Stay Until We Break (4 page)

“Cheers!” he says. “I’m Howie. Welcome to Ohio!”

We happen to be staying at Pain of Pestilence’s house tonight, so I don’t want to be rude. I accept the drink and we clink glasses as Soft starts playing “Fake Tan.” Here’s where I look back at the stage and notice Cole is actually watching me, which is odd. He should be paying attention to this change into the chorus or he’s going to miss it. I look behind me to see what the hell he’s looking at. Oh, the merchandise table isn’t being manned and there are people there. I head back and I’m already buzzed from how much whiskey I’ve had, but it’s fine. It’s Saturday night, right? As long as I’m not sloshed when Soft finish their set, no harm done.

I take a seat behind the merch table and Howie kicks the bassist out of his seat and takes it. I notice there don’t seem to be a lot of folks interested in Pain of Pestilence T-shirts, not sure why since they have a lovely crucified maggot on them. Meanwhile, I’m selling a ton of Soft singles and have picked up twenty mailing list names by the time Soft’s set is done. As I’m trying to make change correctly with a whiskey-flavored buzz, Howie is chatting with me about the Jersey metal scene and Monster Magnet and Nudeswirl and I try to explain we really don’t know any of those guys personally, and Nudeswirl just broke up and the entire town is in mourning. But that doesn’t diminish Howie’s interest in talking my ear off.

After their set is over, Soft unload their gear off the stage. Cole walks by carrying Joey’s kick drum and does a double take. I look down and realize I’ve finished my second drink, and I’m a lightweight, so I have a serious buzz on now. Oh, well. It’s the road, right?

“You want another?” Howie asks.

“I’m good,” I say.

“Come on, it’s Saturday night!” he says. “Let’s party!”

“Oh, I’m partying,” I say. “I’m a walking party of one.”

“Let’s make it for two, then.” He smiles and gets up and goes to the bar.

I look up and see Cole standing at the side of the merchandise table, sweating through his Black Flag T-shirt, hands on his hips, looking at me.

“What’s up?” he asks. How the hell does he stand there post-set, all sweaty, and still make me want to jump him? “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” I must be leering at him because he gives me a funny look. I look down my dress to make sure it’s buttoned and not stuck in my underwear or anything. “I guess I’m all right. And you’re all right, too, you know that?”

“How many of those have you had?” He’s looking down at my empty glass.

“Just two drinks,” I say. My tongue seems to be involuntarily darting out and licking the corners of my lips. “Two strong-enough-for-a-man, made-for-a-woman drinks.”

“Jesus, Sonia.”

“What?”

I have a funny feeling when he breaks out the “Sonia” that I’m in some sort of trouble, but what does he care if I’ve had a couple of drinks? It’s not like I can’t count money, and I’ll be fine in half an hour. Howie comes back and puts another drink down in front of me and Cole stares at the glass like Howie just handed me a pint of devil’s semen and I’m about to be inducted into the Secret Pestilence Order.

“Hey, man, great set!” Howie says to Cole, slapping him on the back. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Sure, thanks,” Cole answers, and then he takes my glass and drinks from it.

“Uh, that was hers,” Howie says and laughs. Maybe he laughs because he’s just an easygoing guy, or maybe it’s because Cole is more than a full head taller than he is, but Howie is looking a little unsure now. Cole stares back at him, and definitely not in a friendly way. Then he looks down at me.

“You don’t mind sharing, do ya, Sunshine?”

“Nope,” I say. “Share away.”

“Oh hey, man,” Howie says. “She’s with you? I didn’t know.”

“No worries,” Cole says. I sit there with my mouth hanging open and I don’t say anything that would correct Howie’s misunderstanding, even though part of my brain is feeling like I should. “If you’re heading to the bar, though, a bottle of water would be great.”

“Sure thing,” Howie says, and then heads off. Cole takes Howie’s seat next to me.

“You’re totally cock blocking me.” I’m kidding, of course, but I guess he’s not.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and I’m getting pretty uncomfortable with the unamused look on his face.

“What?”

