Rock and Roll
We discussed the prospects for a good show, and Gregg revealed his desire to be a drummer, although he had never played them.
“The drummer carries the strength, the power, of any band,” he argued. “The drummer is like an athlete.” He asked me what instrument intrigued me the most, and I said guitar without hesitation. The same question was posed to Karen, who responded that she would like to play the piano.
“Why?” Gregg had to ask.
“Because my mother tried to get me to learn to play the piano, and I was just never interested.”
“It’s not too late to make her happy,” Gregg piped in.
“Quite the contrary.”
“Why do you say that?” I wished he would shut up.
“Because she drowned at the lake last spring.” I thought that was certain to kill the subject, but I was wrong. Christine, uninvited, went and informed us of her musical aspirations, too.
“I want to be the singer,” she said, staring straight ahead at the road. “A good singer is born that way.”
The civic auditorium was bustling by the time we arrived. We made it inside after being confronted with an intelligence test. Police men and women at the gate wanted to see if we were smart enough not to hide contraband in ridiculously obvious places. They searched Christine’s purse. They inspected the binocular case. The dummies, of course, would be refused admission, taken away and punished severely for their stupidity. From their example we would all learn to be more cunning. We found our seats, high and off to one side of the stage, and waited for the show to begin. The enormous speakers, suspended over the stage like a proscenium arch, blared recorded test tracks. The air was misty with smoke. The crowd, more than five thousand strong, seated on both sides of the hall or standing on the floor, murmured and sighed with the restlessness of an ocean. Soon it would roar and surge like one, too.
A group of people squeezed by us to get to their seats, carrying beers in paper cups. One obese young man had difficulty maneuvering the narrow walk between our legs and the next row of seats, momentarily lost his balance and allowed some of his drink to spill. A few drops splattered Christine’s new jeans.
“Please! Can’t you be more careful?”
“Sorry,” said the offender.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” The beer spiller stopped moving and seemed about to say something, but when he saw Gregg at Christine’s side any attempt at taking back his dignity was instantly forgotten. He caught up with his friends and sat down.
Karen pulled up the leg of her jeans, retrieved the hip flask and poured rum into the cola we got from the concession stand. We sipped on it from separate straws, and then I lit up from our secret stash. After alternately hitting it a few times, Karen indicated that I should share with our friends. I held it in front of Gregg and he stared at it for a few seconds, shrugged and took it. As he put the dreadful roz to his lips I could see Christine’s grip tighten convulsively on his forearm. At that moment an unseen hand plunged the auditorium into darkness, and the crowd came to life. Gregg handed the roz back to me and eventually refused any further gestures of generosity. A sawtoothed guitar chord erupted from the speakers as spotlights focused on a solitary figure onstage. The show had begun.
Because I was so busy altering my consciousness I cannot be certain how much time passed before Gregg tapped me on the shoulder. I tore my attention from the multi-colored spectacle and leaned toward him. “How long is this supposed to last?” he shouted into my ear. Even at that I could barely hear him.
“The warm-up band plays for about an hour, and the headliner plays for an hour and a half.”
He turned to Christine to say something I had no way of catching. They continued to yell into each other’s ears for some time. Finally Gregg leaned back toward me and said, “I’ve got to take Christine home.” He paused to catch his breath from all the shouting. “I’ll be back after the show to give you a ride. Meet me out front somewhere, okay?” Gregg had never given me any indication that he was not good for his word, even if I’d only known him a week. I motioned that I understood by nodding, and then they got up and left. I relayed to Karen what was happening. She shook her head as she watched them make their way down the aisle to the concourse, but said nothing.
We got our money’s worth, if it was any consolation for what became of us. The main attraction, Screamin Creamin Claude and the Caught Zippers, lived up to their outrageous reputation, their nihilistic repertoire sounding like nothing short of the machinery of civilization seizing up for lack of lubrication, exhorting the crowd to the brink of anarchy. At one point S.C.C. himself, repudiating Christine’s theory of vocal talent, catapulted from his wheelchair into the audience jammed in front of the stage and floated about on their raised hands while improvising the lyrics to “Nanoseconds to Live?” He held the mike toward those below while they sang the chorus. Eventually the security boys pulled him back to the stage but not before he had been stripped to his underwear for keepsakes. Karen cheered as wildly as when I had danced for her the previous night, while he lifted himself onto his stumps and showed off his sweaty, hairy body in a parody of weightlifters. He was as scrawny as I, but the girls didn’t seem to mind a bit. Crazy as it was, I can imagine the mayhem—with the blinding lights and tightly packed bodies—if the Nova Phenomenon had struck that night.
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