Punk and Zen (11 page)

What else was there to say about her, anyway? Liar was
too strong, because I didn’t know what she’d really said, and drama queen ABC
wasn’t exactly right, either. Crazy wouldn’t have been hard to prove.
But this wouldn’t have been the right time to find the right adjectives,
anyway.

Jackie and I glared at each other a moment longer.
Finally, I’d had it and strode rigidly to the door, then opened it. “I’ll see
you guys later,” I tossed back as I slung my bag over my shoulder.

Running down the stairs, because I didn’t want to keep
Nico waiting, I reviewed the “discussion” in my head and thought about
different ways I could have handled it. The French have a phrase for it:
esprit
de l’escalier
or, roughly, “spirit of the stairway,” which is what happens
when you run down the stairs thinking of different ways you could have done or
said something, now that you had a moment to think about it. That’s what I had,
stairway spirit, I thought as I passed the landing that held Trace’s door.

Not that I could think of anything else to have said
or done, really. I guess I could have just interrupted Jackie and, using sheer
volume, explained my side of the story, but that just wasn’t my style.

I could still hear Cap and Jackie upstairs. “You never
stop to think, Jackie,” Cap growled. “You forget, I know Trace better than you
do.” Jackie’s reply faded as I got to the bottom.

Nico peered anxiously out the passenger side window of
the hulking gray behemoth that was his pride and joy, a gunmetal gray
conversion van converted from utility to mini rec room, complete with pullout
sofalike thing in the back (and a box of assorted toys—footballs, Frisbees,
baseball gloves, swim fins—stuff like that, as well as towels and Tshirts), a
little porta-potty in its own privacy cupboard, and sink with assorted car-type
parts and tools that might one day prove useful beneath it.

“You okay?” he asked as I strode over to the door and
jumped in.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I breathed out as I buckled
myself in. I rooted around in my bag for my pack of cigarettes, found one, then
lit it, the first for the day.

Nico nodded his head in understanding and pulled away
from the curb as I blew smoke out the window. I let my thoughts drift with it
as we drove in silence.

Nico respected my need for head space, and soon I was
able to recapture my “good morning” mood. I would have time to let the back of
my mind work toward solutions. Besides, my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I
needed food, and, really, who can think if they’re hungry?

“So,” I asked conversationally, “we still going to
Jerry’s? Cause if we are, you’re headed the wrong way,” I informed him as we
went in the opposite direction.

“Oh, yeah,” Nico grinned at me, “we can still do
that.” He sighted down the street for a likely turning block and set a signal.

As we drove, sunlight flashing on the sidewalk through
the trees, it occurred to me that it was July, after all, and though the summer
felt endless, we didn’t have all that many sunny and free days left. Soon
enough I would have to wait in line for registration, buy books, and juggle
classes and work schedules, and Nico would be off with his trunk packed with
new undershorts and linens to his own schooling. Fuck it. I don’t like to waste
rare, beautiful days. We could go to Jerry’s some other time, when it was
raining. Now was now. Even if I didn’t swim, I could still roll my jeans up,
and Nico most likely had a couple of spare shorts in the back of the vehicle
somewhere. And they were probably mine. Besides, I could pay off and pick up my
guitar after the sun went down.

“You know, we could just grab some bagels and
chocolate milk and go to the beach,” I suggested. “Whatchya say?” I grinned at
him.

“Shit, yeah, the beach,” he responded, his eyes
shining brightly at me for a moment before he had to return his attention to
the road.

“Sun and sand, here we come,” I sang out, visions of
the surf crashing against the shore filling my head, and the taste of an egg
bagel with a little mustard and Muenster cheese followed by a Nestle Quik
chocolate milk to wash it down filling my mouth. I was there already.

