Friend Is Not a Verb (12 page)

I glanced around the room.

“It makes sense, right?” Emma said. “I mean, just as many people drink beer as they do wine. Beer deserves the same snootiness.”

Everyone was smiling. Apparently, Bartholomew Savage wasn’t talking about computers anymore. I didn’t know
what
he was talking about. This kind of thing had happened a few times before in the last few days. I’d zone out with Jim Forbes for a minute or two—and before I knew it, the tension would be gone and Emma and Petra and Bartholomew Savage would be sharing a new inside joke that I’d completely missed. I tried to smile along, but I felt as if I had tuned into a zany new reality show whose premise I didn’t understand. The fresh, fuzzy glow of the evening was beyond my reach. And I couldn’t ask them to repeat what they had said or I’d look like a moron. I wondered if this was what Gabriel had felt around Rich and Madeline and Tony.

“You’d have to use the same language as a wine tasting,” Petra said. “You’d have to describe the beer the way you’d describe a person. You know?”

“It’s an
aggressive
beer,” Emma suggested, “but coquettish at the same time.”

“Yes,” Bartholomew Savage agreed. “It skips the foreplay and goes straight for the intercourse.”

“Right, right,” Emma said. She sat up straight, eyeing her bagged bottle thoughtfully. “Drinking this beer is like making love to a butch lesbian in prison.”

The three of them laughed together. “Haw, haw, haw. Hee, hee, hee.”

I tried to smile. It didn’t really work. Nice. I was a loser and outsider in my own home. No big deal, though. I was still excited about the gig. Like Emma had said, I was “up.” Or I could pretend to be. Dawson’s Freak had begun its rocket ride to the top. We would blow everyone’s minds Wednesday night—and then Emma and Petra would forget all about beer tasting or prison sex or whatever it was their new girl club plus one was talking about. They’d only remember I was the glue that bound our strange little posse together.

The morning of the gig, Gabriel offered me these ridiculous words of advice: “When you’re onstage tonight, don’t look out at the audience until halfway through your second song. Then make eye contact with Emma.”

I was sitting on the edge of his futon, plucking out the
“Oedipus Wrecks” riff for the nine hundredth time. He was nodding his head in rhythm, sipping a Bloody Mary.

“And why on earth would I do that?” I asked.

“Because that’s how long it generally takes for the wall of make-believe to go up. Once it’s up, you can see the truth.”

I glanced up at him. “Did you start drinking before I got here?”

He laughed and scratched his belly through his flimsy T-shirt. “Every gig you play has a wall of make-believe,” he stated. “It goes up when you’re pretty well into it. It’s that magical point when the people you’re performing for, your closest friends, actually
buy
into the role you’re all playing. You’re the professional musician, putting on a show. They’re the audience members, digging it. At that moment, you
are
a rock star.”

My fingers began to ache. I stopped playing. “Do you think maybe you could talk to me the way normal people talk for once?” I asked tiredly. “You know, instead of like some cult leader or infomercial scam artist?”

He upended the glass and drained it, then plunked it on top of the amp, where it teetered dangerously for a few seconds before wobbling to a standstill. “You sound a lot like Sarah sometimes,” he said with a sigh.

Ugh.
Reminding him of my sister was definitely not territory I wanted to explore. “Hey, speaking of Sarah, do you have any idea when she’ll be back?” I asked flatly.

He flashed me his usual, half-apologetic, half–Cheshire
Cat grin. There were bits of tomato juice stuck in his teeth. “Soon, I hope. This wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to figure this part out together.”

“Oh, yeah? Go on. I’m listening.”

“Aren’t you more interested in learning how the wall of make-believe allows you to see the truth?” he asked. “It’ll be important for tonight.”

I blinked at him several times, my jaw clenched.

“I guess not,” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you, anyway. That’s the kind of bass teacher I am. See, there will be a moment tonight where Emma will feel safe enough to show you how she really feels. You onstage, her in the audience…Just watch her body language. That’s when you’ll
know
. If you wait until the middle of the second song, then look up, smile, and make eye contact—”

“I’m a lot more interested in talking about Sarah,” I interrupted.

“We are, in a way. Just let me finish.” He grabbed his glass and plodded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As always, my eyes guiltily darted toward the pile of manuscripts. It was a reflex I should really learn to quash. I’d make a terrible criminal. I
was
a terrible criminal. “The moment I’m describing…I had it with Sarah at the last gig Friends ever played,” he said. I could hear him refilling his drink, the quiet chug-chug-chug of a big bottle of vodka. “We never talked about it. But I still
know
.”

“Know
what
?” I demanded.

“That we were more than just friends, and we always would be.”

I tossed the bass onto the mattress. “So let me get this straight. If I look at Emma in the middle of the second song at the gig tonight, and make eye contact with her, I’ll know she really
is
the cheese to my macaroni.”

