky’s saying something to me, or maybe it’s someone standing next to me, I don’t know, but I walk towards him, the guitarist, just for that one chance to see his face. I see that he’s sitting near a large crate of Budweiser cans, probably courtesy of the bar, so when I get closer I pick up a can. He doesn’t even budge an inch when I stand inches away from him, or when I walk right in front of him to sit down on his other side on the couch, not too close, but not too far either.
I look around the room because I don’t want to sit and stare at him. I can feel his presence. I can see the movement of his hand as he raises it to his lips to take a drag from his joint. I just can’t see him.
Mikaela has successfully socially integrated herself, seated on Jake’s lap, his hand up her thigh, talking intently to him and to the bassist – Calvin, yes, Calvin was his name. She’s not exactly being scrupulous with her alcohol – I guess she’s gonna show up hungover to meet her parents in Caravel tomorrow. That’s not going to go down well. I watch the progress of Jake’s hand for a few minutes till it starts to sicken me, so I look away. I notice that the room is windowless and it starts to make me uncomfortable. The floor in the middle is a tangle of amps and cords and drumsticks. In the corner of the room I can see the guitar – the guitar, the black Gibson, propped up against the wall. That brings me back to him, to – Dexter, yes, Dexter was his name.
I look sideways. He’s enveloped in the smoke from his joint. It’s combined with the strands of his hair that reach till his shoulders. I can see the side of his face, his shut eyes (always closed, I notice, always closed), and the projection of his nose, a little hooked, and the hint of a shadow of his lips. He needs a shave. I don’t blame him for not shaving. I don’t remember the last time I shaved my legs or my arms or anything (I gotta maintain the psycho reputation, you see). And anyway, who really gives a fuck anymore?
I feel like I need to say something, which is something I don’t feel too often.
I say, “Hello.”
He’s halfway through the motion of puffing out a breath. He stops. He turns his head slightly in my direction, a movement so small I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking at him. He looks almost as if he doubts that someone is talking to him. I wonder why that is. I wonder why that doubt should exist in his mind. Is it such a ridiculous possibility? Why am I the only one talking to him anyway?
“Um, I am talking to you.”
From the corner of my eye I see Micky’s head turn in my direction but I ignore it.
His head moves back to its original position.
“Oh,” he says.
He’s got a deep voice, it suits him, it suits his beard and his hair and his shoulders and the stretched out way he’s sitting, I feel like I knew his voice would sound like that, but of course I didn’t, how could I?
I don’t know what to say. What do you say to oh? I try to remember what my shrink told me about polite human conversation. Crappy advice is still better than nothing.
He speaks anyway. “Who are you?”
He must be pretty stoned because he still hasn’t opened his eyes, he isn’t looking at me. I’m okay with that, of course. The best kinds of people are those who don’t see you. I don’t like to be seen, I just want to see.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “I just came to talk to you.”
He puffs out a cloud of smoke and hums.
“Not a very good idea.”
“I don’t always have the best ideas,” I tell him honestly.
For some reason that makes him chuckle. The sound hiccups out of him, jostling his shoulders on the way. He raises the joint to his lips again – I stare at his hand, the same hand that produced those notes, that sound, with crudely cut nails and curls of dark hair on the back of his protruding knuckles, so raw that it’s almost ugly, so raw that it’s almost beautiful.
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, miss. I’m fine on my own.”
Miss.
“You don’t have to call me miss,” I tell him.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says. “And I’m tryna be polite.”
I take a moment to realize that this is the longest sustained human conversation I’ve had in a while and make a note to tell my shrink. Maybe it’s just the tequila I had earlier.
“I’m not feeling sorry for you,” I say. “I don’t see why I should.”
He’s silent for a few seconds. He exhales more smoke. I can only imagine what his hair is going to smell like in the morning. I imagine pressing my face into it. I wonder if it’s soft.
He hums again, not saying anything.
I sip on my beer; I forgot I had it. Then I say, “Your name’s Dexter.”
He makes a vague nod. “So it is.”
His eyes are still closed. I wonder what colour they are.
“What’s the time?”
It’s such a trivial question, a question that belongs on busy roads and in educational institutions, not a hazy room in the back of a pub where time shouldn’t have any meaning. But I answer it anyway.
“’Round midnight, I guess.”
He makes a small grunting sound.
“What? You got some kinda Cinderella curfew thing?”
That makes him chuckle again.
“Sort of.”
He finishes his joint. I wait. Then suddenly he moves. I watch as he stands up, like a paper crane unfolding, tall and lanky. He stumbles a little. And then I realize that there’s something wrong with the way he’s standing, with the way he’s holding himself. From across the room Calvin hollers out.
“Hey, Dex! You need help or somethin’?”
I can only see his back now. I’m still sitting down, though I feel like I shouldn’t be.
“Sure, Cal,” Dexter says, but Calvin is already halfway across the room. I watch as he grips Dexter’s elbow. He leads him to his guitar and packs it up for him. Jake and Mason call out goodnight’s and see ya tomorrow’s and I’m just sitting there, quiet. Dexter waves his hand a bit in acknowledgement and everyone ignores the fact that it’s in the completely wrong direction. He shoulders his guitar case and picks up an amp in one hand. Then I watch as Calvin escorts the blind man out of the room.
*
