CHAPTER NINE 

Retracing the Day’s Events 

   Connor’s stare intensified. Now nursing the gaze one gets when committing suicide by strangling their own intestine, he slowed his thoughts down. He knew time would soon be on his side in a good way. That horrid unsure feeling creeping across his mind would pass. Still, he worked diligently to gain back some semblance of normalcy. Unfortunately, a rabble of brain cells behaving quite boorishly refused to return from their siesta. Nevertheless, like a famished baby grasping for the teat of reality, he remained determined to come up with a plan. 

   Instinctually, he clutched onto three basic momentary facts: one, he held in his hand a fortune cookie-thingy that read, “I Buried Paul,” along with several jagged pieces of his precious John Lennon porcelain doll that the message came from; two, there was a good chance he had just invited Wes to become his new roommate; and three, the two were leaving the paranoid phase of the high and fast approaching the end stage known to many as the “giggles.” None of those facts made him happy, but he couldn’t help laughing over them. Laugh, giggle, snort – everything seemed funny. Especially the cheeky shadow by the closet that more than likely wasn’t in any way trying to resemble King Charles – though doing a spot-on job of it, surprisingly so if you’re just looking at its ears. 

   Standing on the other side of the room, laughing at absolutely nothing, was Wes, but in his case, he was literally laughing at nothing – or to be more precise, the concept of nothing in purely mathematical terms. You see, to a mathematician “nothing” meant exactly that: “the absence of anything” – zero, zilch, nada – and yet to a physicist, even in nothing there is something – a good reason why those silly knobs are never invited to Christmas parties. And God forbid you attend a mixer of mathematicians and physicists. What joy that is – with both sets of nerds standing on opposite sides of the room wondering who are the worse at attracting the opposite sex and both concluding by the evening’s end that it had to be the bloody geologists – boring apes, going on and on about their little stones. “Oh, look it’s an igneous rock.” Who cares?!!! 

  Wes giggled some more. After all, the concept of nothing in relation to the calculated probability of a God, now that was worth chuckling over. Giggle, giggle. Nothing amused him more than watching his meandering thoughts float all about the room without parental guidance. If I may take liberty, his thoughts said to no one in particular, I fancy the prospect that before the big bang, if there was nothing, not even time or space, then how could there be something, not even the laws of physics would exist? Could that something be God? The theist certainly would think so. “Pish-posh,” a physicist would counter. “Don’t need that old boot anymore to start things off. After all, God is superfluous to the whole big bang mishigas.” Of course, a theoretical mathematician could never buy into this naked idea of “something more than nothing.” They deal strictly with numbers and concepts, and yet a physicist – with their own peculiar type of smartphone envy – deals with numbers, concepts, and “other” – the other being things that can’t be explained… like consciousness. 

   Bloody consciousness. 

   Wes disdained consciousness. That’s where all the troubles lay or is it lie? Wes might have been a math-whizz, but he was an admitted horror in English grammar. Giggle, giggle. 

   But what if I’m wrong? he thought, his mind hitting up against a wall built of counterargument bricks. Without consciousness, he put forward one brick at a time, you have no life. And isn’t that what separates sentient beings from robots? So, does that mean every living thing has consciousness? Giggle, giggle. Absolutely not! Wes was resolute. No way he would accept any lower life form – like an amoeba – had consciousness – even those working on their college degree. (It is well known that almost all single celled organisms are high school dropouts, but for some unknown reason, the ones that do go to college all major in political science). Ironically, at that exact moment, an amoeba clinging to his calf thought this human had no clue how delicious he tasted – burp – expel contractile vacuole. 