“Yes! You’re catching on.”

My shoulders sagged. I was too fed up to be annoyed anymore. “Fine. But let’s make a bet, all right? If I do everything you say, and there’s no magic moment between Emma and me, then tomorrow, you
have
to tell me why you and Sarah ran away and came back. Okay?”

He poked his head around the corner. His rheumy eyes twinkled. “I’m sorry, Hen. I’m not the gambling sort. I deal in absolutes.”

“Jesus, Gabriel.”

“All right, I’ll tell you this. If you want to understand why Sarah and I came back, read
No Exit
by Jean-Paul Sartre. Then you’ll know.”

No Exit
, I thought to myself, suppressing a puzzled grin. Coincidentally enough, I
had
read it—for Intro to Philosophy last year. “Isn’t that about a bunch of dead people trapped in hell?” I asked him.

He smiled sadly. “Exactly, Hen. That’s exactly what it is. And I think that ends our bass lesson for today.”

Emma was right: The Bimbo Lounge
was
a dump.

When I first walked through the door, I honestly thought that I had made some kind of mistake—that the club had moved from its original location, or that they were renovating…or
something
. This couldn’t be the place, the famous underground spot where David Bowie had played an impromptu acoustic set. It was smaller than my living room. The floor was strewn with cigarette butts—odd, as smoking in bars is illegal in New York. The bar against the right-hand wall was only about ten feet long.

“Hello?” I called.

Nobody answered. I shivered—partly from nervousness, and partly because it was so cold. The air-conditioning was
cranked. It felt like a walk-in freezer. I shifted my bass case from one hand to the other and peered toward the tiny stage in back. Bartholomew Savage had promised me that I wouldn’t need to bring my awesome bass rig. He and Petra were still outside, unloading our equipment from a cab. But all I could see were two monitors, two mic stands, and a tangled web of wires. There were no amplifiers. Where would I plug in? Would I have to rush back home to get my rig? Even if I did, I couldn’t see where I would put it. The stage didn’t look big enough for a drum kit, let alone anything else…

“Oi!” a voice barked.

I jumped. A punk rocker poked his head out of the small sound booth next to the door. He looked and sounded exactly like Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols. The resemblance was shocking. He had the same ghoulish complexion and spiky hair; he even had the same chain-and-padlock necklace.

“Nobody’s allowed in till eight,” he growled.

“But I’m playing tonight,” I answered meekly. I waved my bass case, as if to prove it.

“You Spacetime Logic?”

I blinked.

“What
band
?” he snapped.

“Dawson’s Freak,” I said.

He laughed. “Right. Victor’s little brother’s band.” Something in his tone suggested that the Bimbo Lounge might as well have booked a sock puppet show to fill the eight o’clock slot. He disappeared down a hidden stairwell. It was strange;
my life was inexplicably top-heavy with British assholes: this guy, Mrs. Abrahmson…

The door opened. Bartholomew shambled past me with his kick drum case and dumped it onstage. I felt better with him around. He was practically family at this place. His presence lent mine credibility. And in the red light, he really looked amazing. He’d spiked his hair. He was wearing leather pants. Bartholomew Savage was the only kid I knew who could wear leather pants and still be taken seriously by girls. I probably should have tried to dress up a little more. I was wearing a pair of old brown cords and a black T-shirt: the same outfit I had been wearing all day. I looked like a geek and smelled like an old English bulldog.

“Did you meet Sid?” Bartholomew Savage asked.

My eyes narrowed. “The sound guy?”

He nodded, then tiptoed over and leaned close to me. “His accent is fake,” he whispered. “He’s really from Great Neck. His name is Isaac Mendel. But he’s got mad skills. He worked on an Elefant record.”

Wonderful. Yet another lunatic in our midst. A lunatic responsible for engineering our demo, no less. But at least he had “mad skills.” I put down my bass and followed Bartholomew Savage back onto the street. The evening sun seemed much hotter. Petra scrambled to gather her guitar and amplifier and effects pedals, but she could hardly manage. I stacked the last of the drum cases. All of us began to sweat.

“Hey…uh, can I ask you guys something?” I said. “Is
there a bass rig in there somewhere?”

Bartholomew Savage shook his head. “The bass always goes direct at Bimbo.”

Now I was scared. I’d never gone direct before: straight through a sound board, without any intermediary amplification. It didn’t seem right, somehow. A big electric bass needed a big bass amp.

“You sure that’ll work?” I asked, trailing him back inside.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to shut me up, or if he really knew what he was talking about. Despite the fact that Bartholomew Savage was two years younger than me, I always felt like a little boy around him. At fourteen, he’d already nailed the mature swagger of someone always on top of his game—a swagger I was certain would elude me until we were all rock stars (which we would be, soon enough).

