Failing Upward

Chapter 11 (part 3): Knock, Knock

As we rode to Adam's Den, my hands tapped while I hummed along with Cobain gargling "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on the radio. Every time Sherlock looked at me in my black leather pants and fish-net shirt...

Twitch.

But pulling over to the side of the road for a remedy wasn't an option tonight. Not on a dark dirt road where we could get ambushed.

"Ouch. Stop that," Sherlock said, after I swatted his hand for the fifth time. "You're just so hard to resist. How am I supposed to protect you when you're wearing that?"

"Protect me ? You're the one who needs protecting. Just stay out of the way if any trouble starts, and I'll be fine."

Sherlock pulled into the back loading dock behind the bar where we were playing. Ted Blandship, one of our sound men, waved at us as he took a drag off his cigarette.

Adam's Den was a cut above most band bars in the area. Nearly perfect acoustics with a stage that overlooks the audience. The pay was substantial and timely. Most importantly, the bouncers were real bouncers, not some drunks paid to bang heads— any heads. They watched the band like mother bears watch their cubs. And the waitresses never had to worry— any unwelcome slap on the butt earned the poor slob a spot at the curb outside. And no one ever threw shit at you on stage. The management promoted the top-notch atmosphere. I felt better as I walked in. We'd be safer here than at home. It was the ride there and back that worried me. Sherlock's eyes checked the rearview mirror the whole drive there.

The owners, Bill and Rob Plonski, ran the bar for going on eighteen years. They liked to book bands well in advance. The BoneYard Bastards and the management had a difference of opinion last Saturday, and the band walked— leaving no live entertainment. The owners didn't take to karaoke or disc jockeys on weekends; they wanted old-fashioned flesh-and-blood bands. Despite the cost, bands pulled in crowds with money. That, and Bill and Rob both liked our band. We're good, reliable and we could draw a crowd. They knew we had nothing on our calendar so they called us when the other band took a hike. To get a gig here on such short notice was unusual. I don't think the owners would have let the other band walk if we weren't available; they were businessmen, after all.

While I helped set up, Sherlock found a seat with Anderson and Mary up front, saving a seat for me for between sets. All of the band was here except our newest member. We were just starting to tune up when he stumbled in with some lame excuse, like he couldn't find the place.

"Is your uncle coming?" I hollered over the amps.

"What?" he yelled back.

"Is Dr. Lestrade coming tonight?"

"He can't, but he's coming tomorrow." I gave Sean the thumbs up.

"I think we're ready," Ted hollered.

Jim gave us the nod, "One, two, three." Bill ripped off a power chord, and we we're off.

During the first couple songs I distractedly watched the floor for Moriarty or Moran. I looked over at the table and noticed Sherlock quietly watching me and scanning the bar— looking for the same characters, and for Lestrade. I worried about him watching out for me; I wished he wouldn't. The guys in the band would look out for me. They have for years. We were a family. We watched out for each other. And they didn't have Moriarty's obsessive, perverse attention fixed on them; Sherlock did.

As I played, I started to relax. We sounded the best we ever had. Sean was terrific. I didn't feel intimidated or like I was being replaced— I felt euphoric. I always felt a buzz or rush on stage, but this was an existential experience. We meshed, morphed, mind-melded. Bill, Jim, Smith, me and now Sean. The other band members and I had played together, Hell, we grew up together. But this, this transcended all my expectations for any group. It was Sean, that was the key. It wasn't just that he anticipated each hesitation, each movement on the neck of my guitar— we anticipated each other's. It was uncanny.