Nobody Dances Sober

Chapter 1

On the day of college graduation, it snowed. I should not have been surprised as it snows randomly here. I could have gone to the ceremony, but instead I lay on my bare stomach in a burgundy leather-covered dental chair, my arms folded under my chin. I stared through the doorway of the little room, across the hallway, and out the window while my back twitched involuntarily to the sharp pressure bearing into it. The last of three sessions, I had fleshy bat-like wings being artistically rendered to either side of a black haired fairy which I would carry permanently on my spine.

The high-pitched buzzing continued and my lower back burned a little, but I felt him stop a moment for ink. I took the opportunity to take in a deep breath and relax again. The snow came down in large, drifting flakes and I began to reflect on what snow means to me.

Sometimes the first snow of the winter season comes in February and I remember once it snowed on the fourth of July. That day changed me. I thought to myself that if Mother Nature could do what was in her heart, summer be damned, then I could, too. That night, after the snow had melted and the fireworks began, I revealed deep feeling to my first love. We never spoke again.

By the next week, the temperatures exceeded one hundred degrees, but my heart felt cold.

I felt the tattoo artist rub my back, roll his chair to the left, and let out a breath, bringing me back to the present.

Looks like you’re finished, drifted the low voice of my tattooist as he used a gloved finger to rub Vaseline over the area. Let me just finish up here, he added under his breath as he used medical tape to secure a square of plastic wrap over the tender flesh. When I finally stood, I had to move slowly.

After paying, I began the short walk to the commuter train station where I stood under an iron canopy. The digital marquee told me that the next train would be by in four minutes before the amber lights showed the current time again. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my black wool jacket and watched the snow beginning to stick to the grass in front of the craft store across the street. I wondered if the tulips that had already shown their petals would be frozen stiff.

When the train arrived, I squirmed to sit comfortably as I scribbled notes in the yellow composition book I carried with me. I made it a goal to find something noteworthy relating to every occupant which seemed simple enough in theory. It occupied my mind brilliantly as I had grand ideas to write many tales and I threw each person into a large pool from which I fished. More interesting to me than the crazy, loud, or costumed person were those who stumped me. They looked plain and acted predictably in almost every way even as they stepped off the train and it sped away on the tracks leaving them behind. I felt they were the ones with the stories worth hearing.

My back had gone relatively numb by the time the first person to stump me got onto the train. He had short brown hair, styled conservatively, and appeared to be about my age, which might have explained his red Chucks if it hadn't been for his suit. The suit itself didn't alarm me, but I noticed right away that it was not a cheap, scratchy fabric one-size-fits-all, suit. Clearly, it had been tailored from a decent quality wool, perhaps not designer, but certainly not off-the rack. I could not immediately imagine a scenario where a man in his early twenties would need a well-crafted suit, yet no one would be alerted by bright red inexpensive canvas sneakers.

Seeking clues, I stared at his shoes; dirty, worn, fraying shoe-laces. He had planted his feet on the floor and stared straight ahead, barely budging as the train took sharp turns. I imagined him deep in thought because of the way he stared blankly ahead. I watched for a reaction, any reaction, as we passed City Hall and the new architecturally stunning library. I observed with keen interest when the woman carrying an empty baby carrier bumped him on the side of his neck. If it had an effect, I missed it.

The train stopped beside the city park where the homeless get a free, hot meal on Sunday mornings at five. The single mother who can be seen delegating duties there can barely feed her three teenage children on her full-time job. Still, she volunteers to gather donations and food from local restaurants to feed the people and her children help serve the food onto very large and sturdy paper plates. I helped them sometimes, but had not done so for several months.

No one ever got off at that stop. Occasionally a gruff hobo or homeless person would get on, but the young man I had been watching hurriedly stood and waited for the door to open.

I found myself wondering where all the dull people went when they got off the high-speed train. Part of me, tempted to follow, twitched. My back ached a little and I decided I’d rather go home to rest. From the stop nearest my home, the walk from the train station seemed especially long, but I passed the time quickly by imagining my way through one of my stories.

I walked into the brown hallway of my apartment building and began the ascent. On the fourth floor, three doors down, the key caught in the lock; as usual. I had to jiggle and jerk at it until it would turn. With a grumble, I stepped inside. I headed directly to my bed passing through the tan room. Sitting on the blue plaid sheets, I untied my black combat boots. After kicking them off, I crossed to the tiny bathroom.

As I leaned toward the mirror, I saw exhaustion in my own blue eyes. Brushing back a lock of black hair, I then removed my grey rugby shirt. When I turned the right way, I got a view of my completed tattoo. I smiled a little, examining the work. Though a little red, I could see that the wings had come out beautifully.

