(no subject)
Tonight is Forty Years Young, Stung, The Altered States, and Terrible Conjunction. Those are the bands with bad names. Then, after that is Call Me Alice, Janizary Corps, Vegas, Red Asphalt, Knock-up Natalie and her Backup Band, The Chaperones, Relative Rebellion, and The Idles. It is January on the Prairie, a hip and growing collection of artists who almost suck. But not quite. Spoon is in a punk band called Dr. Anson. His little sister Benni is the lead singer. They aren’t even on the list of bands playing because they are scheduled to play very early, as the first act while everyone is getting equipment ready. They are there to get the crowd pumped.
I wait just inside my house behind the door, staring at it, for thirty-five minutes. I blink. One, two. Blink. Three, four, five, six, seven. Blink. Blink. Eight. I hear the tires on the road, the hot rubber melting cascading and burning onto endless black. I open the door, try to act as if I haven’t been standing there for the better part of an hour. I listen to my watch tick, like the clicking sound in my pulsing ears. I inhale, sharp, painful quick and then slow, slower, until finally I can see out of the slits of my eyes. I step. One step out the door over the red tiles in the kitchen onto the porch like a movie into his arms we go. He drives slowly, like some senile aged nurse. I drive like a maniac, all sharp turns and screeching noises and blurring lights.
We reach Turpentine, the club hosting January on the Prairie. The door is cream paint, cracked from years of drunken rockers and weather. The outside used to be white, obviously, but is now a dirty gray that looks like the color a duck would become after it committed suicide. The walls and window are painted with slogans in blues and reds, blaring sales and deals and products and shows. Spoon is already inside. I know this because out of the corner of my eye I can see the door swing. I grab onto the cold silver handle and push myself in after him.
Inside Turpentine is nothing like outside Turpentine. The original name was Turpentine Junction. Nobody knows why it isn’t called that anymore, but it isn’t. There are about four bands setting up. I know two of them. Forty Years Young and Stung. Benni walks out of the bathroom. Her sleek, dark hair is tucked behind her pierced ears. She has a long, slender nose and a clean face. No makeup. I tug on her arm. “Hey Benni!” I say, staring at her feet, which sport silver ballet slippers and green knee high socks. She looks great. She hugs me, and I pull her onto my hip. Benni is nine. She is wearing pajamas, and has on numerous rings and a scarf on her forehead. I let her play with my purse, rummage through it, as I find a spot for Dr. Anson to set up. I see Ansley Harris, the drummer, Nicks Harley, the bassist, and Gerard Hebaldine, who does everything that everyone else doesn’t do. Gerard puts up posters, gets gigs, yells at people, makes phone calls, and most importantly, drives.
It is six forty five. I am in a bathroom stall. Benni is in the one next to me. We are talking. She asks me things she cannot ask Spoon. She asks my what happens when parents divorce, if it is her fault. She asks me what periods are. She asks me how to put on lipstick. She asks me if I know how to spell catastrophe, because she does. I answer each question patiently. Benni’s questions calm me down, bring me back to earth, center me, zen this zen that my chi my karma everything.
It is nine ten. Dr. Anson has just finished. Ansley’s drumming was perfect, Nicks’s guitar was loud, Spoons bass was right on time. But amazingly, no one cared. And no one cared because Benni did the best vocals ever in punk history. There is something about a nine year old singing about oppression and falseness and disregarding politics and generations of pain and hatred that literally knocks you off of your feet. The whole room was full of insane energy and every eye was focused on Benni’s tiny, powerful frame. Her booming, high-pitched voice just DID something to everybody. Listening to Benni sing was a natural high. The crowd’s blood pumped and their cheers got louder and they jumped up and down for more. when it was over, I ran to hug her. “Benni, you are the best.” I say, staring at her eyes. They are mirrors of Spoon’s.
After the show the band goes to General Forty-Eight for ice cream. It is deserted. Ansley can barely speak, along with Gerard. They have been screaming all night. Benni is quiet, resting herself. She sits in my lap and licks a dripping vanilla sugar cone. Suddenly Nicks and Spoon look at each other. Spoon starts to talk. “Why do all the people in Belden Heights care so much about their plants? They spend so much money on them. Why don’t we help out the gardeners a little bit?” I don’t get it. Gerard gets it, Ansley gets it, Nicks gets it, Spoon gets it, somehow Benni gets it, too. “What?!?” I yell, not getting it. Benni explains to me. We are going to destroy the hedges in Belden Heights. We are going to massacre them. We are going to ruin the residents’ of Belden Heights’s dreams of perfection. We are going to scratch the surface of the icburg. And we are going to do it at one in the morning.
It is three A.M. Sunday morning. Spoon and I are making out. We have just destroyed numerous gardens. But not the flowers, since Benni and I happen to feel a spiritual connection to them. Spoon’s hand is up my flannel shirt. Gerard drove us in circles, waiting by each gold-encrusted mansion for us to finish annihilating the greenery and topiary with our pocketknives, legs, arms, anything we can find. We step back after each house, admire our work, and jump back into Gerard’s car. My mother made me the flannel shirt when I was eleven. It has a pink sky, with yellow flowers in a green field. Spoon works his way up my back with his other hand. Benni sat patiently I the front for the first few houses, but I could tell she was antsy, so I joined her for a while and then let her join the rest of us. I bite Spoon’s soft lips. He hugs me closer. We roll down the green hill we are on, in the middle of Thomas Hardy Park. I wrap my legs around his as we flip, over and over, down the hill. I can feel grass stains on my pants, see tears on his. Spoon holds his smooth hands against my face. I being to furiously grab at his sides, as if I am about to lose him. He pulls back, opens his eyes and says that everything will be fine, that the universe eventually will turn itself inside out but who cares because we are here and now and real and I can feel hot tears on my face streaking down but it doesn’t matter because I exist and will continue to exist and I make a difference with every step that I take and I affect something but I’ll still affect someone in Africa somehow by sitting in a locked up house and there is no way out of it but you can step back and he can take me there, stepping back. It is easy, he explains, to step back. Just calm down. Just BE. Just look up at infinite nothingness and everything and contrast and the northern lights and real beauty not false beauty. Just drink water and forget about how it got to you, or think about it if you want. Think about the pure stream, think about the sweaty workers carrying crates, think about the stinking factory. OR DON’T. says Spoon. I kiss his stomach. I am flying. I am above every major city, flying next to the airports and over the buildings. I am listening to lyric-less jazz. I am tapping my feet and dancing on a roof. I am flying higher and higher. I am with Benni and Spoon. I am at home.