Sexy
Eiffel Towers

Let me tell you something darling,

You’re doing fine…

Now you’ve shown me all of yours I’ll let you into
mine

But me, I like a pretty boy, I love a hard-edged girl

“For The Love of
Boyz’n Grrlz”—Life Underwater

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

Trace and I didn’t speak for days, but it wasn’t as if
we had a chance. Between Cap’s and Jackie’s schedules, combined with mine as
well as Trace’s, it was a wonder any of us ever got to see each other. And I
honestly wasn’t trying too hard.

I did see Candace, though—the next week, in fact.
Totally sober and with the door safely locked, headset tight over one ear and
off the other so I could hear the sound in the room, I grooved in the skybox,
eyes closed and feeling fine, swaying along with this phenom beat I’d
discovered a few days ago. A voice with the loveliest hint of a British accent
floated up to me.

“Hey, lovely DJ. Do you take requests?”

I slipped my headphones down around my neck and opened
my eyes to see Candace’s smiling face.

“Maybe,” I played. “It depends on what you have in
mind.”

“I’m thinking…French,” Candace replied, her even white
teeth sparking up at me.

“Ah, too bad.” I shook my head with mock regret,
pretending I didn’t know what she meant. “I can’t read minds in French.”

“Colonist!” Candace smirked back at me. “Can you even
speak anything other than that fractured language you borrowed from us?”

“Hey, I take offense at that.” I scowled
good-naturedly. “My grandparents are from South America, and I happen to be
fluent in Spanish,” I told her, which happens to be true. “And don’t forget,
this is Staten Island. I can speak and read a little Italian as well,” which
was also true. And in that part of New York? Occasionally necessary.

“Well, that explains quite a bit, then,” Candace said
as she reappraised me.

“How about you—imperialist?” I asked her, half joking,
half challenging. I mean, yes, as Americans, many of us have natural ties to
Europe, with its grand culture and history. On the other hand, we invented the
steam engine, the car, the Internet, and rock and roll, not to mention a few
other things. Besides, other countries and continents had lent us their best
people, too, and though I liked Candace, I wasn’t going to deal with any
my-country-is-better-than-your-country bullshit. Even if that might have been
true at different times in history, past and future.

“I give, I give!” Candace held her hands up in mock
surrender. “Now forgive me and let me take you to dinner,
ma cheri
.” She
smiled charmingly.

“Oh?” I asked, intrigued despite my attempt at
distance—her pronunciation was excellent. What can I say? I have a thing for
sound.

“It’s a little place I’ve discovered in the East
Village called Port Marseille. I’m so full sure you’ll love it!”

I couldn’t. I had to work, I had guitar practice, and
I certainly didn’t want to get involved past, further, or more than what had
already happened—and I hadn’t even really intended for that. Well, at least not
in that way, anyhow. Friends. I wanted to be friends, and that meant no dates.
What Candace suggested sounded more than vaguely like the latter as opposed to
the former, but as I tried to form an answer that wouldn’t sound offensive or
hurtful, Candace’s face wore an expression of such obvious sincere affection
that I had difficulty thinking.

“My schedule’s really tight,” I replied instead. “When
where you thinking of—”

Candace must have noticed some of my internal
struggle. She interrupted me with a wave of the hand and reached through the
request window. “No ABC pressure, Nina.” She patted my hand. “Whenever
you’d like.”

Cool. Okay then. “Okay,” I answered slowly. “I’ll let
you know.”

“Hmph,” she answered and took her hand back, then
smiled, a Mona Lisa smile that could have meant nothing, that could have meant
anything, and somewhere in my head, it made me want to crawl, crawl behind it
and discover more. “I’ll see you later,” and with that, she melted back into
the crowd.

She wasn’t wearing her usual blue, I noticed before
she disappeared from view; the body-skimming one-piece Candace had on this
night was black.

I returned to my board and slipped my headphones back
up on my ears. Hmm…

Setting my faders for the next mix, I grabbed the
microphone, waiting for my moment. “Oh, yeah,” I encouraged the crowd. “It’s
time to set the night on fire!” I began to bring up the next tune into the
current one, a heavier beat mixing well with the tail of the one still playing.