* * *

Two days later on Saturday morning, I woke early. My mind raced. Anxiety over the job search that would begin on Monday obscured most of my thoughts about work that night. I had enjoyed the job for a long time, but I had been ramping up my ambitions as the end of schooling neared and the result in my mind quickly turned to excitement of new opportunities. My perspective on bartending had become mundane

Additionally, most of my friends who helped pass the time by coming into the bar or working with me had also graduated. Over the previous three semesters, the majority of my comrades had moved away, moved on to new jobs, or simply outgrew nights of drunken partying.

I looked around my apartment. The dishes were piled up in the sink and extensive clutter collected along the kitchen counter, the dining table, and the coffee table. I began to straighten, stopping to pay bills online. Instead of focusing on one task at a time, I flit between tasks each time I saw something new that needed to be completed. Eventually, I washed, dried, and put away the dishes while vacuuming the floor and dusting the book shelves. Afterwards, I rewarded myself by flopping on the couch with a book.

Boredom set in quickly. Once I felt relaxed from cleaning and read four chapters, I wanted to get out. The air had warmed a little; the clouds gone. Taking a water bottle from the fridge, I tucked my little yellow notebook and keys into my black fleece jacket pocket, then headed out the door.

I often rode the train in circles for a few hours. I turned my spiral bound notebook to a blank page, pulled up my knees, and started writing. I could not say why handwriting while riding a train had become the most inspirational method for me, but I did not argue it.

After I had emptied my bottle of water, the train started to get warmer. The sun penetrated the windows and trapped scents and auras of each occupant inside the car. I had put my feet on the floor and leaned over the notebook on my lap through several stops, but when my back grew stiff, I sat up and set the pen down to collect my thoughts. Unexpectedly, exhaustion caught up with me.

When I woke, I saw those red Chucks. Now, he blended into obscurity in his Primus tour tee and tight black jeans. At the edge of the sleeve, I caught a glimpse of a barb wire armband tattoo. He sat a few seats away on a bench facing the back of the train. I blinked in his direction and realized he had made eye contact, his eyes golden brown. He smiled. I looked down at my notebook as it slid off my lap. Realizing that my pen had gone missing, I set the book aside and looked around on the floor. I started to think it had rolled away when I finally spotted the white monogram under the seat across from me. I reached out to grab it and stuck it into my pocket with the mini notebook. Letting out a sigh, I waited to hear the conductor announce the next stop.

When the voice over the intercom indicated the stop near the city park, I glanced at the man for a reason I couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was intrigue, perhaps I felt attraction. He leaned back, reading the advertisements above the windows. I hurried through the doors as soon as they opened. I thought about walking around the park to stretch my legs before going home to get ready for work and little else. I needed the fresh air. I crossed to the park quickly and stood under the shade of a tree before removing my jacket. I tossed it on the ground while I stretched my back.

My eyes were closed, but I snapped to attention when I heard a voice behind me.

Most women don’t walk around this neighborhood without a companion or a damned good reason, it said.

I spun, seeing him standing before me with a large black case in his hand. I wondered if I should fear for my safety, but I didn’t feel the need. I met his gaze fearlessly.

Of course, I can think of a few guys who might think twice about it, too, so I’m not saying it’s just women, he added with a chuckle.

I nodded, no words coming to mind.

I could walk you to your destination if you’d like.

I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was explain behavior that would seem odd on the surface. Instead, I waved at his case. Smuggling power rifles, are we?

The look that briefly crossed his face made me think I’d said the wrong thing, but then he licked his lips. You never know. I perceived an attempt to sound menacing, though he wasn’t successful. He smiled as I studied a scar on his chin. I’m in a band, he said finally.

You play the drums, I suppose.

He chuckled. Bass guitar, to be exact.

Do you play anywhere?

Sometimes.

Where?

All over town, he responded.

I shifted, putting a hand on one hip. You know, I work at Titus. They feature local bands there every weekend.

We’ve auditioned there. Said we weren’t really Titus material, whatever that means.

It probably means you don’t suck. I paused. Well, not that I’m an expert, but I don’t think the bands that play there are much more than adequate. Three chord guitars, pathetic lyrics, and some pretty girl who can barely carry a tune, but she looks sexy when she bangs the tambourine off rhythm.

He laughed a little. You sound like an expert to me.

I like music. So what kind of music do you play?

Sort of punk, he replied. We’re called Nobody Dances Sober.

I nodded, knowingly. H.P. Lovecraft.

Nobody dances sober, we both began in unison, then grinned widely as we finished together, unless they happen to be insane! We laughed for a moment before he spoke again. Have you ever heard of us?

I shook my head. I’d like to hear more bands, but since I’m stuck at Titus most weekends my options are limited.

Are you a waitress?

Bartender, I responded. But I’m looking for something else.

We’ve got a gig tonight at Skellington’s. You’re welcome to come.

I cocked my head. I have to work tonight, I said.

