Hello Fellow Readers,

Here is a sneak peak from my upcoming new novel, "Leaving Seattle."

Enjoy. :)

J. C. Cole

Chapter 1: Vagabonds

As far as everyone knew, the band wasn’t supposed to go on tonight. The lead singer, Anthony, had to call in sick. Some sort of stomach bug he had told everyone. Only I really knew the truth of the matter. It was plain to see. Anthony was showing signs of fatigue, nausea, headaches, muscle aches, irritability, and sweating, commonly brought on by none other than a bad case of the brown bottle flu.
He had, for as long as I’d known him, been a heavy drinker. He could throw back more cans of Rainer than anyone I knew, and yet still managed to throw a killer show every other evening. As the bars rang their bells for last call, it wasn’t surprising to see Anthony making a final attempt to engorge his liver with one final round of whiskey and beer. Knowing Anthony, if he really had to cancel, then last night must really have been something special.
Booze was always a quick and easy escape for him to get away from the daily mundane. “Sometimes I just get so bored from feeling the same all the time. I need a break,” he had once said to me. Drinking for Anthony was a way for him to leave for a while, to escape the existential dread, and to hold at bay, whatever madness dwelled within him. The bottle was his ticket out. But as far as I could tell, he’d already been gone for quite some time.
I awoke in the morning to my phone ringing, as it jolted me from my bed, forcing me to sit up, both confused and half asleep. I glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was a little past seven in the morning, and the light from the yolk of the rising sun was just beginning to creep its way onto the floor of my studio apartment. I picked up, and heard the distant voice of Anthony on the other line.
“Say man, I’m gonna need to come crash at yours for a bit. Is that Cool?”
“Uhm, yeah, sure,” was all I could muster, and hung up.
A half hour later, I’m buzzing him up from the street, a minute after, I hear him knocking. The smell of a night’s worth of tobacco and booze somehow found its way out from his mouth and the pores of his skin, and slowly made their way through the cracks of the door. When I opened, I half expected to see nothing more than the haggard, flannel wearing rocker, which was Anthony, looking for a couch to rest his eyes on. Instead, he stood bare-foot, wearing nothing more than a simple black sleeveless dress. As he stood at the entrance, with his eyes half closed, and his body swaying, I finally noticed him holding firmly in his left hand, a pair of black and sparkly six inch high heels.
“I woke up in a bush,” he told me in a very matter of fact kind of way, and brushed his long curly brown locks away from his face.
“You woke up in a what?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t heard him.
Ignoring the question, Anthony stepped inside, pushed his way past me, and headed straight for the toilet bowl. Not even bothering to close the door behind him, he immediately and routinely forced himself to release all of the contents of Friday night, by diving head first over the porcelain bowl of the john. Being the good dear friend that I was, I gently closed the door behind him, leaving him to his bodily needs.
A few minutes later, he returned from the bathroom. “Got anything to drink?” He asked plainly.
“You should probably hydrate. There’s some gatorade in the fridge,” I insisted.
Anthony pressed his left palm to his forehead, “That’s not gonna help. Got anything else?”
He was implying something in the nature of the harder variety of liquids to embibe. And as much as fluids and rest would have done him a whole world better, there was only one real option that could alleviate the terrible pain in which he was suffering. He had to keep going. The hair of the dog if you may.
I slowly gave him the up and down. A brown stain spread across the right side of his dress, may have been dirt, maybe feces, who knows. His feet matched the same color as the stain, and a coagulated trickle of blood hung from his ankle mid drip. Most likely left by a thorn from the bush he had passed out in. I felt a tiny bit bad for the guy, so I obliged. “There’s a bottle of smirnoff in the freezer. Help yourself.”
Less than a minute later he appeared from the kitchen, holding up two unmatched second-hand glasses in his hand. Gesturing to me unabashedly, he grinned, and shook the bottle of vodka in the air. I looked back at the clock, the hour hand had barely passed eight. I returned my eyes onto Anthony, and within that split second turning away, he had already unscrewed the bottle and was pouring the first round.
