Punk and Zen Read online

  No pressure, no, none at all, I thought. This ABC is just going down on permanent record.

  I swallowed and nodded, drawing all the emotions that I needed to do the music justice into my gut and the events that had created them into my mind, because before this studio, before the music for this recording ever existed, this was my life—before all of it, even before Samantha and I finally got together. Suddenly, it all clicked. I was there, in the moment. I was ready.

  My headphones came to life again when drumsticks clicked the opening time into my ears, cuing my entrance.

  “One, two, three, four…”

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Girls Just Wanna Have Fun/Dominion

  I remember innocence around me

  I remember looking at the sky

  I remember heaven used to ground me

  I remember knowing how to cry

  “I Fall”—Life Underwater

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  I was at the in place, the hot spot, the place to see, be seen, and be cool. Welcome to the Red Spot, located on ever-so-friendly Bay Street on Staten Island, New York, home of antiques and “junque” by day, and the, I mean the coolest, place in the counterculture by night.

  My second year of college was over for the summer, my apartment was only a few blocks away, and I didn’t have to be anywhere but school in September and work on Friday. But since it was only July, and this Thursday, I didn’t have any obligations for at least another day yet, and that wasn’t until ten at night, baby.

  “Más tequila!” Van roared, slamming his shot glass down on the bar in front of him, hair falling over his chin. He stared through the strands at his glass, as if fluid would magically appear in it.

  “What are you talking about, ‘more tequila’?” Trace teased from behind him, and, shoving his shot glass to the side, she slid into his lap, beer in hand. She held her green bottle to his lips, and he gulped at it desperately.

  “That’s your fourth Flaming Sambuca, and the third time you’ve almost set yourself on fire,” she reminded him in her honeyed-whiskey voice, and, withdrawing the bottle from him, she replaced it with her lips. Her wavy, long black hair fell down in a curtain over them both.

  Well, that was more than enough of a show for me, and turning my eyes from what had evolved from a makeout into a mauling, I decided to check out the scene.

  The bar was built on top of an old long-ass, bright red Cadillac convertible with the chrome sticking out just far enough to make a comfortable footrest, and in the long, narrow corridor the front bar created (because there was a back room, too), a couple of TVs hung from the walls, showing cartoons and underground videos. Sound bins hung alternately from the ceiling throughout the room, pumping up the music from the jukebox, and the light was just enough to make out faces, sit in a corner and write pretentious poetry, or read your beer label, but not enough to show the tiredness, sorrow, or the effects of too much partying—which was probably a good thing.

  I put my own drink down on the bar, just an orange juice mixed with cranberry. I’d already done a pitcher (or was it two?) of Red Death shots with Trace, so I was slowing down a bit. Oh, and by the way, Red Death is an Alabama Slammer mixed with Kamikazes—that’s the best I can explain it.

  I had all night to play and I didn’t want to get too messed up, you know, so I made my decision. I was going to the back room to dance. The scene up here in the front was lame, and no way was I going to play appreciative audience for Trace, who just loved to perform for whoever was available, or just watch the damn TV. I could do that back at my apartment.

  As I wove through the press of bodies to the back corridor, then took the sharp right to the couple of steps into the dance room, I nodded hellos to people who greeted me. I loved those steps; they were painted to look like a giant, triple-level piano keyboard.

  The guitar riff from the Cult’s “She Sells Sanctuary” gave way to the opening harmonics of the New York Choral Society and the start of “This Corrosion,” by the Sisters of Mercy. At ten minutes long, this song was incredible lyrically as well as awesome to dance to, and my feet were already moving toward the center of the dance floor.

  I waved to Darrel up in the DJ booth, his blue Mohawk proud and high on his head and bobbing in time to the rhythm. He returned my greeting and continued mixing. I lost myself in the throb of the music.