“You, letting some strange metalhead get you drunk. You’re the last person I’d expect to need a babysitter.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Now I’m pissed. “I
am
the babysitter in this outfit. And I’m not drunk, I’m just a little buzzed.”

Howie comes back with a bottle of water and Cole hands it to me. Then he gets up and walks off with my drink and hands it to Emmy! The nerve. A minute later he’s in typical Cole mode, chatting with three girls with permed hair and cemented wall o’bangs, smiling and sparkling like the adorable fucking machine he is. And now I’m fuming.

“No offense, but your boyfriend is kind of a dick,” Howie says.

I don’t correct him on either point. I ask him to watch the table for me while I grab Emmylou and head to our office, the ladies’ room.

“Do I seem drunk to you?” I ask her, checking myself out in the mirror.

“Hmm,” she says, smoothing my hair and then fixing the tag in my dress so it isn’t sticking out. “Maybe a little buzzed? You do seem kind of pissed off, though. More than usual, I mean.”

“Great,” I answer. I hand her the band cash and ask her to man the table for a few so I can get some air. Then out of spite, or maybe for courage, or maybe because I’m stupid, I down the rest of her drink. That’s about two-thirds of it, which is too much, way too fast given how buzzed I’m already feeling.

“Whoa, dude,” she says. “What’s gotten into you?”

“That was my drink,” I say. “I was just letting you borrow it.”

“Okay, but . . .” she says. “Are you all right?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, and I’m perfectly all right if by “all right” she means “completely fucked up.”

I march out of the restroom, leaving a bewildered Emmylou behind holding an empty whiskey glass, and stomp my Doc Martens right over to Cole, interrupting him in the middle of some conversation about skateboards with two girls who look as much like skaters as Tony Hawk looks like a stripper. I stand there, my face hot, my arms folded in front of my chest, until he interrupts his conversation to give me the once-over.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I need you to come with me out to the van for a minute,” I say. Or, at least I think that’s what I’m saying.

“Joey’s out there. You’ll be fine,” he says. I don’t move. I might be swaying, or maybe it’s the room. Cole does a double take and excuses himself, motioning for me to head out, and follows me. I’m trailing my hand along the wall to help keep me steady when I feel Cole’s hand in mine, and he gives it a squeeze.

“Christ almighty, you’re ripped,” he says. “Don’t tell me Mr. Pain bought you another drink, or he and I are going to have a little talk.”

“Shut up,” I say. “I’m twenty-one and I can drink as much as I want.”

“Watch it or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and put you to bed,” he says. “Again.”

Outside, even the still night air is a relief. I take a big gulping breath of it. Cole leads me to the van, and I can’t help but stare at his ass in those dark gray Dickies and think very impure thoughts. We see Joey and Gregor hanging outside while Gregor has a cigarette.

“Whoa, what’s up with Sunny?” Joey asks.

“Why are you asking him? I’m right here.” I thrust my finger at his chest, and I’m eyeball to nipple with Joey. “Right where your mom left me.”

“Holy shit,” Joey says and laughs. “She’s fucking wasted.”

“Tell me about it,” Cole says.

“Is that nice?” I say. “Is that a nice thing to say about someone who’s right here?”

“What are you going to do with her?” Gregor asks. “She’s probably going to hurl.”

“No I’m not,” I say. “I’m German. Germans never hurl.”

“Come on, Sunshine, let’s walk it off,” Cole says, putting his arm around my shoulders and steering me away. Now I’m staggering as he sort of drags me to the van. He opens the side door, hops in, and pulls the cooler out, and I stare at his ass again as he’s on his hands and knees. I reach my hands out like a pervert, just pretending I would ever have the courage to grab it. I misjudge how close I am and he backs out ass first, right into my hands, and I freeze, basically cupping Cole’s very well-toned skater butt. He turns and gives me the eye over his shoulder.

“Um,” I say, lowering my hands as I turn bright red. “I lost my balance for a second.”

He climbs out of the van and gives me a bottle of water. “Drink that.”

I take a sip, then another, and that’s better. I take a deep breath, and why is he staring at me like that? I look down to make sure nothing is hanging out of my dress. I fan myself, but it’s still getting hot in here. Or out here.

