Emerald City by Chris Nickson Page B

special, a living rock’n’roll fairytale. Once upon a long time ago, a good Southern boy who called himself Wayne County had gotten the hell out of the Bible belt and headed for the gay beacon of New York. He put out a few singles and made a very minor name for himself. Now, just like the Lou Reed song come to strutting, breathing, trash-talking life, he was a she named Jayne. Still putting out records that only a few people bought and touring around the country.
    Jayne didn’t have her own band. Instead she used musicians from whatever city she was in, blithely expecting them to know the material. Tonight there were a couple of members of the Fastbacks behind her, along with Mike on drums. No one expected anything good, we were all just here for the fun of the occasion.
    The musicians tuned up and waited. Mike looked as if he’d rather be anywhere right now than on a stage. They waited expectantly, looking at eachother until Jayne finally bounced into view in a slashed dress and torn hose. Everyone cheered and the first chords of If You Don’t Want to Fuck Me, Baby, Fuck Off filled the air.
    It was great ramshackle Southern camp and we ate it up like honey. She was funny, she was crude, and no one cared if she wasn’t too great or that the band missed cues and hit bum notes. It was fun, like a spontaneous party to celebrate midweek. A short set, two encores and with a “Thank y’all,” she was gone and we poured out into the night.
    The air had turned colder, more like a real Seattle spring, with a wind off the Sound that bit lightly against my face and the hint of rain in the air. We walked quickly back to the car.
    â€œWhat did you think?” I asked.
    â€œIt was good.” Steve laughed and took my hand as we walked. “I kind of expected she’d be crappy, but I loved it. She doesn’t take herself seriously.”
    We drove home with the heater cranked. In the apartment I closed the drapes as Steve grabbed a shower. I glanced over at the answering machine. No new messages. Thank God.

Seven
    â€œI need to sleep.” Steve nuzzled against me as I looked out into the night, lips rubbing against that sweet spot on the back of my neck. “Are you coming to bed?”
    â€œIn a little while.” I was still buzzed from the music, my ears ringing, the adrenaline of a good gig rushing through me. It’d be a while before I could rest. Above it all, though, I could still hear the voice from the message, running as if it was on a loop. “I’m going to have another beer first.”
    â€œOkay.” He smiled and kissed me. “I love you.” Like most guys I’d known he didn’t say it often, he didn’t believe he needed to, that we both already knew it, and I could always see it in his eyes.
    Alone, I popped the top off a Rainier and stood by the sliding glass doors. On the hill above the other side of Lake Union the lights of St Mark’s cathedral twinkled. All the towers downtown were aglow, climbing tall up to the sky. Someone out there was threatening me and it scared me, made me feel weak and little and all the things I believed I’d managed to leave behind.
    It was late when I finally found more than a few minutes sleep, and gray lightwas streaming in by the time I woke. Steve had gone to work, leaving his empty cup sitting on the table. I was still groggy. The clock on the stove read ten after nine; the rush hour was past, people were already bright and alive and at work.
    I made more coffee and sat drinking it as I thumbed through the morning paper. There was nothing else on Craig. The bad thoughts that had kept me awake had vanished with daylight. I was strong again, back to the real me.
    I showered and dressed, folded up my completed reviews and set off for downtown. There was a chill in the air, and a misting rain so light it barely felt wet, enough for a jacket over my t-shirt and plaid shirt.
    The elevators were