  Spinning and twisting to the beat, dancers mixed and mingled as people admired each other’s style, either of dancing, clothes, or body, and I ended up dancing with a girl I didn’t really know but had seen there before. Darrel and I referred to her as “Blue,” because that’s the color she always wore.

  Tonight was no exception. Her latest variation was a body-hugging electric blue minidress with a skirt that ended a scant two, maybe three inches below her definition, leaving several inches of bare leg above her spiderweb-patterned thigh-high stockings and dark hair teased up into a tousled bunch. It was too dark to tell what color her hair really was, but I’d definitely seen her in that dress before. We didn’t say a word, just smiled and played moves off each other. For the record, she danced very well.

  “Thanks for the dance,” I said, and smiled at her as the song changed into the next.

  “No, thank you,” she responded with a smile of her own, and we said nothing for a moment or two. Awkwardness crept into the silence.

  “Well, I’ll see you around the dance floor.” I grinned to end the silent discomfort, neatly ending this interchange. My line was polite and just a touch charming, and always my preferred ticket out of an awkward situation.

  “Hey, yeah, see you ’round,” she returned.

  Grin still in place, I waved and made my way to the bathroom. Might as well check my hair, I figured.

  I nudged my way through the body press again, up three little stairs that took me out of the back room, and slipped into a narrow corridor toward the female-designated plumbing facilities.

  Odd, I thought, when that place was empty, it was as cold as a meat locker, but add people, then music, and you could barely tell the place was air-conditioned it was so steamy, unless you were in the small corridor, or in the bathroom, like me.

  I waited patiently for a spot to open in front of the mirror-wall opposite the toilet stalls, and, once there, I gave myself the once-over starting with my hair, the most important part. Amazingly, it still looked good.

  Shaved to the skin right to the top of my ear, buzzed to fuzz another half inch, and an inch-long layer to the temple level with my brow, the rest of it flowed straight and long across my head and down to the center of my back in a modified Mohawk that spread to the width of my temples, as opposed to a simple narrow stripe down the middle of my head. I’d brushed it over to the right, and it arched across perfectly, leaving a curtain I could hide behind if I wanted, or push back if I didn’t. Right now? I didn’t.

  My main mission accomplished, I checked the rest out. No need to worry about makeup. I rarely wore it, with the exception of a little eyeliner and mascara every now and then—hey, that stuff will ruin your skin, ya know. And I inspected my clothes, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be.

  Skintight black cotton and Lycra covered my body from throat to not quite midthigh, with sleeves that came to my wrists. I twisted to see my back—yup, everything was in place, or not, depending on your point of view. I was covered in the front, but the back was open to my waist, and the sleeve tops were cut out in such a way that my shoulders, shaped from years of swimming and a few other sports, were bare to the top of the tricep. Sheer black stockings, calf-high black riding boots, and a simple silver ankh on a black velvet choker around my neck completed the outfit.

  I like the look, it’s working for me, I thought. It was definitely a female look, no mistaking that, but not, you know, girly. Strong, yes, maybe even a little dangerous. I liked it. Woman with an edge, I thought to myself, and nodded slightly with satisfaction.

  It was my night off, I was buzzed just enough to fe
el good but not out of it and filled with restless energy that dancing with a pretty girl only stoked hotter and higher, making my skin tingle. I was definitely ready for anything, and I wasn’t going to merely wait for it to come my way.

  A face reflected next to mine in the mirror. “Hey, fancy meeting you here.” It smiled at me.

  “Small world.” I smiled in return at the reflection of my dance partner and skimmed my fingers through my hair, just to make sure nothing was out of place. I faced her head-on, leaning against the little ledge that ran the length of the mirror, and crossed one booted leg over the other. Of course I had “cool” attitude. Bathroom or no, this was my place to work, to hang out—my world, my territory.

  I watched with an amused grin as she checked her makeup and decided it was okay, then inspected her hair, which in the well-lit room was light brown with a few blond streaks. Whether they were from the sun or chemistry was up to the eye and mind of the beholder.

