The Empty Ones by Robert Brockway Page A

guts clenched up and I went into fight mode, looking around for body snatchers. I didn’t find any. I jogged up to where I’d last seen them and spotted the culprit: A set of stairs, each a tiny waterfall in this downpour, leading down to the trains. They were halfway to the landing already. I thought about riding the wet railing all the way to the bottom just to beat them there— surely that’ll prove me a worthy lay —but my hip and shoulder throbbed just thinking about taking another fall. I decided to walk instead.
    Must be getting old.
    The stairs were slick, and the torrent of water pouring down from above made just keeping on your feet a chore. It took forever to get to the bottom, and my hip ached with every awkward step. I thought I’d probably lost Meryll and Randall in the crowd—there weren’t many people up on the street, but this was still New Year’s Eve in London; the tube had to be crowded—but no such luck. They were stopped right there in front of me, blocking the stairs. They were staring at a solid wall of punks. The whole station standing room only, and every last occupant was wet and nasty and riding the climax of an amped-up drunk.
    The fucking show had just let out. I had forgotten all about it. And judging by the impending violence in the air, The Ramones had either done the best set of their lives, or personally pissed in the nostrils of every one of their fans on their way out the door.
    It was mostly reflex. I can’t see a crowd and not look for things I’m not supposed to look for—the faces I skip over, the people I forget, the overpowering urge toward inattention. I couldn’t pick out individuals. There were too many people, too much anonymity—but I recognized that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Those hairs on the back of my neck.
    We were stuck underground in a dismal concrete cave rapidly filling with water, surrounded on all sides by pissed-off punk rockers itching for a fight, and at least some of them were Unnoticeables. And we had to wade right through it all to get to the train.
    Well, only one thing to do, really.
    â€œLet’s start a riot,” I said to Randall’s back.
    He turned around to look at me, feigning shock for the benefit of the girl.
    You goddamned phony. Wait until the punches start flying and you just fuckin’ try not to have some fun.
    â€œHell of a show, right?” I practically screamed it, at a slab of beef wrapped in a leather jacket with a picture of the queen on the back. Her eyes were blacked out and somebody had drawn a crude dick slapping against her mouth.
    â€œFuckin’ right,” he answered. And that was all I needed to know: English accent.
    â€œThere’s nothing like good old-fashioned American rock and roll,” I said, feeling a twinge of mania building in my chest.
    You are my favorite vice, adrenaline. Well, behind beer. And whiskey. And sex. But definitely ahead of cigarettes. Okay, maybe slightly behind cigarettes—but only slightly.
    â€œSome of it’s pretty good, yeah,” the slab of meat agreed, hesitantly.
    â€œI mean, what’s it got?” I turned to Randall, snapping my fingers, looking for help with the word. “What am I thinking of, that American rock has and British doesn’t?”
    He glanced over to Meryll, who shook her head. My heart sank. I was going to have to do this one my own.
    I was turning back when I heard him chime in: “Authenticity,” Randall said.
    I smiled with every inch of my face. “Thaaaat’s it. It’s got fuckin’ authenticity .”
    The slab of meat was making a face like he was trying to hold in farts with his mouth.
    â€œNot like this British bullshit,” I said, louder and louder, “all wrapped in politics, tryin’ to pretend they’re about something they ain’t. It’s pretty … what’s the word?” I snapped my fingers again, not