“Scorched-earth mix,” I announced, and brought the
song in fully as I faded the other out completely, sending the custom
compilation flying through the room where the people cheered in anticipation. I
set the lights to pattern reds through yellows, with occasional flashes of blue
thrown in for dramatic relief.

After dancing along for a bit, I assessed my
selections for the night. My set was in good order, and as long as there were
no changes, the music would cycle through moods—from earthy hip to fiery house
and on to airy techno, finally ending with liquid trance. Hmm…

I dug under the shelf for a pen and piece of paper,
then leaned over by the small work light to scribble down the settings for the
light shows per segment. Done, I reviewed my work. It was solid, a nice piece
of musical experience, even if I did say so myself.

I reached for the microphone.

“Duh Darrel, come to the sky. Duh Duh Darrel, come to
the sky,” I singsonged to and through the beat, searching for Darrel’s bobbing
Mohawk among the dancers. Of course he’d be around. Don’t ask me why, but for
whatever reason, when you work in a club, you tend to hang out there on your
time off. Of course, we used to say that the Red Spot wasn’t just a place, but
a way of life. You know what? It really was.

“Duh Duh Darrel, come to the sky. Duh Duh Darrel, come
to the sky,” echoed the crowd, thinking it was part of the performance. Well,
it was in a way.

I finally spotted him on the other side of the room,
leaning against the wall chatting with one of the many pretty young women who
frequented the place. Catching his attention, I waved him over.

“What’s up?” he asked when he reached the request
window.

“Come in,” I said, then walked over and unlocked the
door.

“Hey! What’s up?” he repeated, this time a bit more
seriously as he mounted the steps.

I got right to the point. “I need you to take over for
me,” I explained as I returned to the mixing board. I visually checked the faders
and knobs, just ensuring everything was where it had to be, then grabbed my
list and handed it to him. “Here, everything’s already set and in order.” I
pointed to the stack of discs. “And here are all the lighting switches and
their cues.”

Darrel studied the paper a moment. “Nice, Nina. Nice
music, nice setup.” He pursed his lips and nodded with what I could swear might
have been honest admiration. It was definitely approval, at the very least.

Fuck nice, it was good, really fucking good, and I
knew it. And it was good to have someone else, someone that did the same work
too, I mean, think so.

“So, why you leavin’? You all right?”

“I’m okay.” I smiled widely because I knew why I was
okay, and why I was leaving, and he didn’t. “Just something I really gotta do.”

I searched through the Plexi window among the throng.
Where was she? Not this corner, not that one. My eyes continued to roam. Ah,
there. She was harder to pick out among the crowd now that she wasn’t wearing
her trademark blue.

“Oh,” Darrel drawled. “I got it. You mean
someone
.”

“Huh?”

Darrel gave me a knowing smirk. “It’s not some
thing
you have to do,” he explained, “it’s some
one.
” He snorted.

“Shut the fuck up.” I backhanded him none too gently
on his well-defined ribs, though I grinned while I hit him. If I didn’t mention
it before, let me say it now: Darrel was quite the hottie. From his blue Mohawk
and silver-blue eyes, to his sharply drawn cheeks and delicate mouth, down his
wide shoulders and well-defined upper body—which no one could miss, since he
usually wore either very loose or very tight tank tops—Darrel was beautiful.
And he knew it.

“Abuse! Abuse! The DJ’s trying to kill me!” Darrel
joked, clutching his side as if he’d been dealt a mortal wound.

I rolled my eyes at his antics, but I couldn’t help
smiling. For Mr. Stud Muffin, he could be such a goof, and he reminded me in a
good way of Nico.

“C’mon, man, will you do it?” I repeated, once his
agonies had abated. He scoured the crowd, to see for himself again who it was.

“Nina,” he asked slowly, “is that Blue?”