“So why did you cock block me in there?” I say. “Maybe I like metal, did you ever think of that?”

“Yeah? Then why didn’t you ask Howie Pain to take you out to the van? I’m sure he would have been happy to get under that dress of yours.”

“What do you care? Aren’t you well on your way to your second ménage à trois in two nights?”

“Do you have a problem with my sleeping arrangements, Sonia?” And he deadpans it, all sarcastic like he wasn’t fucking two girls last night.
My sleeping arrangements,
my ass.

“Not at all,” I deadpan right back. “Sleep with however many whores you like. Like Goddamn always.”

“Oh, so you
are
mad about that,” he says and grins. “If I’d known how much you cared, I would have invited you to join in.”

“I don’t care,” I say, and I try to laugh but it comes out all forced. I can’t tell if I’m hot or embarrassed, but I definitely feel like I’m about to break a sweat. “I’m just, you know, impressed.”

“Well, it wasn’t very impressive,” he says.

“Why? What, um, happened?” I ask, because there’s an acutely horny part of me that is drunk enough to ask and desperately wants to hear all the details of the answer.

“Not much,” he says. “Don’t tell Joey—he’ll be crushed.”

“What does ‘not much’ mean? You guys played checkers all night?”

He leans on the door over me and looks down, pauses.

“You really want to know?”

Oh, I definitely do. I nod and bite my tongue to keep myself from saying something stupid. More stupid, I mean. I take a sip of water. “Yeah, just, you know. Curious.”

He leans down so we’re eye-level, and the way he’s looking me over makes me gulp. He lowers his voice, all gravelly when he speaks into my ear. “Well, they were really into being watched. So they both got naked and I watched Diane put her head between Marilyn’s legs and lick her out until she came.”

I choke and almost spew water all over him. “Oh my God,” I say. “Did you . . . you know?”

“Did I what?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing.”

“Did I come?” he says, and I swear I can feel his lips along the edge of my ear. “You want to know if I came?”

I can’t answer. I take another drink of water but miss my mouth, spilling it all over my own face and down my dress. He tries not to laugh and grabs the roll of paper towels from the van. I take them but fumble the roll to the ground. When I bend to pick it up, I spill more water on myself. He leans down to help me, and as he’s crouching there with the roll of paper towels our eyes meet and I drunkenly decide fuck it all, I’m going to jump him. But instead of waiting for him to be on his feet, I launch myself at him and knock him off balance so that he falls into the door and hits his head and I somehow end up sitting on top of him.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask, checking his scalp for blood. The worst part is that I’m laughing while I do it. Laughing at people in pain is this terrible nervous thing I do, sealing my reservation for an eternal seat in hell.

“Damn, Sunny, are you trying to kill me?” he asks, rubbing his head.

“No,” I say. “I was trying to jump you.”

“Here? In the parking lot?”

“Well?” I’m still sitting on top of him as he props himself up. “Yes?”

In the swimming chaos of my head there’s a pause where Cole is just smiling at me in this way that makes me wish I was sober so I could never forget it. But if I wasn’t drunk, never in a million years would I have the courage to take his face in my hands the way I do and kiss him on the forehead. I pull away and he’s got an entirely different look on his face now. I feel his hands on my back, warm and strong, and I put my lips to his, but instead of kissing me, he hesitates and stiffens and oh no, I’m drunk and I’ve read this situation all wrong. I pull back. “Oh God, I’m really sorry,” I say. “I thought . . .”

He pulls me back down and covers my mouth with his. I feel his tongue push into my mouth but then it’s gone and I feel his teeth on my lower lip, his forehead rocking to touch mine, and his hand tight in my hair at the back of my head, and oh God, oh God I can feel him thick and hard between my legs. And as I’m straddling him in a dress, I realize there’s only the thinnest scrap of my underwear between me and his Dickies.

“You should be sorry,” he says. “Because I can’t fuck you when you’re this drunk.”

“How drunk do I have to be?” I ask. “The night is young.”

Cole

Of course I didn’t fuck her—but she did absolutely nothing to make it easy on me. She’s lucky I don’t put her over my knee in that librarian dress and spank her until her glasses are crooked and she’s begging me to fuck her. And then I’ll say no unless she fucking promises me she’ll never let some strange guy in a bar get her that drunk again.