He pulled out a cell phone and glanced at it.

What time is it? I asked.

He squinted, then put it away. Almost six.

I nodded slowly.

I’m not keeping you from something, am I?

I shook my head.

So what kind of work are you looking for?

I let out a breath. I don’t know yet. It didn’t occur to me until graduation that a degree in English doesn’t get you very far.

He laughed. No it doesn’t. Our drummer feels the same way.

Oh?

He didn’t graduate, though. Dropped out in the last year.

I don’t really care what I find. I just want a job that allows me more freedom on the weekends. Now that I don’t have school to worry about anymore, I want my weekends free to do the things I couldn’t do while working. I found myself fiddling with my fingers as I shifted again. I picked up my jacket. I guess I should be going, I said, heading back toward the train.

Where are you headed?

I have to ride the train home. I just got off to stretch my legs.

He nodded, smiling. If you ever make it to a show, be sure to say hello, he added at the last second.

I will, I said softly as I headed back toward the train stop.

* * *

I spent the weekend working and the next week I filled with applications, interviews, coffee, and alcohol. For some strange reason, I thought a piece of paper would make me marketable; show me as trainable. Apparently, English had become completely useless in the modern world, but since I rather enjoyed pouring drinks, I couldn’t complain too much. The main problem was that I spent my weekends behind the bar instead of in front of it. Every guy thought he was the original master of comedy and pick-ups when he saw me standing before him with an adult beverage in my hands. I had learned to tune them out.

Four in the morning a week or two later, I found myself desperate for a cigarette with none in sight. I could have thrown on a dirty shirt, but as I stood in my bra, I had an epiphany. I opened the closet and pulled out my black fleece jacket. Throwing it on, I grabbed my keys and headed for the front door.

As long as I found myself at the store, I thought I would treat myself to a candy bar. Standing before the rack, debating my options based on the ratio of nuts to chocolate, I reached into my pockets. Finding a pen there, I took it out and looked at it for a moment. Normally a pen would not be remarkable, but the one I held in my hand was the exact one I had accidentally stolen from the bank. It had their distinctive white monogram on it. All at once, I thought of the last time I had it and reached back into my pocket for the little yellow notebook. Finding it empty, I switched hands and checked the other pocket. In a moment of panic, I stuck my hands in both pockets. I could not say for sure why I felt panic by a missing notebook except that I had kept so many notes in it,. Those notes could never be replaced as life never repeats itself so perfectly because if it did, it would be too dull to consider for writing. Sighing, I grabbed my standby favorite chocolate bar and headed for the aisle of office supplies. Though I kept a small collection of notebooks, I felt a need to buy a new one to replace the lost one. As though choosing the perfect diamond bracelet, I stood in the aisle for almost an hour before selecting just the right book and taking it to the register with my chocolate bar.

With a lit cigarette between two fingers, I wrote a note in the new book about the facial tattoo on the female employee behind the counter and considered friendships. I had never been very good at making friends and the few friends I had from college had moved on. They left college with careers and for my ex-roommates and closest friends, those careers took them to exotic locales such as Chattanooga, Tennessee and Minneapolis, Minnesota; two places I would never clamor to visit. Social media was the norm for those relationships before we graduated. Maybe if I had made small talk with that cashier, I wouldn't be wondering about who to talk to when I needed ideas of who to talk to.

Chapter 3

Eighteen weeks seemed to fly by before the expensive business outfit I had purchased paid off and I finally told my boss at Titus that he needed to find a replacement.

For two weeks, I doubled as Social Media Guru (in training) by day and bartender by night. It worked perfectly that I finished learning the steep curve of handling social media for a huge publishing company at the same time I finished my last shifts at Titus.

By the time those weeks had passed I had forgotten about the notebook. Mostly I thought about the relief of leaving the bar as there was a certain amount of tension between myself and one of the other bartenders. I spent my last night listening to the random bits of conversation and ridiculous drunken claims of the bar patrons and contemplated how little I would miss those things. On my way out, I took the latest issue of the weekly underground paper which Titus constantly pushed because they had just increased their ad space to a full page. It often had interesting articles and views from a different perspective so I did not object.

At home, I put up my feet and opened the paper, turning pages one by one until I saw the local band reviews. Nobody Dances Sober finally had their moment in print and at the end of the paragraph the critic listed their next two scheduled appearances. I left the paper open on the coffee table to remind myself that I should make weekend plans.

When Saturday came, I found myself embroiled in a battle with a computer program which I had boasted myself ‘more than competent’ to my new boss, Mr. Hinkle. Complete darkness had fallen on the rest of the apartment as I stared into the bright light of the monitor before I had enough. I slammed my hand on the mouse, jumped to my feet, snatched my wallet and keys from the table as I passed, and slammed the door behind me as I left.