  However it got that way didn’t matter, though. In my beholding eye, she was definitely, no doubt about it, very pretty, and she had great legs, too.

  “I don’t mean to sound trite,” she started, “but have we met, before, I mean? You seem so very familiar.” Her voice had a musical lilt, her words a very slight accent, as she spoke with a little half smile. The quirk of her lips told me she wanted to play that old game.

  Ah, but I was feeling just too good, and I don’t like to play some games, especially old ones. If she wanted to play, we’d do it my way. I merely arched an eyebrow at her and recrossed my legs.

  “Funny you should say that,” I answered, glancing casually down at my nails before looking back up at her, “because I know exactly where I’ve seen you before.” I straightened and put my hand out. “I’m—”

  “Nina!” Trace came calling into the bathroom. “Richie asked if you could take over for Darrel. He’s sick or something.” She barely glanced as she walked right past Blue and slid next to me by the mirror. “He said he’ll pay you double your shift. Just remind him at the end of the night.”

  Trace stopped herself a moment and studied me, as if she hadn’t just seen me ten minutes before. I returned her perusal with a bland look; her inspection bothered me. “Very good look for you, by the way.” She smiled and lifted slender fingers to tweak the forelock that fell over my cheek. “God, you’re so fucking cute,” she added, cupping my chin. Her steel gray eyes locked with mine a moment, and the longer the moment held, the more my discomfort grew. She was just a little too close for comfort.

  Her intensity pulled at me, began to cut through my shell, and as I felt the muscles grow tight in my neck, I tried to talk myself down, away, and just somehow out from the feeling that swelled within me.

  She always does this, she doesn’t mean anything by it, I reminded myself, fixing the image of her draped over Van’s lap firmly in my head. She’d approach that edge of flirting, though she’d never outright proposition me, then pull something like, well, making out with Van, and it always made me feel pretty darn rotten, like if I’d just done this, that, or the other thing, she’d be with me instead of whoever. Tonight, though, instead of making me feel bad, it was just pissing me off.

  “Thanks,” I answered shortly, and twisted my head away from her hand. I scowled at the mirror, checking my hair. I hated my hair being messed up, I hated my head being messed with, and I hated being called cute. Teddy bears were cute. Puppies and ducklings? They were cute.

  My mother thought I was cute. Then again, my mother also wanted me to be straight. We were working on that—my mom understanding, not my being straight, I mean—fuck that, and fuck cute. I didn’t want to be cute, I wanted to be hot. Woman with an edge, dammit, not Lil’ Bo fuckin’ Peep. Besides, she was making me lose points in front of this girl. Cute, damn.

  You know, points are all about the respect of your peers and your chances of getting laid. That’s it. Period. On the imaginary scoreboard, “cute” was dismissible, not desirable. Cute and horny did not, do not, and will never go together. Hot, though. That’s something else altogether. Hot gets some; cute gets a pat on the head. Did I mention that I hate that? I felt like Trace was trying to say, or rather imply, that I was a teddy bear with teeth, and how ridiculous is that?

  But I didn’t let any of that show. My boss needed an answer, and Trace was waiting to deliver it. What the hell, I thought. I could lose myself in the music, which was always a good thing as far as I was concerned, and I could earn a few extra bucks toward a guitar I wanted.

  Work was work, I decided, and besides, I was only a little buzzed—just enough to feel the edge. So as long as I didn’t drink anything fermented for the rest of the night, I’d be fine. It’s not like I was operating heavy machinery or driving. “Tell Richie I said yeah, and see if he can have Darrel cue up the next one. I’ll be there in half a minute.” I decided to not to theorize out loud exactly why Darrel was suddenly so ill he couldn’t spin tunes anymore, but I suspected one too many jello shots mixed with some pharmacology up in the booth.

  “I just want to—” I indicated my hair to Trace.