He handed me the glass, before quickly holding up his, only slightly tilting it, as to subtly insinuate a ‘cheers.’ I drank mine slowly. He threw his back, in a desperate attempt to take the edge off, before pouring himself another. Our Saturday night out had begun. The journey towards the unabated self-discovery of our early twenties was, yet again, underway.
I threw Anthony some clothes, leaving him to shower and collect himself, as I stepped outside for a morning smoke. The early autumn sun rays bounced there way from the horizon of the eastside, off the still waters of lake Washington, zig-zagging from window to window through the houses of Madison Valley, and reflecting off the reservoir at Cal Anderson Park, before making its way to the balcony of my Capitol Hill Apartment. Although the summer had ended, the air remained warm. No bother putting on any pants. Besides, what was the rush?
I stood over the balcony in my boxers and an old Linda’s T-shirt, and nothing else. I lit up, taking the first drag of the day. Combined with the euphoric intoxicating aroma of the Smirnoff, and the rush of nicotine powered dopamine from my rolled midnight special, I was in heaven. Most days I could hold out a little longer on the cigarette, but once I had that first one, there were certainly more to come. Until the smoke before bed was lit, none would ever be as good as that first one. Maybe one day I’ll leave this nasty cancer-causing habit behind. Smoking was always the king of cognitive dissonance.
I flicked the butt out onto the sidewalk and headed back inside. Anthony, now dressed, sat vigorously drying himself with a towel, as splashes of hair and shower water flung across the room. “He’s back!” I said half-jokingly, as I threw on a pair of brown and ripped corduroy pants. “Getting there,” He shot back.
As the fifth quickly made its way past the halfway mark, we continued our banter.
“How was the show?” I asked casually, as I took another morning sip of hard liquor.
Anthony looked over at me blank faced. “It was…” he paused. “Good. I recall being up on the mic singing. Then it all went black. I think I might have gotten laid, I vaguely remember a girl from the party.” He finished.
“Did she wake up in the bush with you?” I teased.
“No, but your mom was there to keep me warm,” he threw back.
Disrespect for one’s mother has been an age old tradition, passed down over the many generations of coming of age men. The level of offense wasn’t dependent on the joke itself really, nor was it any outlandish statement of how wonderful it was to have had sex with one’s mother. It was more relative to the intense reaction it evoked. The more that one showed horror or disdain for someone’s sexual references about one’s mother, the better it worked. Almost always would it be followed up by an additional tasteless comment about the other person’s mother, or reaffirming the original comment about one’s own mother.
“I’m glad she could be of service,” I returned the bait.
Just then, a tiny rumble bubbled in my stomach. Hunger was here, and it would only be a matter of minutes before I would have to resort to eating my own hand. I will make myself some food, I thought, but there wasn’t any use. There wasn’t any food. The plastic packaging of the last Top Ramen rested gently torn open on top of the trash bin, waiting so desperately for me to find the courage to one day finally take it out to the bin.
The dishes in the sink were no exception. Plates, forks, cups, spoons, and bowls piled high above the counter line. The mold that had grown over them the last three days, made me gag at the very idea of cleaning them. There was nothing that I could do. So I made the most logical choice.
“I’m famished. Wanna grab some grub? I asked Anthony, although I already knew the answer.
“Kill me,” were the only two words he could manage to put together.
We finished off the rest of the bottle and I threw it in with the rest of the trash. Then, very carefully, I reached into the sink and pulled out a dish, and also, very carefully, placed it inside the plastic garbage bag. Then another. Then another. Then a bowl. Then a cup, and a spoon. Then a fork, with god knows what strange matter hung by the tines and slots. I tossed the last bit of slime covered ceramics in the bag before finally tying it closed and throwing it over my shoulder.
“Let’s bounce!”