   As for God… well… Wes clung happily to his own well thought out theory, which went something like this: 

God is very much like the number two. Or any other number – after all, he’s God, so he could be the number three or four or even five – but Wes quite liked the number two, so that’s what he stuck with. You see, the number two doesn’t actually exist except in the minds of humans. It’s not like you’re off on a nice stroll along the street, minding your own business, sipping on your Slurpy, when WHAM – you slam into the number two spilling the drink all over yourself. No, the number two, as an entity, as matter, or even as a mindless gubbin, doesn’t exist. And yet, the number is quite functional. Say you want to dig two feet down, or buy two sets of slippers, or return two library books… See, quite an invention of humankind this number. Just like the concept of God, whenever humans need it, they can whip it out and use it for their benefit, but it certainly does not exist in any substantial, materialistic reality… unless, of course, consciousness is real and has an existence outside time and space. Bloody consciousness, fucking things up as usual. 

   If asked, Wes could elaborate further on his God is a number theory, but if so, he would have to break out long division, absolute numbers, and what he termed “quantum decimal points,” a branch of math he totally invented one evening while watching a repeat episode of the television show, “Friends.” Suffice it to say, his total inflexibility in demanding that the new unit in his math formula be called the “Rachel” became just another glaring reason why he got fired from his last job. 

   Meanwhile, only a few feet away, yet a philosophical galaxy apart, Connor flopped down on the Shrine’s ugly plaid sofa to rehash the day’s events. His eyes stayed glued to the big hand on the Beatles’ wall clock ticking closer and closer to Ringo’s nose, bringing the time to four in the morning. ‘Where do I start?’ he asked himself, hoping to accidentally fall into some answers. 

   ‘Wait, I know this,’ he conspicuously said out loud though he had no problem hearing himself silently. ‘Let me think for a second.’ 

   He paused… then paused some more… chortled a bit… then did that little weird head tilt dogs do… then mixed some more pausing with some good ol’ fashioned hesitation, and then admitted, ‘Er, this might take a minute.’ 

   The evening started off simple enough, he remembered that rather well. We had a gig at the Dirge Club in the Melrose district. He closed his eyes allowing his memory to retrace his steps. Music and shadows instantly filled his head. Soon, images sharpened into a flock of nightclub patrons milling outside on the sidewalk. He could clearly see them as he floated above in the Melrose District, a decent enough part of town, certainly worth hanging out in if one rooted about only as a memory with no tangible attached body. Like a ghost in the night, Connor’s memory hovered over the crowd looking down on the ample cleavage of several cuties before it dissolved away like a puff of black smoke only to reappear inside the “Dirge,” a trendy music bar. 

   Connor smiled. Being a memory had its advantages, mostly not having to pay the two-drink minimum. 

   The club advertised itself as “très Hollywood marvelous,” which basically meant a large black box with a high ceiling, wooden beams, and a well-deserved inferiority complex. The décor, like most Hollywood clubs, wasn’t meant for show, but to show, in particular to show off the bands that played at the club, and, of course, the famous stars that inconspicuously hung out to be seen. At that point in his memory, Connor could see standing on a small, rounded stage a four-piece grunge band that went about calling themselves – at least according to the name on the bass drum – “The Kreb Cycle.” They played loud and hard, and stomped about like they knew what they were doing. Each band member sported the ubiquitous anti-establishment grunge uniform of ripped black jeans, long shoulder-length hair, and a tight t-shirt to show off their scattered tattoos. Contrary to their appearance, each guy took their music seriously making them a nice, tight-knit group, belting out with inordinate energy, “About a Girl,” Nirvana’s treatise to the sixties. 

   The only thing off was the color on their faces. Each stood hideously awash in a reddish-orange light with splashes of beige and avocado green, a horrific color even for a grunge band. Connor’s memory suddenly noticed a mental note lodged within it to talk to the club manager about the light gels after the gig – which of course he completely forgot to do. The band was led by their frontman and lead guitarist, Zeke Laugernaut, an absolute prototype of the youthful, attractive, arrogant, “fuck-you” rock and roller. He embodied the complete package, totally appealing in that musician-come-hither-unemployed-I-need-a-bath look. Naturally, the girls went nuts for his sultry good looks and long greasy hair falling down his slender, sweaty face and into his mouth… which he constantly had to blow out. Here stood a splendid artist. Totally engrossing to watch, especially when he brushed his glossy, thirty-three-year-old lips across the mesh of the microphone like the two were making love – and with neither him nor the microphone afraid of catching Herpes from the other. It was all good: his deep raspy voice, his sharp Fender guitar riffs, his dark brooding style. A hyper-table of five young Seattle fans thought so too, yelling: ‘Nirvana, baby,’ and ‘Seattle rocks,’ and even ‘Woohoo!’ 