Sid started setting up the mic stands. Petra and Bartholomew Savage joined him onstage. They had their own equipment to prepare. But I didn’t. All I had was my bass. I dropped off the drum cases and stood in the middle of the room, eyeing Petra. She’d dressed up for the gig, too. The ensemble was sort of painful: an oversized flannel shirt over a black cocktail dress, complete with a black wool cap, just like Emma had foretold. Was it a costume? Was it ironic? I couldn’t even tell anymore.

“’Ow many mics ya need, Bart?” Sid asked.

“Just one,” I said.

“I was talking to Bart,” Sid said.

Nobody spoke after that. As far as I could tell, the other
three were pretending to be extra busy so that I would feel useless—connecting cables, tightening screws, mounting drum microphones. I cast a longing gaze toward the exit.

“You wankers expecting a good crowd?” Sid asked. He carried one of the mic stands offstage.

Bartholomew Savage looked at me. Evidently, Sid wasn’t directing questions at him anymore. “Pretty good,” I piped up. I was lying.

“We set up a Facebook page,” Petra said. “We have two hundred eighty friends.”

Sid seemed unimpressed. “You gotta draw at least fifty real people if you wanna get booked here again. Did you make flyers?”

Petra and I exchanged a quick glance. I knew what she was thinking:
If only Emma hadn’t opened her mouth…
After her little Monday night rant, we’d felt too self-conscious to do anything other than update the news feed and pray for people to show.

“Army of the Night didn’t make flyers either,” Sid said. “Ever hear of them?”

Petra and I shook our heads.

“Of course you didn’t, wankers. ’Cause they didn’t make flyers. But, hey, it ain’t my fault if you don’t get another gig.” Sid headed toward the sound booth. “There’s a direct box on the floor,” he muttered to me. “Plug in there.”

“Hey, what’s the drinking policy?” I asked quickly. “Do bands drink for free?”

He sneered. “One soda, one Bud, or one Bud Light on tap. You pay for the rest. But that’s a moot point, mate. You’re underage and the bartender ain’t here. Now get onstage. You want a sound check or not?”

I swallowed. No beverages, no bass rig…the night was already falling apart, and it hadn’t even started. It was a very good thing that Emma’s dad didn’t know about this show. We could treat it as another rehearsal, preparing for the real deal: the big gig when we changed Donovan Wood’s life. The Bimbo Lounge was too small for us, anyway.

I took out my bass and slung it over my shoulder, then jumped onstage and plugged it into the tiny little black box on the floor. The instrument’s neck swung like a wrecking-ball crane, slamming into the hi-hat stand. Bartholomew Savage glared at me. “Oops,” I murmured. I grinned sheepishly and stood up straight. I had about six inches in either direction. If I moved too far to the left, I would bump into one of the crash cymbals. Too far to the right, I would fall off the stage.

“Play something,” Sid ordered. His voice blared from the monitors.

I peered into the dim red haze. Sid was only about twenty feet from me, but he looked very small and far away, hunched behind the sound board. I turned up the volume and plucked the E string. Nothing happened. I plucked it again. Still nothing.

“’Ow’s that sound?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I can’t hear it,” I yelled.

He frowned and adjusted some knobs. There was a screech of feedback. I winced.

“Try again,” he commanded. “And speak into the mic.”

I plucked the E string one more time. I could hear a faint rumble now, but it was distant and toneless, as if it were coming from another building.

“I’m sorry,” I said into the microphone. “Could I just get a little more bass in the monitor?”

“Oi!” His voice boomed back at me. “You think I don’t know how it sounds up there? I engineered Shaquille O’Neal’s last album. Now let’s hear the kick drum.”

I glanced at Bartholomew Savage. He was still glaring at me. I figured that meant my part of the sound check was over.

The bartender didn’t arrive until 7:50. She was about thirty-five, with a hard face and heavy black eyeliner. Steal Your Parents’ Money was tattooed down her arm in tiny gothic letters.

I smiled at her. I told her that I was the bassist for Dawson’s Freak and that I wanted to cash in my one Coke on tap. She didn’t say a word. Her face registered no response. Maybe she was a deaf-mute. She drew the Coke, though. I guzzled it while Petra and Bartholomew Savage argued with Sid about the process of recording our show.

“All we need is a quarter-inch adapter,” Petra said.

“That still doesn’t solve the problem,” Sid said.

“It does if you bypass the effects loop,” Bartholomew Savage said.

I tuned them out and finished my free soda. Then I bought one. For once, Jim Forbes had nothing to say. I calculated how much this gig was costing me: seventeen bucks for the cab ride each way, a two-dollar soda so far…far more than I made in a day walking Bonzo and Ox. I was
losing
money. Petra and Sid and Bartholomew Savage kept talking. The room was deserted. I wondered where Emma was. She wouldn’t have flaked on this…would she?