We made our way out of the apartment. Anthony wore one of my old pairs of black and white Converse, and me, a pair of used Value Village ankle high boots. We ducked in the back through the alleyway, throwing the bag of trash in the receptacle, and making our way out onto the city sidewalk.
We walked up the hill drudgingly, but caught a second wind as the smell of roasted coffee, and espresso wafted out from the cafe’s and made its way in and out of our nostrils. The signal hit and Anthony threw his arm over my shoulders. “Hey Air Bear. Wanna buy me a coffee?”
It was my turn to buy, he bought last time. This was our thing. It was a subtle exchange that kept our friendship going, no matter how cross or ruff around the edges our relationship got. At any given time, someone owed the other a cup of coffee. Maybe it was one of us going a little too far when talking about the other’s mother. Or maybe it was he or I that may or may not have gone a little overboard at the bar the night before. Whatever the case, we made peace over coffee, and it remained the best way for which we could fill the daytime.
We entered, and were immediately greeted by the deafening rifts of Modest Mouse’s, Lonesome Crowded West from the propped up speakers that hung high in the corners of the cafe. The clientele fit perfectly with what one might expect to find hanging out on capitol hill, in a place like this, in the early 2000s. There were punks, rockers and skaters. Students from Seattle Central sat with their faces in books pretending they cared about their homework. Gay men chatted over lattes. There were young dudes in sweatpants grabbing coffee after their morning workout, who stuck out even more than the bald girl with the dozen piercings and tattoos covering her neck and head. And then there was that guy in the corner wearing a beret. There was always that guy wearing a beret.
We grabbed our coffees, poured a dab of cream, tipped the barista, and left. We weren’t the hanging around coffeeshop types, and besides, we were becoming quite skilled in the ways of walking with a cup of coffee, without spilling the scolding hot liquid all over ourselves. We pushed ourselves up the hill, taking sips along the way, passing by panhandlers, and ne'er do wells, stepping over used needles, and crushed beer cans, up and over, and back down the hill, through Cal Anderson, onto Broadway and into the Jack in the Box for our mid morning brunch.
A pocket full of change could get you a belly full of grease at the Broadway Jack in the crack. And with the morning’s servings of vodka and coffee, we were long due for a little sustenance. We placed our orders, and took a seat near the corner window that looked out onto the street. We sat in silence as skateboarders rushed by, cars honked their horns, and Seattleites bumped into other Seattleites.
I secretly like to time these interactions. When someone saw a familiar face on the sidewalk, it was always one, or both of them, that would find whatever excuse they could come up with to leave the conversation. “Sorry, I’m running late to my yoga class, gotta go,” or “Love to talk more, but I’m gonna be late to work.” I knew all too well how things went. Nobody was in a rush. Not in this city. Most of us were wandering around just as aimlessly as the next, and whether or not we had a place to be, we definitely weren’t going to be late for it.
I watched through the window as a man and woman parted ways. “Forty-eight seconds,” I mistakenly said out loud.
“What?” Anthony unconsciously replied, lifting his head up from the table at the precise moment our order was called.
“Number forty eight!” the half-caring fast food worker finally called out. The coincidence was uncanny.
Anthony quickly returned to the table with a tray full of food, as it slipped back and forth on the grease that trickled out of their lazily thrown together wrappers and packaging. Fries, both curly and straight, an eggy sandwich thing, another potato something, a bacon item, and a couple of sausage burritos, all under ten dollars, made their way from the counter, and into our eager mouths.
We spoke with our mouths full.
“Say Aaron. Have you ever thought about leaving this place?” A piece of egg fell, as he talked. The question kind of took me off guard, but then again, this was Anthony we were talking about. The same one that showed up to my crib hours before, wearing nothing but a dress. So I humored him.
“How do you mean?” I replied, as a piece of bacon, unbeknownst to me, fell from my lip and rested gently on atop my chin stubble.
“I mean, you ever think of, I don’t know, leaving the city? You know, living somewhere else.” He asked me, red eyed, as the last curly fry miraculously made it into his mouth.
