• dynasty • | gnr | kiss | bon jovi |

•1•

{1972...}

Society would've looked at the color of my skin and immediately assumed I belonged, but honestly I'd never felt so out of place. And among my own people, too.

Brooklyn, while right across the bridge and less than an hour from my home, is like another planet. I remember being so distracted by the unfamilar sound of my heels against the cracked and faded sidewalk, I remember wearing a fixed expression of disgust as garbage swirled loosely around my feet before carrying on in the wind.

My hair was loose, wild and unkempt in the torrid, late August wind. I was also pissed off because it kept getting into my mouth somehow.

People passed me by, some of them indifferent and others with wide, wondering eyes. I looked at them with an air of skepticism, my mind flooding with horrible thoughts. my shoulders ached, my guitar strap dug into my skin painfully.

But I kept on walking, 'cause I was almost there.

Also because I was thoroughly convinced that the homeless man from the subway station four blocks back was stalking me.

The people of Brooklyn shared a common phenomena. None of them wore clothes from Saks or Bendel's like I did, none of them had much in general. Yet they seemed to be the most lively people I'd ever seen. Didn't they know what they were missing? Didn't they understand that wearing shoes from the bargain bin at Payless was deserving of social exile?

The Matador Club was a hole in the wall and nothing more. The corners were visibly grungy, the scruffy bartender regularly served alcohol to minors. The whole placed smelled like the floor of a brewery mixed with secondhand smoke, but somewhere within that I smelled hope.

It was covered in graffiti, old band flyers and promiscuous women, but it was the only reason I'd ever dare to venture outside the bubble that is Manhattan. The Upper part of it, at least.

I stopped outside the Matador (ignoring the sleeping homeless man in front of the door), and gave myself another mental pep talk. There was a puddle in front of me, and even though I'd done this to myself I was still surprised by my reflection.

She was nothing like myself. She was the definition of fire.

I kicked the door open- not too harshly, and walked inside. I expected the music to be pumping, but instead all I heard was the droning whine of one singular guitar, accompanied by the occasional strum of a bass.

I nearly growled when I saw who was holding the guitar, an old but stylish Firebird.

He looked completely harmless as his head fell backward, the sweat poured down his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were shut, his hair cascaded over his shoulders. His motions seemed effortless, though I knew from my own experience that playing required a level of concentration that God only blessed some with.

I was mesmerized for a bit, watching his fingers move- I hardly noticed when he stopped.

"Hey, Doll Face!" He snapped, throwing me from my thoughts. His guitar was propped up beside him and he was glaring at me from across the bar.

"This is a closed rehearsal, fuck off."

That was Stanley Eisen for you, and he was just as much of an asshole as I remembered.

"Now now, wait a minute," Gene said with a salacious smile, "Let's not be too hasty. Look at her, Paulie."

Stanley scoffed with obvious disgust and hopped down from the stage. Well, calling it a stage would be a bit of a stretch- it was more like a beer-stained platform, not even ten feet in width.