   Connor’s memory didn’t stay still. It continued to move, hovering over the entire club taking in the six green booths, the two bar areas, the wait staff, and the many empty small, rounded wooden tables. The room’s total capacity could hold over two hundred patrons, but tonight it held a small crowd of only thirty-or-so. Through his memory, he could see himself standing rigidly at the back of the club working behind the band’s mixing console barely bopping his head up and down to the beat. He didn’t have much to do during this song other than turn the volume up to “loud,” so, he glanced around, bored, until his eyes rested upon a table where the “Cyclets,” the band’s girlfriends, sat. 

   There were four of them, each slutty-cute, but the one he couldn’t take his eyes off of was Alyson Hogan. Now she was special – at least to him – and apparently Zeke, her boyfriend. She wasn’t model gorgeous, wouldn’t find her strutting down a catwalk by any means other than in jest, but something about her grabbed onto you. Unique would come to mind, and fresh, and different. Her spiky auburn hair molded into a work of art, and her precious ocean blue eyes were aglow. Best of all, though, had to be her kickass smile, not that it would launch a thousand ships, but it did launch a dimple that could intoxicate the best of men. She dressed funky with a mixture of conservative chic meets purposeful disobedience, all for the purpose of clubbing her inner average Michigan plain Jane to death. Indeed, her fashion sense came from being a twenty-six-year-old mid-western gal with little money, but with the awesome hope of someday becoming the rebellious type. 

   She wasn’t the fawning groupie type either. To her, those gals who cling onto celebrities like moss onto a rock were just another form of “bitchcraft”. In fact, she seemed restless having seen Zeke’s show a buttload of times – a buttload being more than twelve and less than sixteen. Her energy, though, perked up the second she caught Connor’s stare. When she smiled at him, his heart skipped a beat. That dimple… That smile... radiant and compelling… it could tie a knot in his intestines while leaving him breathless, not unlike a fish trying to swim in the Los Angeles river in the summer. She raised her beer and winked at him. His testicles, like Christmas bells, jingled a tune as he blushed and returned his attention back to his mixing board. It didn’t take a genius to see he was smitten. 

   In a whoosh, Connor’s memory, like black rain, dissipated away from the club only to reassemble in the Dirge parking lot later that night. The time had travelled well past last call and Zeke struggled to shove his workhorse Vox AC30 amp into his compact Eco car no bigger than one of his shirt pockets. The tired Englishman, his voice raw from screeching Nirvana songs all night, lowered his six-foot frame down to trunk level. Drained of energy, and more than likely a tad sauced – (Three Amstel beers and two Alabama Slammers did the trick) – he wobbled about pushing and shoving his amp forward inch by inch. (Alabama Slammer: Pour a half ounce of slow gin, one ounce of amaretto, one ounce of Southern Comfort, and a dash of lemon juice into your mouth and shake by banging your head against a wall). 

   Connor then saw himself walking towards the rocker in a pissy, anxious mood. ‘Well, that sucked,’ he heard himself say. 

   ‘What do you mean?’ Zeke volleyed back, his unmistakable Sussex accent echoing across the sad, indifferent parking lot. 

    ‘What do you mean, what do you mean?’ 

   ‘They loved us.’ 

   ‘No, they didn’t. And that’s beside the point. We used to pack this place.’ 

   ‘Yeah, when we were a bloody cover band.’ 

   ‘You’re still a cover band! Just a Nirvana cover band.’ 

   ‘That’s not a cover band, mate. That’s a tribute band—’ 

   ‘We played Beatles, dude. Pink Floyd, The Who, Zeppelin, Stones… had them lining out the door.’ 

   ‘If you play it, mate, they will come.’ 

