he’d said, opening it and slapping a sack of vegetables to the floor. Then he got an arm around the back of the contraption and, with the door hanging open, wrestled it from the wall. Contents spilled forth—condiments and rotted tofu, green bread and Styrofoam containers. After hauling it halfway across the room, Warden attacked the fridge’s interior, for a moment gracefully, with thestyle of a martial artist. Then he lapsed into troglodyte barbarity, swinging his arms like clubs.
“I’ll get rid of the smell,” he said, reaching to open the back door.
Leveling his spine against it, Warden attempted to shove the monstrosity through the crumbling wooden doorframe. When he gave up, the fridge was lodged in the doorway: half in, half out, going nowhere.
“I guess you want your records now,” he’d said. On his way to the attic he snatched his flashlight, wiping his nose as the stove’s burner hissed blue—and not much later, our albums were in my arms.
C OME SHOWTIME WE PLAYED to the barmaid, the promoter, and the headlining band—San Diegans, who all the while bounced a racquetball across the dance floor. Our songs echoed back at us from the far wall of the room, but we played fiercely through it, whatever was there.
Once we let loose, it didn’t matter how many people were watching, whether we were in Houston or Bad Axe, Michigan. Repa closed his eyes. Ethan played facing his amp, convulsing with the low end. We did what we’d come to do, which was to forget where we’d come from. I dropped to my knees and howled any which way but into the microphone, keeping true to the lyrics nonetheless. One line went
Sing the recovery lie / I’ve got the cord tied / To thin the bleeding / Old flame clean me tonight
, and another song screamed
The lie is in the wind / So breathe it to me
until my vision began to tunnel and my lungs crumpled together.
And then one of the San Diegans caught the racquetball on a bounce and held it.
As they neared the stage, the bartender turned her stare ourway, and the soundman returned his unlit cigarette to his ear in order to—why the hell not—see this moment unfurling. Ethan walloped his strings with a fist, and Repa dragged out the last song longer than anyone could bear. With nothing left to scream, I let the volume smack my head in any direction. My hands went numb, but I heard my fingers making sense of the guitar, until the three of us locked eyes and stopped perfectly in time.
“Yes!” shouted the promoter. “Badass.”
He clapped loud and fast, as if to arouse some invisible audience to applaud the thrashing we’d given ourselves. All others present had yet to relax their wincing faces, thankful only that it was over. The promoter must have felt guilty about all this, because afterward he led us to his parents’ house, where we were each assigned our own room, to lie naked on fresh sheets as our clothes spun in the wash. A tremendous southern estate, though you’d never have suspected it from the guy’s tattooed neck and the silver-dollar-sized earrings punched into his lobes. He even offered to gas up our van the following morning. All he wanted in return was a record.
“So I can say you crashed with me, way back before anyone knew who you were.”
4
C opper bedposts. A ceiling fan. Track lighting, but no clock. It took a moment to remember what state I was in and why I was lying naked in a queen-size bed. I watched the sun illuminate the drawn shades until from somewhere in the house came the digital explosions of a video game.
Signs of life in Houston.
Outside the bedroom door, my laundry sat folded in a tidy pile. Stepping through the home, I began to dread all things family—I remembered I had one. It must have been the framed pictures in the hallways: the promoter arm in arm with suntanned people looking too much like him to be anything but siblings, smiling with a sort of conspiratorial mischief Caitlin and I hadn’t shared since we were children.
“I’ll get rid of the smell,” he said, reaching to open the back door.
Leveling his spine against it, Warden attempted to shove the monstrosity through the crumbling wooden doorframe. When he gave up, the fridge was lodged in the doorway: half in, half out, going nowhere.
“I guess you want your records now,” he’d said. On his way to the attic he snatched his flashlight, wiping his nose as the stove’s burner hissed blue—and not much later, our albums were in my arms.
C OME SHOWTIME WE PLAYED to the barmaid, the promoter, and the headlining band—San Diegans, who all the while bounced a racquetball across the dance floor. Our songs echoed back at us from the far wall of the room, but we played fiercely through it, whatever was there.
Once we let loose, it didn’t matter how many people were watching, whether we were in Houston or Bad Axe, Michigan. Repa closed his eyes. Ethan played facing his amp, convulsing with the low end. We did what we’d come to do, which was to forget where we’d come from. I dropped to my knees and howled any which way but into the microphone, keeping true to the lyrics nonetheless. One line went
Sing the recovery lie / I’ve got the cord tied / To thin the bleeding / Old flame clean me tonight
, and another song screamed
The lie is in the wind / So breathe it to me
until my vision began to tunnel and my lungs crumpled together.
And then one of the San Diegans caught the racquetball on a bounce and held it.
As they neared the stage, the bartender turned her stare ourway, and the soundman returned his unlit cigarette to his ear in order to—why the hell not—see this moment unfurling. Ethan walloped his strings with a fist, and Repa dragged out the last song longer than anyone could bear. With nothing left to scream, I let the volume smack my head in any direction. My hands went numb, but I heard my fingers making sense of the guitar, until the three of us locked eyes and stopped perfectly in time.
“Yes!” shouted the promoter. “Badass.”
He clapped loud and fast, as if to arouse some invisible audience to applaud the thrashing we’d given ourselves. All others present had yet to relax their wincing faces, thankful only that it was over. The promoter must have felt guilty about all this, because afterward he led us to his parents’ house, where we were each assigned our own room, to lie naked on fresh sheets as our clothes spun in the wash. A tremendous southern estate, though you’d never have suspected it from the guy’s tattooed neck and the silver-dollar-sized earrings punched into his lobes. He even offered to gas up our van the following morning. All he wanted in return was a record.
“So I can say you crashed with me, way back before anyone knew who you were.”
4
C opper bedposts. A ceiling fan. Track lighting, but no clock. It took a moment to remember what state I was in and why I was lying naked in a queen-size bed. I watched the sun illuminate the drawn shades until from somewhere in the house came the digital explosions of a video game.
Signs of life in Houston.
Outside the bedroom door, my laundry sat folded in a tidy pile. Stepping through the home, I began to dread all things family—I remembered I had one. It must have been the framed pictures in the hallways: the promoter arm in arm with suntanned people looking too much like him to be anything but siblings, smiling with a sort of conspiratorial mischief Caitlin and I hadn’t shared since we were children.
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