Late in the morning, Joey, Trap, and I wait in the parking lot outside of Pestilence’s apartment for Emmy and Sonia to come down so we can hit the road. I ended up sleeping with the gear last night just so I wouldn’t be tempted to punch Howie’s face in. I can’t fucking stand guys like that, don’t care how fast he backed off after I cock blocked him. What would he have pulled with Sunny if I hadn’t been there? Can’t even think about that or I’ll go back in there, and we don’t need the drama. I spent only five minutes upstairs using the bathroom, all the while he was in the kitchen stroking his goatbeard, waxing with Emmy about Beta 58s. What a fucking tool.

The girls finally come outside and Sunshine’s wearing these huge, dark sunglasses and says no more than two words to anybody. She’s so hungover I doubt she even remembers half the crazy, dirty, amazing shit she said to me last night. But I sure as hell do, all curled up in my lap, kissing my neck, basically arguing that I should be doing her right there in the back of the van. Talk about sick irony. Then she said, “Did you know you’re the star of my favorite wet dream?”

“Oh yeah? What did I do to deserve that distinction? Feel free to be specific.” I’m going to hell, I know. No need to remind me.

“You did a lot of very bad, wrong things,” she said, dragging her lips down my neck, slurring her words into my skin.

“I would never do bad, wrong things to you, I swear. I would only ever do very, very good wrong things to you. The best wrong things.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Hmm . . . maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

“Can’t you show me now? We’ve got a little time before they come out here.”

“Sweetheart, nobody should be showing you anything when you’re this drunk except where the Alka-Seltzer is in the medicine cabinet.”

She stopped kissing my neck just so she could give me the evil eye.

“Are you always such a gentleman? It’s kind of annoying.”

“Yeah? You know what else is kind of annoying? You hopping into my lap all drunk and giving me a hard-on I can’t give right back to you. Twice.”

“Oh my God, you did not just say that!”

“In fact, I did.”

Then she shifted so she could put her hand in my lap, her eyes wide as dinner plates when she got her hand on my dick, and fuck me if I’m not a prince for not getting up under that dress myself and letting her have it right there and then. It’s not like she didn’t want it. My problem is, she only seems to want it when she’s too drunk to get it.

I pulled her hand off of me and held it, all warm and soft and relaxed from all the booze. Sonia has solid hands, hands meant to get shit done. Not frail or fragile at all. Nothing about her is frail or fragile, which might be why it’s so funny to see her get that drunk and need someone to look after her.

And it kind of surprises me how much I don’t mind being that guy.

***

With the stereo cranked, we roll on to Charlottesville and I can’t stop smiling like a kid as I watch the world go by. I never mention to the others that this trip is already the furthest I’ve ever been from home, although Joey knows I didn’t have the family-trip-to-Disney childhood he had. Growing up, vacation for me and Claire meant Dad was going to be around on the weekend and Mom was sending us down the block to Joey’s so we wouldn’t be there to see them drink themselves into a stupor. I was eleven the last time, and we came home to a mother with two black eyes. After that she couldn’t get me to leave for even an hour whenever that bastard was home, and then it was me who wound up with the black eyes or busted lip or countless other marks that motherfucker left on me until I got big enough to hit back. But so what? He’s gone and I’m still here and that’s the whole point.

I didn’t break.

Trap is blasting Helmet as loud as the stereo can go, singing along at the top of his lungs, and it’s just what I need right now.

“Fuck yes, why don’t we cover this?” Emmy hollers from the backseat when “Meantime” comes on. “The crowd at Stache’s would have loved this last night!”

She’s right, we should learn this one. Or they should. My stomach knots when I think of them playing without me, think of the moment I have to tell them I’m done. It feels so good when we all scream along with Page Hamilton,
Hold it . . . In the meantime!

In the meantime, that’s right. In the meantime I may as well be right the hell here, right where I am. Right with these people who ask only that I play my face off onstage every night, and I’m more than happy to oblige. This is probably the last time in a very long time that I’ll go anywhere worth going, and I’m glad it’s with them.