   ‘Not Nirvana. They don’t have enough songs. Your sets last like twenty minutes. And where the hell are the others?’ 

   ‘I’m here, am I not?’ 

   ‘A band meeting, dude,’ complained Connor, ‘I called for a band meeting, not a lead singer… 

   Just then, in mid-sentence, the shyest of the young Seattle girls who had cheered the band on during the show interrupted them. ‘Hey,’ she said with a slight trammel. 

   Zeke turned to the girl, smiled, and poured on the charm. ‘Heeey...’ 

  She brushed her long silky blond hair behind her Northwestern bleached white ears and purred through her nervous smile, ‘You were great tonight.’ 

   ‘You think?’ 

   ‘Oh, yeah, you rocked.’ 

   ‘I did, didn’t I.’ 

   ‘Listen, I was, um… kinda, y’know, wondering... maybe you’d wanna… come back to my hotel?’ 

   ‘Sure. Absolutely,’ responded Zeke without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Sounds fun.’ 

   Connor cleared his throat and shook his head ever-so-slightly causing Zeke to look over. 

   ‘Why not?’ asked the rocker. 

   Connor mumbled into his closed fist, ‘Meeting.’ 

   ‘What?’ 

   ‘We have a...’ Connor motioned the rest of the sentence with his head as if Zeke should understand where his loyalties should lie. 

   ‘Yeah, but this is important,’ explained Zeke. 

   ‘So is the meeting.’ 

   The rocker grumbled out an irritated breath before giving in. ‘Right. Skivvies.’ He turned to the Seattle girl. ‘Er... listen, darling… Leave your room number. Buy us three or four drinks… each. I’ll come join you. Par-taaay.’ 

   ‘Sure,’ she said, triumphantly searching for something to write on. ‘You have a...’ 

   ‘Oh, ah... yeah…’ Zeke half-heartedly looked for a pen before turning to Connor. ‘You have a...’ 

   ‘Of course. I always have a pen to help you get laid.’ 

   Connor handed the grateful girl a black Sharpie marker. She wrote the room number and hotel name on Zeke’s palm. 

   ‘Mural Motel,’ read Zeke, pressing closer to the young hopeful lass. ‘Great—’ 

   ‘Okay, then. Um, see you in a hitch.’ She backed away, beaming, proud of her daring, and, quite frankly, her new-found boldness. 

   ‘Right. Okay. Ta-ta.’ He watched her stroll away, her posture now straighter than when she arrived. Even her hair seemed shinier by a few degrees – though that certainly could have been Zeke’s imagination or smartphone envy playing tricks on him. 

   Out of earshot, Zeke spun back to his car with his night’s prospects definitely picking up. Excited, he quickened his pace. ‘Right,’ he said, shoving his amp into his car with no more concerns of scratching it, ‘let’s do this quick ‘fore she changes her mind.’ 

   ‘This isn’t working.’ 

   ‘I’m pretty sure it is.’ He stuck his hand down his pants and pulled out a codpiece. 

   ‘Not that. This! Th-the band!’ 

   ‘Oh, don’t be such a Debbie-downer, mate.’ 

   ‘I have to. I have to be a Debbie-downer. I’m the only one paying attention to our finances. And where’s the original songs you promised?’ 

   ‘Dude —’ 

   ‘Ah, come on, Zeke.’ 

  ‘It’s not easy, mate! Y’know I’m laced with writer’s block. Nothing goin’ on. No… no inspiration. No… muse.’ 

   ‘You’ve got Alyson!’ 

   ‘Yeah, well… she was spiffy for a bit, right... y’know—’ 

   ‘She’s your girlfriend!’ 

  ‘I know, man. I love her and all. I mean, she is my life, but... Oh, shit…’ he sputtered out, remembering, ‘…can you drive her home while I bang this Seattle chick? 

   ‘You want me to drive your girlfriend home?’ 

   ‘Would yah, love? Thanks. And listen...’ He got into his car. ‘We’ll do everything you say. You’re a fan-tab manager, boss. The band really believes in you.’ 

   And with that, Zeke slammed his tiny car door shut and drove off.