  “Ohmygod, you’re Nina, the DJ!” Blue interrupted excitedly from behind Trace’s shoulder. “I’m here every Friday and Saturday you spin the Elemental Experience, and for your Experience-the-Experiment Wednesdays.” Her eyes were wide with recognition (or admiration or something I didn’t recognize at that time), and those eyes staring over Trace’s shoulder were green, like a pine forest at dusk, and I’ve always been a sucker for dark green ABC eyes.

  But sure, right, like she didn’t know who I was before, I thought a little cynically with an inward smile. I remembered what nights Darrel and I had both seen her—and debated which of us she’d rather date. I told Darrel I didn’t fucking care one way or another, but I also didn’t tell him I’d have put the money on me. Outwardly, I grinned at her anyway over Trace’s shoulder, and Trace spun so quickly to face her, I’m surprised she didn’t hurt the floor.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “didn’t mean to interrupt.” Trace didn’t look the least bit repentant as I watched her check the girl out for herself. “Okay, well,” she addressed me, her inspection complete, “I’m gonna drop off your message and grab everyone. See you in a few,” and she strode off to the door.

  “Oh, one last thing?” She poked her head back in. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She smiled evilly at me and nodded her chin toward Blue.

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. “That leaves me with a lot of options, you know.” I shook my head in mock confusion. Trace just kept smiling her wise-ass smile and disappeared.

  I took a step in that direction, then stopped and looked over my shoulder at Blue and that incendiary dress. I didn’t want to just leave her hanging. She seemed nice enough, and the lines she used could have just been a casual, sincere attempt at conversation. Besides, that would have been rude. Right?

  “Hey, I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go,” I excused myself with a smile. “Work calls. It was very nice meeting you. See you out on the dance floor.” I returned through the corridor to the back room.

  Darrel had left a slow ambient track flowing through the sound system and the dance floor lit by a dim orange-red glow. The last tune had filled the room with a dark and throbbing energy, a low and restless feeling, not so much sexual as sensual, but lacking joy. Darrel had brought these people down. Where was I going to bring them, I asked myself as I made my way to the booth in the very back corner of the room. I opened the door and leaped up three steps to my little world.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  This little square in the sky, the “skybox” as we sometimes called the DJ booth, was surrounded by walls on three sides, and the front that faced the dance floor had a sturdy bench that held the sound board, microphone and headset, two turntables, a disc player going from the middle to the right, all the way to the wall, and a space for discs, drinks, or sometimes, dates, all the way to the left. A Plexiglas wall separated the DJ from the crowd
so that whoever was spinning could observe and be observed, but still have that illusion of separateness. Except for the empty space all the way to the left—there was no Plexi there, because that’s where people could call up requests or attempt to talk with the DJ, and the waitress could drop off water or whatever other substance had been requested.

  The back wall was filled with bins of records and discs, as was the space under the turntables. I flipped through ABC the discs Darrel had set aside. No, no, no, I thought as I quickly discarded each selection, not where I was going. What the hell had he been thinking? Sure, the music he’d picked was decent, but he’d provided no direction, no theme, not even a unifying mood, except for the bleakness his ambient tune was setting.

  I had a few more minutes to pull out the next set of tunes that would create the mood I wanted, but no way could I just abruptly alter the environment Darrel had created, even if it was confused. That would have been terribly uncomfortable for the people out there and would leave them feeling disoriented.

  No, I was going to evolve it—bring them down, all the way down, then raise them to where I wanted them to be, the fall and the redemption, all in one night; and I’d provide the soundtrack that would guide them all the way through.

  I ran my fingers lightly through the racks, pulling this disc out, discarding the next, setting my program up and in order: the songs, the occasional patter, the lighting. I was set.

  I took my selections and, instead of placing them on the prep area, put them on the stool before the turntable so I could make faster changes. Besides, since I just had to move my hands, I wouldn’t have to break my groove. It’s always a good sign if the DJ’s dancing too. But this arrangement had another benefit: it made me less accessible to the crowd, since I almost never had to step directly in front of that open space.