“I’ll be back in three weeks,” I said to my mother as I was telling her and Claire about the tour.

“It’s a waste of time. Uncle Patty is nagging me every day to get you back up here to help him.”

“I have to do this—it’s important. I’m not going to let Joey, Emmy, and Travis down. They’re family.”

That was the wrong thing to say to Katelyn McCormack. The look in Mom’s eye made me feel small again, but I didn’t flinch. It’s been years since she’s backhanded me—not since she quit drinking—so I guess I’ve outgrown the reflex. I didn’t intend for my words to sting, but there wasn’t anything I could do to take them back. Not that I would have.

“
This
is your family,” she said, pointing to Claire. “Your sister needs you. Maybe you blew your chance at college, but she hasn’t and I can’t do this without your help.”

“Of course I’m going to help,” I said. “I already told Patrick I’d be back in September to start. I gave notice at Rafferty’s this morning and everything.”

“I think he should go,” Claire spoke up. “It’s his dream, you know? He’s always wanted to be on stage, ever since he was dancing and singing along to
Friday Night Videos
.”

“Watch,” my mother said. “Once he gets out there, he’ll never come back. He’ll keep running, you’ll see.”

“He’ll come back,” she said. “You always do, right, Coco?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said.

But I don’t want to come back, that’s the truth and Mom knows it. I know she’s right, though. It’s Claire’s turn to follow her dream and we’ll never afford college and med school with me working in a kitchen and playing bass. Chasing the rock star dream isn’t something you do when you’ve got other people depending on you. I love it, but even I know it’s selfish. I’ve had four years to make it happen, and it was a good run. Lots of great memories, many good times. And who knows? If they keep at it, Soft might really make it, and I sincerely hope they do. But I’m twenty-two now and the time for dreaming is over. This tour is last rites for that dream.

Twenty shows left. I count them off like a reverse jail term.

***

Sunday, August 13, 1995

Tokyo Rose, Charlottesville, VA

With Chimp Cringle and Crypt Whores

Soft Tour—Day 4

We walk into the Tokyo Rose and are a little taken aback to find out that we’re playing a sushi bar. That’s a first. Turns out the club is in the basement, which is a decent but small room with a stage and another bar, and no tables for dining, luckily. We have low expectations for the show, but we’re not unhappy because they give us all free soup and tea and sake and beer after we load in and the sushi is half price for us, so we split a few rolls and listen to Joey make raw-fish-eating jokes. We better get him laid on this trip, and soon.

At the bar we’re toasting the road when we meet Chimp Cringle, the local Charlottesville band. Jeremy is the guitarist, and he booked the show with us and the Crypt Whores. The Crypt Whores are an independent, unsigned band who managed to come over here themselves all the way from China. Talk about booking your own fucking life! They’re here recording and living at the Chimp Cringle studio, which is a converted barn at Jeremy’s parents’ house. Apparently, Jeremy’s parents are rich and have some sort of “gentleman’s” farm where they don’t actually farm anything, but they’ve bankrolled his fledgling recording business on the premises. Must be nice! But he seems like a really good guy, and he’s a huge fan of our single so he’s also putting us up for the night.

Shen Hiu is the Crypt Whores’ band leader, and the only one who speaks any English at all. Shen and Jeremy have been pen pals for years, talking about Black Flag and California hardcore, even though neither of their bands are hardcore bands, or from California. Chimp Cringle do a sort of clean, smart rock sound, kind of like Gravel Pit out of Boston (shit, the Pumps
wish
they could sound half as good as this band), while the Crypt Whores are more of a total shit show, and I mean that in the best sense. Their sound involves a lot of loud, trashy chords and sprawling arrangements, with tons of unintelligible wailing by the double female vocalists who I assume are singing in Mandarin, or maybe it’s not any language at all. Really tough to tell. It’s a little awkward when Shen refers to his entire band and then all of us as “his whores.” Not sure he knows the exact connotation of that word in English, but since his English is a million times better than my Chinese I’m not one to judge. I’m fairly certain it’s a term of endearment, in any case.