I mean, I thought about it. Hell, we all thought about it. I wanted nothing more than not to be bound by the slavery of capitalism, working some odd job to make some other person rich for the next umpteen years. I wanted to break free just like the rest of us. But like the rest of us, I had to have something to take with me. Whether it was money, or a degree, or job prospects, I had to have something to lean on. But from where I sat, squished in the back corner of that Jack in the Box, licking the salt from my fryer oil lubricated fingers, I didn’t have much going for me.
“Nah, man. I’ve got to finish school first. Plus, Claire really likes it here. Our friends are all here,” I tried to explain, knowing full well how temporary all those reasons were. Who knows how long Claire and I would last, I mean, we had our ups and downs like any other twenty something year old couple. As for school, I went to Seattle Central Community College. The best I’ve done there was a 3.5, in English 101. I hadn’t done much, but the possibilities were wide open. I liked it that way.
Anthony gave an approving nod to my brief response and then immediately got up to use the restroom. He went and stood by the door, and waited. “Toilet!” he shouted, eying the counter. ‘For customers only,’ read the sign on the heavily graffitied door. “Toilet!” he yelled again.
There had been at this place, and for as long as we could remember, a small button behind the cash register that remotely unlocked the door to the toilets. A rather expensive contraption for a fast food chain, but a necessary one. Too often were the toilets of restaurants in the city used as a place for junkies to shoot up, prostitutes to solicit their work, or the homeless to use as a relaxing place to kick back, drink tall boys, and rest their eyes. Or for one of the more traditional uses, to relieve one's bladder, to which I followed shortly after.
We made our way back out onto Broadway. I lit another cigarette, and took a long drag waiting for Anthony to tell me how smoking was going to kill me one day. But he never did. In fact, come to think of it, he never once gave me any shit for any of my not-so-pleasant habits. Maybe because he already had so many of his own. Maybe because he liked to smoke them with me from time to time. Maybe he enjoyed the camaraderie that came along with the enjoyment of a smoke with a friend after a good meal. So I handed him one, and he both willingly and enthusiastically accepted it.
We ducked between two buildings to finish them. Smoker’s guilt some might call it. I thoroughly enjoyed the stillness and the rush of dopamine that smoking gave me, but as soon as I was finished, I would quickly want the return to normalcy. Especially the taste it left in my mouth. This is why I always carried a pack of something minty in my pocket. Altoids, chewing gum, menthol lozenges, anything minty really. We quickly flicked our butts, popped a mint in our mouth and stepped out of the alleyway before shuffling our feet along the sidewalk of Capitol Hill’s main drag.
“Hey aren’t you playing the Comet tonight? I had just remembered. Anthony played lead vocals in the band ‘Kung Fu Phonics.’ When asked what kind of music they played, his answer was simple, “We play rock.” In fact, when he showed up to my apartment this morning, he had just woken up from a night playing with the band. Looking at the state that he was in, I wasn’t sure if he had another night in him.
“I left them a message this morning before I called you. Said I’m gonna have to cancel,” he answered back with a slight sadness in his tone. Anthony didn’t like to pass up an opportunity to play a good show. And if he did, it was very rare. But from the state that I saw him in this morning, I couldn’t really blame him.
Nonetheless, after some coffee and nourishments, it seemed like he may have been catching a second wind. The night was young. And when I say young, I mean it was only half past noon. We had nothing but time to kill. So we marched on. Down, and up the road, past First Hill, and through the International District. Then along the back of the Pacific Tower and Amazon books, and right into Beacon Hill, where we were greeted, with open arms, by none other than Anthony’s lead guitarist, Nathan.
“Wanna beer?” Nathan insisted, as we plopped ourselves, exhausted, onto his very worn and torn hand-me-down sofa. This sofa was all too familiar, as I had spent plenty of nights here. These nights I would clutch the fabric of the couch, as I squeezed my eyes and prayed for sleep. Desperately trying my best to get through a bad case of the spins, brought on by the harmless combination of liquor and reefer, to no avail.