I still hadn’t decided for certain if I was going to the club when I left my apartment. I had been back and forth on the subject for the second half of the week. Part of me thought of the meeting with the stranger as a simple moment. Another part of me was curious. Amongst a few other parts, there was a new part; the one that just wanted to get the hell out and have a few drinks. I just wanted to deal with it tomorrow. Tomorrow, surely, I’d work out the kinks.

* * *

I took the train, as usual, because it was my favorite form of transportation. I could buy a monthly pass and then spend only a little on cabs when the buses and trains weren’t running. When I got off, I had a four block walk to Skellington’s, but I didn’t mind. I half-jogged most of the way.

Already packed, I heard only a combination of noises until I pushed my way further into the crowd. Once I saw the man from the train, head bowed, fingers jumping on the bass guitar, I let myself really hear the tune. The fast, dark tones hypnotized a chunk of the crowd into a dance which revolved around bouncing. I made my way back to the bar and ordered a drink.

Three drinks later, I made my way back into the crowd and started to dance along. What I could make out sounded good to me. Nearing the stage, I danced and watched these young men playing their instruments. The completely bald singer played an electric guitar with simple chords, his pale skin absorbing the stage lights. Beside him, the one I knew from the train played while it looked like he was thinking about something else altogether. He wore a Nirvana tee with green cargo denims and his hair stood up in short spikes. Behind them, the drummer had wildly spiky black hair and soft brown skin, his beat fast and intense. I saw a tattoo on his arm and another peeking up through the neck of his shirt. Opposite the bassist, they had another electric guitar. This one played notes quickly, his fingers almost a blur as the right hand flicked in syncopated movements. His slightly longer, red hair brushed back and forth across his face as he moved to the beat from the drum.

I found myself enthralled, becoming part of the hypnosis. Women stood at the stage hollering cat-calls to the band members. I could see right away that the drummer and the bass player were both a little flirty. The bass player would offer a little wink or a smile, but the drummer was trouble. He liked to stick out his tongue and flip his middle finger in their direction. That only enticed some of the women more. It had been so long since I had been clubbing and before I became a bartender I’d spent little time around live bands so I found the entire atmosphere stimulating.

The night progressed and I had another drink or two, losing count because my mind was on the band. They finished their set and began to pack up as a woman with short red hair stepped onto the stage by Drummer’s invitation. Within moments, she began touching his arm and laughing too hard. I rolled my eyes and touched the bassist as he passed. He stopped, staring blankly as he took the strap from around his neck and shoulder.

I was right. You are too good for Titus.

He furrowed his brow before he recognized me with a snap, I assumed, by the way he suddenly lifted his chin and grinned. From the train, he said simply.

I nodded. I liked it. You guys are really good, I said, then looked toward the bar to make it look like I wasn’t one of those annoying flirts. I thought about getting one last drink before calling a cab.

The options I pondered were interrupted when he grasped my arm and tugged. Come with me, he said, walking toward the dark hallway behind the stage.

I went along willingly, the dark hallway leading to a door. On the other side of it, we could hear each other better, though my ears were still muffling every sound. I watched him a moment as he squatted and placed his black and white guitar in a case before speaking. Can I help you with something? I offered.

Carefully folding the strap, he then placed it in a pocket and zipped up the case. When he straightened, he met my gaze with a shake of his head. I just thought you might like to hang out. We usually have a couple drinks after the show. The guys were saying they’re hungry so we might even go to an all night diner.

I blinked before I could answer. Sounds like fun. I heard the hesitancy in my own voice.

He chuckled as he put a hand to his temple. Oh God. We didn’t even do the name thing. Moving the hand from his head toward me, he stiffened. I’m Peter, he said, but barely got the words out before the band entered with their equipment and the red-headed woman. The woman and Drummer laughed expressively while the other two tried to talk over each other. They entered without acknowledging me. Lead Singer immediately grabbed Peter by the shoulder. You fucked me up on that last song, he accused.

I don’t know what happened, Peter said lightly as he pushed Lead Singer away. Hey guys. I’ve got company. Do you mind if she stays to party?

The more the merrier, Drummer piped in, taking a step away from the red-headed woman.

Peter motioned around the room. First, he waved toward Lead Singer. This is Frick, he began, then pointed to the guitarist followed by the drummer. That’s Sir Gay and Wolf. He paused. I don’t know this lovely young fan, he said as he winked at the woman beside Wolf.

Cynthia, she said and giggled.

Peter glanced at me, then frowned. I didn’t get your name,

Charlotte Parker., I looked around. . Everyone calls me Charlie, I added.

Charlie, Peter repeated to everyone.

Somebody get me a beer, Frick said dryly.

Peter left my side to cross the room. As he got out a case of beer and opened it, I folded my arms. Wolf seemed very taken with Cynthia and she still laughed too hard at everything he said, touching