The Opposed Alliance

~Two

Jaxson

I grab my black leather jacket and head out of the run-down mansion that I call my home this month, not bothering to yell out good-bye to my foster parents or siblings. I know that they will probably kill me for not telling them I left when I get back, but that is what makes it fun. I enjoy making them angry. The same way it seems they enjoy making me want to gouge my eyes out with melon balers with their "kindness".

I walk briskly down the wide sidewalk with my hands tucked into the warm pockets of my jacket, the chilly wind biting at my ears and nose.

I don't have a certain place in mind that I am heading, I just needed to get out of that house and live a little. My foster family is too peppy and happy and all they ever strive to do is make me a part of their dumb unrealistic family. And that is exactly why I escape a few times a week, I am not a happy, peppy person, and never will be.

Whistling as I walk, I kick a rock and pull out my iPhone to check the time. 9:02 pm. Great. I'll be lucky if anything is open on a Sunday night at nine o'clock at night.

As I meander down the abandoned streets of Portland, I come across a club called The Hub, quaint and loud, tucked in between two boarded up shops that went out of business years ago. I stop in front of the door, reading the sign plastered to it. It is on a neon green poster board, and has words written in a punk-type font, spelling out "The Surge" with some skulls and crude drawing of instruments decorating the edges. Underneath that, it reads, "Here every weekend at 9:00 to play hardcore punk rock and melt faces!" written in sloppy black sharpie. Hey, that means that they're on right now! Might as well check them out, I've heard that the club has gotten a lot more business because of them. Might as well see why.

Though I am usually not into the club-scene, I find myself pushing my way into The Hub, wondering if this hardcore punk rock band would live up to its bold promise of melting my face off of my skull. We'll see.

Taking my first step into the first club I have ever set foot into, I am hit with a wave of sweaty, humid air, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. The stench alone is enough to almost make me want to turn right back around and leave.  However, something catches my ear. I push past a few people and enter further into the club, grab a beer from the bar (even though I am underage) and lean up against a dark red wall with chipped paint and a multitude of different stains. I hear it. The band. Man, they're truly amazing.

The music is the perfect definition of punk rock, my personal preference of music. The sound floods through my ears and swirls through my brain, creating pictures from the lyrics, committing the words to memory. I am completely and utterly mesmerized.

I decide that I must get a better look at the band that is playing the intoxicating music. I feel almost as if I am drunker on the music than the three beers that I just chugged...

I push my way past a few more sweaty people, dancing and grinding on each other on top of the circular brown tables. I duck under flying chairs and clothing, and make my way to the front. I sit down at a table against the far right wall, a bit to the right of the stage on which the band is playing and singing wildly. I brush my shaggy black hair in front of my purple eyes to block out the rest of the club and sit back in my chair, beer in hand.

I finally have a good look at the band. The guy standing center stage has his hands wrapped around a microphone in its stand, swinging it around wildly. From what I can see, his hair is brown and his eyes shine nearly as bright as the lame excuse for stage lights. Drunk, clammy girls outline the front of the stage, waving their hands in the air (like they just don't care), trying to win a high five from him. They are treating him like a celebrity, and I can tell that he loves all the attention. He performs well with the microphone stand, throwing in some fancy kicks and dips with it. His voice is loud but enticing, with a raspy, masculine edge to it.

Behind the lead vocalist stands the bassist. His hands stroke the neck of the bass guitar with expert speed and skill. He almost looks as if he is improvising for this song, but it is hard to tell because of its perfect, effortless sound. His is swinging around his untamed hair with reckless abandon, almost hitting his head on one of the speakers a few times.

To the left of the bassist plays the electric guitarist. He had a short blonde haircut and shocking green eyes so bright I could classify their color as emerald from all the way over here. He seemed less rowdy than the rest of the band, standing there quite still, with his knees bent and his head bobbing to the infectious beat of their own song, a small smile plastered on his face. His hands, too, move swiftly across the metal strings of his guitar. The melody he plays is high and exciting, and kind of makes me wish I knew how to play guitar. But not that much. My voice is enough for me.

And then, last but not least, I steal a glance at the drummer. I almost have to do a double take. She's a girl. She beats fiercely and rhythmically on the drums. I can almost see the music pulsing through her veins as her seemingly unmanageable blonde hair whips around with reckless abandon, free from any restrictions. There is no doubt that she is feeling the music in her bones, and there is no doubt that she loves every second of her performance. It's quite fascinating. The lead singer showed the same kind of zeal, but not quite in the same kind of charming way. Or maybe it's just because he's a guy and I find it attractive that there is a highly attractive, passionate female drummer that plays in a band of all other guys... Who knows? No, who cares? She's hot, that's all I know.

I down the rest of my beer and sit back even further in my chair as I admire song after song by The Surge.

After a few minutes, a man with short hair the color of mine and light, airy grey eyes pulls a chair up to my table and sits down, looking intently at me. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, unsure if he was just pulling up a seat to see The Surge's performance, or if he sat down to talk to me. From the way he is thoughtfully staring me down, I think it is clear that he wants to talk.

"Can I help you?" I ask, only a little bit rudely.

"Oh, no!" he exclaims, clearly pretending to be startled by my sudden dialogue. "Hi, I'm Mike," he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. I shake it politely but quickly pull away.

"Hi, Mike."

"Hey. I am the owner of this club, and I just stopped by to make sure you were having a great time tonight!"

"Yeah," I say, pursing my lips. "I'm usually not too into clubs, but the music here is great."

"You know, I could tell that you were new here."

"How?"

"Well, for starters, you kind of stick out like a sore thumb."

"Right." I nod. I guess that's true...

"Anyway, you said you like the band?" Mike changes the subject.

"Yeah, they are really great!" I say, nodding with wide eyes.

"Aren't they?" He smiles and crosses his legs, bouncing his right ankle on his knee. "Business has been booming since they started playing here a little bit ago. It's been great."

"That's good to hear," I say, standing up and pushing back my polished cherry-wood chair with the back of my knees. "Well, I better be going. It was nice meeting you Mike." I wave once and start on my way to the door.

I hear Mike call out after me, "Wait, where are you going? The night just started! It is only 9:45! You can't leave yet!"

As I continue to weave my way through sweaty bodies dancing around in a puddle of their own sweat, I call back over my shoulder, "I'm goin' home, Mike. See you next weekend. Maybe."

I stumble out of the throng of people and make my way through the squeaky front door with the hideous green poster plastered to the front.

Jamming my hands into the front pockets of my dark blue jeans, I jerk my head to the side to shake my long, dark curly hair out of my eyes and walk slowly home, the wind biting at me with every step; just like it did on the way here.

Except this time, something pulls at my thoughts, almost pulling me back to the club to wait until the band's performance is over.

That drummer.

I put it upon myself to get to know her. Somehow, I swear to myself, I will.

-Claire