“Sure,” we said simultaneously, accepting Nathan’s thoughtful gift.
He brought us both a Pabst Blue Ribbon. This premium lager was crafted with a powerful infusion of six-row barley. Its carefully balanced corn syrup profile and distinctive combination of pacific coast hops, left a unique and memorable taste on one’s palette. It was truly the world’s most tolerable beer. But we really didn’t give it too much thought, as we cracked our cans, took a long gulp, and kicked back into the sofa’s pillows.
“Are you ready for the show tonight?” Nathan directed his attention towards Anthony, who was already close to nodding off to sleep. I cranked my neck over at him, half knowing the answer already, as he told Nathan everything that happened, including the phone call he had made this morning to the comet.
“You did what?” Nathan, in a fit of confused rage, took back the beer from Anthony. I was afraid he would do the same to me, so I chugged mine right there on the spot before he could have the opportunity.
“What do you mean you canceled? Did you think that maybe you could, I don’t know, talk to the band first, before canceling the show!” Nathan spoke with a sense of hurt and betrayal. As if Anthony had just given him the news that he had slept with Nathan’s mother.
“You mother fucker,” Anthony finished, before heading to the kitchen to place a call back to the comet. When he returned, he came with a glass of water and a blanket. “We are still on for tonight. Get some rest Anthony, if you know what’s good for you.”
Anthony returned Nathan’s gesture with downcast eyes and surrendered, curling himself up on the couch next to where I sat. He glanced over at me and gave me an approving look, and within only a few minutes, dozed off. I cranked my head up and gazed out the window to watch as the sun rose high into the clear autumn blue sky. Then shortly after, I too nodded off to sleep.



I awoke a little rough around the edges, as the sound of drums played thunderously in the basement below. The pang of the symbols let me know it was time to get up, as tiny bits of drywall burst out from the nail holes in the house’s walls every time the bass drum was hit. The one downstairs making these ear deafening rhythms, was none other than Kungfu Phonics drummer, Markus.
Anthony came around some time before me, and had already joined Markus and Nathan, as he followed along on the bass guitar and microphone. His energy levels were high as he rocked out with the band in the basement. It’s truly incredible what a tiny bit of rest can do.
“Aaaalll right now!” Anthony shouted into the mic, as the others followed suit. Nathan choked the guitar neck high as he flapped, back and forth, the guitar pick across the strings and the sound hole, causing a kickback and reverberation after every pluck. The bass slowly fell in line with the rhythm of the drums, and the music flowed.
No matter how many lemons life gave us, making music was our lemonade. We used it to get away, to escape from the mundane, to look at it all from a different angle. Some used it to get laid, or for the attention it brought to them on stage. Perhaps it was the lack of attention from our own mother or father figures. Maybe we just needed to be as loud as possible to grab everyone’s attention. Or maybe it was a great excuse to get lit, drink like a fish, do a bunch of blow, and wake up in a bush. No matter what the reason, life was fleeting, and music helped us to hold the hurried world still, even if it were only for a little while.
I sat and listened as the band's last song rang through my eardrums. Most of their music was quite crap to be honest, but this final piece, it gave me some of those little fuzzy feelings that you get when listening to a song. “Blue and yellow fade to black, you gave me a heart attack…” the song went on. I sat tapping my foot to the ground as I sang along to the tune.
I also played a bit of music myself from time to time. Never for any of the reasons mentioned before. I had terrible stage fright, and had just enough trouble performing while under the influence with my girlfriend Claire as I would have with a guitar on stage. So I kept my music to myself. Besides, the guitar for me, was always a way for me to unwind and let go for a while. A lot of people come and tell me how talented I was and how I should do something with it. My mother especially. My response was always the same. I do it to get away. Plain and simple, It's the easiest way to leave a place without having to go anywhere.
