ENCORE

A short story

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The band tears through the last chord change and pounds the ending with one sharp: WUNGH!! Before the crowd can even react, the guitars are off, and they are down the stairs, off the stage. No “thank you”. No “goodnight”. No nothing.

When the crowd realizes they have been abandoned, the roar is deafening. The sound follows the band members into the dressing room. Whistles, screams, thumping feet: it builds, holds steady for several moments, fades slightly.

In the dressing room, there is a mad grabbing for beer, water, towels. The six or eight people hiding out there guiltily rearrange themselves, trying to help, wanting to join in the wild energy and adrenaline and excitement that the band brings off the stage with them.

And this isn’t some local club. This is the Olympic Ballroom. And the place is fucking packed.

Gavin grabs a beer from someone, drinks half of it, hands the beer back. He runs a towel over his face. The band members, the four of them, find each other, and huddle for a moment.

“What’s the encore.”

“West Coast?”

“How about the new one.”

“Can we do two?”

“Someone ask the fucking guy if we can do two!”

They break apart again. A moment of calm. Everyone drinks, catches their breath. The crowd noise is coming back, building up. They’re pounding their fists on the stage.

“They’re going apeshit,” says one of the hangers-on.

“What the fuck,” says someone else. “You better get back out there . . . !”

Gavin’s bandmates find each other again and commune without speaking. This is a new level for them. This is a height they have not previously known. The adrenaline sharpens them. The moment fuses the four musicians in an absolute bond.

“What’re we doing?”

“Let’s do ‘Hardwood’, then ‘West Coast’.”

“How about the new one? Then ‘West Coast’?”

“I thought we were doing the other one—”

“Fuck it. ‘Hardwood’, ‘West Coast’ . . . .”

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Back out the door, a quick left up the stage stairs, hurrying now, sweating, squinting in the hot lights.

The crowd cheers, claps, readies itself . . . .

Gavin picks up his Les Paul. Slings the strap over his shoulder. Amp on. Cord in. Volume back to ten.

He strums one chunka chunka, which cuts solidly through the room.

No talking among them. No talking to the crowd. Eye contact. Everybody ready. Drum count in: one . . . two . . .three . . . .

The explosion. The roar. The crowd begins to bounce, sway, undulate. A mosh pit forms, pushing wildly from side to side. This is it. This is the total connect. The barely containable energy that comes from the crowd and ricochets through the band and transports Gavin and the others into a realm they will never be able to describe or quite remember again . . . .

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Afterward, the dressing room is hot and so full Gavin can barely move. The backslaps, the shouts, the beer, the party. The band members are pulled apart, separated, and yet each still knows the exact location of the other three.

Gavin grabs a beer, drinks deep, lets himself be surrounded, congratulated, praised, admired.

“. . . Amazing . . . .”

“. . . Fucking hell . . . .”

“. . . You guys killed . . . .”

He finishes the beer and wriggles to some other part of the room. His body feels wrung out, utterly emptied, and yet the buzz remains, his whole being humming, his body processing the energy overload that will take hours to work its way through his nervous system.

“Gavin! Hey! This is my friend . . . .”

“Hey! Gavin! Over here!”

More people. People shake him. Touch him. Give him another beer. His pants are so soaked with sweat, they start to itch and irritate.

Gavin squeezes through the crowd. He finds a door. He pushes through it, enters a hall, finds another door, smashes through it with his shoulder . . . .

Gavin is suddenly alone, in the back parking lot, standing in the gravel, the night sky dark and softly glowing.

He takes a long, deep breath, though physical calm is not something that will happen anytime soon. He walks further into the parking lot, takes a tight sip from his beer, grinning to myself . . . .

The door opens behind him. It’s James, the bass player. He comes out, stands next to Gavin, hands him the joint he’s smoking.

They stand together. There’s nothing to say. They know. They both know. They smoke the joint.

“That record guy is here,” James says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“He wants to talk to us . . . .”

“Yeah, okay.”

Neither of them speaks. There is no rush. No one is more important than they are tonight.

“Jesus, we smoked ‘em,” says James.

“We did.”

“What the fuck.”

“I know.”

They both stand silently, both take a hit. The weed helps with the come down. It eases you into another state entirely.

“I gotta find Greta,” says James.

“Yeah,” says Gavin. James goes back inside and Gavin starts to follow but then hesitates at the door. This is something that happens more and more.

He turns and walks the other direction, toward the van. He stands in the parking lot gravel, smells the dust of it, the oil of it, studies the backs of the old brick buildings.

This is everything you could ever want, right? Like no one, no sane person, no normal twenty-year-old would walk away from this, right? This is it. This is the dream. This is what you worked for. You have to do this . . . you have to . . . .

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