Rockstar
By Anthony Newton
Blaze was almost ready to get on stage. The previous band had packed up their gear, and all he had to do was plug in his guitar and play.
There were only about thirty people in the bar, but that was still enough to set his gut churning. He went to the can and took his third shit in an hour. He read the toilet graffiti, it helped somehow.
“Free poop for the revolution,” and, “Nice guys don’t get laid.”
“You can say that again,” he muttered.
Blaze went to his table and sucked back another beer in three gulps. His bowels grumbled. Almost time to play—five more minutes.
He looked at the crowd. Most were friends of the other bands. His group didn’t have any friends. They were new.
Three minutes.
He got a tequila shot from the bar, slammed it back, stepped outside and lit a smoke—his fifth in an hour.
“Are you in the band?” Some guy asked.
“Yeah, I’m in ‘Crow Party.’”
“Crow Party? Weird name.”
“I like it.”
“I like it too.”
“Thanks, I have to go play, see you inside.”
Blaze tossed the half smoked cigarette and walked in towards the stage, his stomach churned and asshole trembled.
“Fuck.” He said, and turned towards the toilet. It was always this way: The nerves, the drink, the smokes, the shit, someone asking if he was ‘in the band.’” They only asked because they were in the next band, and wanted him to hurry up so they could play. And while you’re playing, they’re all outside smoking, shitting, and writing on the stalls.
It’s time. He pulled up his skinny jeans, tightened his studded belt and crossed the bar to the stage. Nobody looked at him--but this would change.
He plugged in his guitar, said, “Hi, we’re Crow Party, and played the first song, “Communism sucks.” They played ok, but he went out of tune and there wasn’t enough vocal in the monitor.
By the third song they were warmed up. His bassist was jumping on and off the stage. Blaze got excited and swung his guitar hard, knocking over the microphone and spilling a beer on a kid in front. The sound guy would be pissed.
During the fifth song, “I’d die to make your babies,” he noticed the only hot girl in the bar giggling with her friends and gawking at him. That’s the way it is—you’re invisible until you hold court, and then you become a beacon of sexuality—but it’s a disguise.
He finished the last song, “If I go to Hell, I’ll still be polite,” hurled his $200 guitar against the wall and stumbled off stage. For guest list privilege, his friends would load the gear for him. His stomach was calm.
The next band started playing. They were generic and fake, so Blaze went outside for a smoke. Outside he saw the pretty girl chatting with her friends. They were still looking at him. The fat one approached. It was always the fat one. They have thick skin from years of rejection.
“You were really good up there.” She said.
“Thanks, we practice a lot.”
He wished the hot girl would talk to him.
“My friend thinks you’re really hot, so do I.”
“Guitars make me sexy, without them, I’m not much.”
“Do you want to meet my friend?”
“Sure.”
She waved at her friends, motioning them over. The hot one walked the quickest.
“You’re a really great singer,” She said.
“Thanks.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here….Vancouver.”
“Where do you work?”
“What’s this? An Interview?”
She laughed and played with her long blond hair. He’s never had a blond girlfriend. Blonds liked guys with big muscles, and long torsos. Blaze was 5’7”, 150 pounds.
She touched his arm, “You’re funny. What are you doing after the show?”
“I have to take my gear back to the jam space, and then drive my band home.
“Oh,” she said.
He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t used to talking to pretty girls, and this one was way out of his league—but he’s managed to momentarily fool her, like a deer blinded by the headlights.
“Wanna see the band room?” He asked.
“….What’s in there?”
“All kinds of cool stuff.”
“Umm, ok.”
Blaze led her through the back room past a bunch of people hunched around a table sniffing white stuff up their nose. The walls were covered in hundreds of little band stickers.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
“Lucy. Yours is Blaze.”
“Yep.”
“He took her down the stairs to the main room. Old chairs, dirty floor, exposed plumbing, musky smell.
“This is the band room,” he said.
“Ok,” she replied, unimpressed.
They stood quietly, looking around. What would Mick Jagger do?
He stepped forward, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, with one hand squeezed her ass, and the other her breast. She let him. He should have started a band years ago.
Lucy pulled back and looked at him.
“Did you just bring me down here to make out with me?”
“No….I wanted to show you the band room.”
“It stinks, and you taste like beer.”
“Do you have any gum?”
“No.”
“Umm, ok. Let’s go upstairs.”
Some rockstar. He took her hand and brought her upstairs. At the drug table a young girl was puking behind the couch while a guy held her hair and patted her on the back. The fat friend bounced up to them. “Lucy, where have you been?” She eyed Blaze suspiciously. “We’re going dancing. Do you want to go dancing?”
“I’m not much of a dancer, and I have to unload gear.”
Lucy wanted to dance, so Blaze got her number, unloaded the van and went home.
The next day he called Lucy.
“Hello?” She answered.
“Oh hi, this is Blaze.”
“Oh, hi Blaze.”
“Umm, what are you doing today?”
“Just watching American Idol.”
“I can’t stand that show.”
“I like it.”
“Well, let’s meet up for coffee.”
“I’m too hungover today.”
“You were drunk?”
“Yeah, wasted. Hey, I’ll call you back ok. I have to go.”
“Uh, ok, I’ll call you later.”
“Sure, bye.” She hung up.
Blaze called her again the next day….no answer. Then again the next….the same. He called her twice a day for the next four days until she finally picked up.
“Oh, hi. It’s Blaze.”
“Blaze, why do you keep calling me? It’s weird.”
“I thought you liked me.”
“I have a boyfriend ok? I’m sorry, I have to go.” She hung up.
“Blaze lit a smoke, took a long drag, put it down and picked up his guitar. He played for five minutes before putting it away. He didn’t need to practice. His next gig was a month away.