The sun was finally making its way behind the waters of the Puget Sound as the sky slowly burst with the colors of autumn. The calmness of the reds and oranges told us that the night was nearing and it was almost time to head out. I helped with Kung Fu Phonics as they loaded their instruments into the band’s van. It wasn’t a big hassle really. Besides, the boys always awarded me drink tickets at the show in exchange for the help. It was more than fair trade if you ask me.
We all loaded into the van. Someone sparked a joint, and I watched as it passed around from inside. Markus passed it on over to me, and I took a deep drag. I held it long and heavy inside my lungs, until the smoke finally burst out of me in an uproarious cough. It felt great.
Nathan took the wheel as we drove up and over Beacon Hill, past Pacific Tower and Amazon Books, through the International District, around First Hill and back onto Broadway. We parked right outside the Comet, smoke billowing from out the window and the sliding doors of the van. We still had a couple hours before the band went on in the line up. So we unloaded the instruments and made our way down to Linda’s for an inspirational drink.
“A pitcher of Rainier, and four glasses please,” I instructed the bartender. Ah yes, Rainier beer. Delicately fermented with pedigree yeast culture under tightly controlled conditions. Its mouth watering malty flavor hung over a lightly fruity background. For six dollars a pitcher, it could have tasted worse. We finished it in under ten minutes, and immediately ordered another one. And another one. And another one.
“Hey guys,” I heard a familiar voice call out. I looked up from my tilted beer glass, and there she was, hanging with her two friends, Abby and Sarah.
“Claire !” I said a little too loudly. This definitely wasn’t the first time she had caught me with a pint glass to my face and two and a half pitchers in. I stood up to lay an affectionate kiss on the mouth, but she turned and let it land on the side of her cheek. “Take a seat, “ I insisted. She looked like she already wanted to leave even though she had just got there. We all shuffled our seats around, as I headed back to the bar for a fourth pitcher.
It was lucky for us guys to land a girlfriend at this time and age. I was lucky to have Claire , I really was. How she had stayed with me these last six months was beyond me. I was a loser and I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. Yea maybe I was a little bit funny, charming and charismatic, but I didn’t have much going for me besides. I had a good feeling it wasn’t going to last much longer. My problem was that I never knew how to break up with people. So I did the best I could to give them a reason to leave me instead. Alcohol was always a sure fire way for that.
I came back with the pitcher, three extra glasses, and a shot of Old Crow whiskey. Ah yes, Old Crow whiskey. An original sour mash bourbon, with a faint vanilla aroma, that leaves its victim with a sharp bite at the tip of their tongue. A shot of old crow was the most bearable and quickest way to blow chunks by the end of the night, and never more than three fifty a glass.
I threw it back, made the infamous ‘old crow face,’ (a heavily contorted look, with a squished face, squinted eyes, and a sinister side grin) and set the empty glass upside down on the table. I looked up at Claire . She rolled her eyes and held a slightly annoyed look about her. I think it was working.
She looked over at Anthony, vaguely flirtatious, “So when do you guys go on?”
“We’re headlining,” Markus answered for him.
Sarah took hold of Markus’s gaze. Claire was successfully avoiding my eye contact. Nathan had his eyes on Abby. Abby had her eyes on some dark-haired girl at the other end of the room. No one's attractions lined up. They really never do.
“That’s great. We’re gonna go grab a slice at Hot Mama’s, then head over to Bill’s. We’ll see you guys tonight?” Claire asked, having already known the answer. We all replied in unison by vigorously nodding our heads, and as quickly as they came, they were gone. I made my way back to the bar and ordered another mouth-watering shot of Old Crow whiskey.


“That’s it! Thanks everyone! We’re the Mean Liver Killers!” the lead singer announced. “Next up. Uhm…” He looked over at Nathan who slowly mouthed the name of the band. “Oh yea. Next up, Kung Fu Phonics!” He finally said, before exiting, stage right.