By 8:15, the only other people who showed were the members of Spacetime Logic, the band who was due to take the stage after us. They were all wearing black suits with skinny ties: an eighties nostalgia act, from what I could tell. They looked like jackasses. I began to get panicky. Finally, when I’d resigned myself to the fact Emma had decided not to come and that I hated her and we’d never be friends again ever, she strolled leisurely through the door. It was almost 8:30. Her hair was rattier than usual. She looked as if she’d tumbled out of bed. Literally. She was wearing a pajama top over a T-shirt.

“Hello, Cleveland!” she said, sitting on the stool beside me. “Hey, how come I’m not on the guest list?”

“I don’t think there is a list,” I said.

“There’s always a list.” She looked around and smirked. “What’s with the red lights? Do they develop photos in here, too? Like as an incentive to keep customers on the premises?”

“Emma, I’m really not in the mood,” I muttered.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “So what’s with the long face? Are you nervous?”

“Nah. I’m just conducting my own little soda-tasting here.” I took a sip and arched an eyebrow. “This one tastes like a guy who spent all night in the gutter.”

She stopped smiling. “Hen, seriously. You didn’t get wasted for the first time in your life or anything did you? I’ve quit drinking, myself.”

A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“Time to start, mate,” Sid growled in my ear. “I ain’t waitin’ around all night.”

Petra and Bartholomew Savage were already climbing onstage. I glanced around the bar. There were a total of nine people present, including Sid and the bartender. Nine. Forty-one less than the number we needed to get booked here again. Forty-three if you didn’t count employees; forty-seven if you didn’t count the other band. An audience of three, basically: Emma, plus a twentysomething couple I’d never seen before.

And no Sarah, obviously. Of course not. She’d “hoped” to get home in time for the gig, but she just hadn’t “hoped” hard enough. Too bad. Because I’d been harboring a particularly idiotic fantasy, too shameful even to share really, but what the hell…I’d fantasized that Gabriel
was
right, that a wall of make-believe
would
go up (though not in the way he’d predicted) and that Sarah and I would make eye contact, and she would suddenly realize—while basking in the mellifluous thud of my Godlike bass riffs (like I said: idiotic fantasy)—that it was beyond cruel to hide anything anymore to her little brother…and as soon as the show was over, she would drag
me off the stage and confess, confess, confess.

Well. So much for all that. And Emma was wrong. Getting wasted for the first time in my life probably would have been a great idea. I slunk off the barstool and took my place next to the crash cymbal.

The lights went up.

At first I couldn’t see a thing. I squinted into a shadowy reddish-black void. After a few seconds, my eyes began to adjust to the glare. I wish they hadn’t.

“Woo-hoo!” Emma cried, clapping. She was the only one making any noise. “Rock and roll, baby! Who loves the nineties? We do!
Viva las noventa
!”

I caught a glimpse of her, standing by the bar. She was in a great mood, wasn’t she? Of course: She’d predicted that we would bomb. Then her smile widened. Uh-oh. Bad sign. I knew that look in her eye; I knew exactly what she was about to do. Ten-to-one she would also do it at the Journey concert two nights from now to rag on her father. But tonight was different. Tonight she
was
her father. The transformation was complete; all she lacked was the gelatinous neck.

Don’t do it,
I silently begged.
Please—

“Disco sucks!” she howled gleefully. She thrust her right fist in the air, pinky and forefinger raised in the heavy-metal horn salute. “Disco sucks!”

The set was a disaster. If a wall of make-believe had gone up, it didn’t do anyone present any good. I couldn’t hear a
thing except the drums and Petra’s piercing vocals. But I went through the motions as gamely as I could, struggling to keep my balance so I wouldn’t fall off the stage—until my D string broke. It was one of the few times the bass was audible. We were nearing the end of our only cover (a stripped-down version of Beck’s “Loser”) when there was a pop, and Petra’s guitar went horrendously out of tune. She grimaced at me, eyes blazing. It took me a second to realize that it wasn’t her guitar; it was my bass, but the mix was so bad that I couldn’t tell one instrument from the other.

I sat out for the remainder of the song. Somewhere in there I snuck a frightened peek at the nearly deserted room, and I noticed Emma was missing. (So much for Gabriel’s big momentous prediction for us. He truly
was
a jackass, wasn’t he?) Then I tried playing the last two numbers with three strings. I kept hitting bad notes. It didn’t matter, though; the sound was mush, and there was a huge commotion at the door, and nobody was listening anyway. As I later found out, some of Bartholomew Savage’s friends were trying to get in, but for reasons unknown the bouncer had suddenly decided to start carding at 9:30.