Before the show, again, there’s nobody downstairs in the live room except for us and Chimp Cringle and a handful of their friends. Sonia starts wringing her hands about nobody being there.

“Sunny,” Joey says. “You’re gonna make the Whores feel bad. Nobody likes sad whores.”

“It’s just frustrating,” she says. “I’m frustrated for you.”

“We’re here to play,” I explain. “Not to worry about how big the crowd is. Whoever is here, we’ll play for. Even if it’s just you.”

“You shouldn’t worry about the crowd—your job is to worry about the set,” she says. “But I’m the tour manager and my job is to worry about the crowd. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Well, fine.

She heads back upstairs, into the restaurant, and Joey and I stand in front of the Crypt Whores as they start their set. Emmy and Trap come back and the four of us just stand right in front of them, giving them 100 percent of our attention, because fuck, maybe we came all the way from Jersey to play another empty house, but these dudes came from fucking China. We will make sure they have a good set, no matter what. If we have to do backflips or start a mosh pit with just the five of us, we’ll make sure they have a good time.

They start playing and they’re loud as fuck and giving it all they’ve got. By the third song, there are two dozen people downstairs to watch them, and they start to really amp things up. I look over and see Sonia talking to some folks at the merchandise table, and she’s even selling homemade Crypt Whores cassettes for them while they play. I think the highlight of the set has to be when they all strip down to black bikinis, even the guys, and take two life-sized blow-up dolls and start making them crowd surf and Joey starts a mosh pit with both of them. We almost couldn’t get Joey to let the redheaded doll go.

“I guess I know what we’re getting you for your birthday,” Emmy tells him.

Then, while we’re setting up our gear on stage and getting ready to play, the room fills all the way up. Like, to the stage. We don’t know why, so we assume the crowd fills in because of Chimp Cringle. Jeremy is a DJ for TJU, the University of Virginia’s radio station. We know Jeremy has been playing our single, because that’s how we found him and booked this show. I guess he’s been playing it a lot, because when we play “Loud” (fourth song, batting cleanup), the crowd really perks up like they know it.

By the halfway point, the crowd is really going for us, dancing and everything. Debbie and Jenny, what we end up nicknaming the two blow-up dolls, are having a blast being flown all over the room. As we rip into “My Yes My No,” Sonia comes and stands right smack-dab in front of me. She’s happy now, I’m sure, that we’ve got a decent crowd to play for. I can tell she’s happy because she stands in front of me the entire rest of the set and she’s not even trying to be cool about this. She’s dancing, lost in the music. I’m remembering her now at eighteen when she was so shy and awkward, but there was this whole other side of her that came out at shows. We’d play these basements and Sonia would turn into this free, happy kid, holding her own in any kind of mosh pit, and I can’t count how many of those I’ve pulled her out of since.

I’m really going to miss that.

It turns out to be one of the best Sunday nights we’ve ever played. I can’t even consider the fact that I’ve got only nineteen shows left to feel this way when I’d much rather have nineteen years’ worth of shows. Maybe knowing it’s all coming to an end makes it sweeter, though. I’ll try to go with that.

I make my way through the crowd over to the merchandise table. Sonia’s there, all smiles as she chats with a crowd of folks about our single and the tour. I’m sort of next to her, but still surrounded by girls talking to me, which is normally fine by me, except right now there’s a tall college boy making time with my tour manager.

“How long have you been managing Stars?” he says. “Really dig their sound.”

“Soft,” Sonia corrects him as she hands him the mailing list to sign. “They go by Soft.”

“Cool. You’ve got my contact info now, so don’t be afraid to use it, all right?”

“Don’t worry, when we’re back in town, we’ll make sure you know it.”

“Good,” he says, lingering at the table. I can’t believe how oblivious she is to the fact that this guy wants to get with her. Is she always this clueless? Actually, now that I think of it, yeah she is.

“Where are you hanging out after the show?” the college boy asks. “Jeremy’s place?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she’s still all smiles with this guy. I can’t even listen to whatever this other girl is saying to me now about working at Monticello or some bullshit because this guy is trying to hook up with Sunny, and she’s not doing anything at all to throw him off the trail. “We’re staying with him and the Crypt Whores tonight.”