This last band played a great show. It was a mix of punk and screamo metal music. Each song ranged from ten seconds, to two minutes. A great sound when you are loaded up on booze and standing in a drunken crowd of like-minded, well-intentioned rockers. A minute before, patrons of the comet banged their heads back and forth, up to the ceiling full of one dollar bills and back down to the beer covered floor. By the end of the set, my shoes were completely drenched in a variety of lagers, causing them to stick slightly to the wood floor with every step I took.
No harm no foul though. You know what they say, if a beer wasn’t spilled, then it must not have been a good night, and tonight was quite the contrary. I stepped over to the side of the stage to gain my footing. During the band's set a took a pretty heavy spill and bruised some mystery part of myself. Luckily for me there was a punk rocker in the audience. His hair was blue, and so were the tattoos that covered almost every inch of his body.
If you didn’t know already, I’ll tell you now. Punks are some of the sweetest, most kind hearted people on the planet. Of course you wouldn’t think so by looking at them. Tattoos, dyed hair, pierced faces, torn shirts, chain wallets, all layered on thick with a ‘fuck the system’ attitude. They would most certainly be up there on your republican mother’s worst nightmare list. But despite their outer appearance, they are known to always have your back. Whether it’s to punch neo nazi’s in the face, help you move a couch into your studio, or pick you up after falling in the mosh pit. Punks will always be there for you.
As the band set up on the stage, I ordered another round for Claire and I. “Last name?” The bartender asked. He wanted to know which tab to put the beers on. I gave him Claire ’s name, and headed back to where the gang was all sitting.
Although they all kinda looked the same, dressed the same, and talked the same, they all had their thing going for them. One had a passion for old timer auto repair. Another, was going to school to be a computer programmer. Another, a visual artist. Different passions. Different dreams. But despite all these differences, there were two things that brought us all together, that transcended all of the contrasting parts about us. Beer and music
The sound of Nathan’s guitar rang over the stage and bounced off the wall of the Comet, as Markus tested the sound of the base drum, and drunk as a skunk Anthony fiddled with the microphone’s chord. These familiar sounds only meant one thing. The sound check.
All venues are different. With that, they all carry different sounds. Rocking out in a small room will have a very different sound compared to an outdoor concert. The preference over which type of venue was really up to the musician. However, it wasn’t too uncommon to blame a bad show, not on how completely intoxicated the performer was, or how they completely forgot the lyrics to your own song, but on the sound guy. Poor sound guy.
“We are Kung Fu Phonics,” Anthony mumbled into the microphone. The crowd expectedly cheered, except for those that didn’t, because they were too cool to cheer. Three seconds into the hooting and hollering, Nathan brought down his guitar pick across the strings of his yellow Fender guitar. Markus came in quickly with a rataplan of one hundred eighty beats per minute. The two became one. Both intertwined in the heavenly sounds of hard rock and roll.
Anthony, on the other hand, was silent. He held on desperately to the mic stand. The only rocking he did was done by his body, back and forth on the stage, as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Anthony was blacked out.
Blacking out did not necessarily mean that a person could not go on performing. It just means that they can not form any new memories. When a person drinks enough alcohol, as was unfortunately the case for Anthony, it temporarily blocks the transfer of memories from short-term storage to long-term storage, also known as memory consolidation. No matter what came of tonight’s show, Anthony will wake up, yet again, with no memory of it. Poor Anthony.
Nonetheless, they pressed on. In the famous words of Queen’s Freddy Mercury, “The show must go on,” and on they went. They played each and every one of their songs, all eight of them. They played their entire set with Anthony silent and swaying on the stage, the mic stand being his one and only support from falling over.
That didn’t stop anyone from enjoying themselves. Everyone banged their heads as they crowded the stage. More beer spilled. I acquired more bruises. We partied, and we partied hard. As the sounds made their way in and out of our eardrums, we took hold of the night. We were a generation frozen in time. This was our neighborhood, this was our city, and we wouldn’t let anyone take that from us.