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Coming up the hill from the T station, I see Chris on our front steps, beer in hand. Smiling, he follows me into the house. The TV is on, his Beastie Boys compilation DVD blaring into the living room. As I collapse onto the couch, he turns the sound down and laughs at me. �Tough day?�
I just sit for a few minutes, not speaking or reacting. I am tired.
Chris reminds me that I agreed to grocery shop with him tonight before the Boyfriend and I head to the show. Grumbling, I drag my tired ass into my bedroom and change. I know that by the time we get back from the store, the Boyfriend�s arrival and our subsequent departure will be imminent, so I need to put on whatever I plan to wear to the Linwood. Not that the Linwood requires any sort of dressing up; I think that as long as I show up with pants, the door staff will let me in, but my work clothes are decidedly inappropriate. On top of which, it�s cold out.
Finally, I pull on my newish pair of jeans and my favorite long sleeved T-shirt, the one I found at Old Navy with the little green spider and the word �creepy� in small letters at the neck. Tying the shoelaces on my Docs, I tell Chris it�s now or never, and we head out the door.
Star Market is fairly empty at 6:30 on a Thursday night. We move quickly through the aisles, filling our cart with food my mother would never approve of. Well, some of it, anyway. I would never bring the chocolate cr�me Oreos home from a shopping trip with her. At the checkout, I continue my streak of always choosing the slowest line. While we wait for the elderly man in front of us to finish paying for his rain check boxes of Special K and 16 tubs of Columbo yogurt and grill the cashier, who looks just like his granddaughter, about her plans for the future, Chris and I peruse the magazines. �You know,� he tells me, �I just don�t think Jennifer Lopez is attractive.�
�No?� I ask.
�Not at all,� he confirms. �I mean, truly, if she showed up at the apartment tonight and offered to have sex with me, I�d say no. And for me, that�s saying a lot.�
I smile. �Yeah, I feel the same way.� Chris and I both laugh. The woman behind us studies the food in her carriage with a sudden huge intensity.
We swing through the McDonalds drive through on the way home, despite the eighty dollars� worth of food in the trunk. We want convenience. I�m on a tight time schedule. Driving back down Hyde Park Ave, I feed Chris French fries as he swerves around the raised manhole covers.
The Boyfriend rings the doorbell before I�ve finished eating my cheeseburger (no onions). I leave him at that table to examine the chocolate Oreos with Chris while I wash my face and reapply my makeup. I�m walking a fine line. Too much will make me look like I�m trying too hard for someone I shouldn�t be trying for. Too little, and my eyes will disappear. With two minutes to spare before we have to leave, I go to brush my teeth and look up the Linwood�s address in the Phoenix. I mostly know where we�re going. At the last second, I call my mom to make sure there�s not a Red Sox game tonight, although I work around telling her where we�re going. I�ll never hear the end of it if she knows we�re off to see the Artboy.
Surprisingly, I find my way to the Linwood without incident. Finding a place to park is another story. We circle through the neighborhood for about 20 minutes before a legal space that will fit the Nanamobile appears. My surprising luck, we�re parked a stone�s throw from the door. I somehow convince the Boyfriend to leave his jacket, brightly emblazoned with the name of his Gigantic Financial Corporation across the front, in the car. I pay the six-dollar cover for each of us to the grouchy bouncer. When the Boyfriend attempts to argue, I point out that I�ve brought him to see my ex-boyfriend�s band. He doesn�t say another word as the bouncer hands me back a five and three singles.
Inside is as dark and dive-y as I remember. It�s early on Thursday, so the crowd is still very thin. A few people watch two men in Average White Boy uniform play pool by the bar. I scan the rest of the room and spot the Artboy up front near the stage. He�s chatting with another band member, drinking orange juice out of a paper carton. He�s got mutton chops, a new addition since I last saw him. He�s in rock star mode. He looks good.
I keep him in my peripheral vision, but don�t go talk to him. Instead, I lean against the counter with the Boyfriend and chat. He tells me about his meeting at work, the ultimatum he�s given his boss, our September Florida plans, the rest of the weekend, anything and everything. 9:00 comes and goes. No band starts playing. I spot Duncan, or at least someone I think is Duncan. He has more hair than Duncan did the last time I saw him. He�s in rock star mode, too. I go use the bathroom. When I come out, I hesitate for a moment between walking over to the Artboy and walking back to the Boyfriend. I see the Boyfriend watching me hesitate. I walk away from the Artboy. I don�t think he�s seen me yet.
9:30 comes and goes. Still no band. The Artboy is in deep conversation with some random little girl. The Boyfriend is starting to look weary. Finally, I give up and walk up front. Brendan, talking to Duncan in the center of the room, steps in front of me before I reach my destination, smiling and saying, �What the hell are you doing here?!� I laugh and hug him. �What do you think? I came to hear Duncan! Oh, and maybe to hear the Humanoids.� Duncan thanks me for coming. �Man, now I hope I don�t suck!� We stand and talk for a minute. Brendan tells me that the order of the evening has changed. The Artboy�s band won�t go on until Midnight, he thinks. This is not good news. I excuse myself to go talk to the Artboy.
He doesn�t see me coming until I�m right in front of him. He�s in the show zone. When he registers my face, he smiles, truly glad to see me. This one is easy for me to spot. I know how he smiles when he�s faking that. I smile back, but say, �So it doesn�t look like I�m going to get to hear you tonight, either.� His face drops. �Why not?�
�Brendan says you aren�t playing until Midnight.�
�Midnight? That can�t be right. Things got a little messed up. The headliner was supposed to be Crack Torch�you remember Crack Torch, don�t you, Jen�but they had to cancel, so another band got added and now Duncan�s going first and we�re third. But I think we�re on before Midnight. Like 11 or 11:30 maybe?� He looks at me as he says the last part, hoping it will be early enough for me to change my mind.
�Well, we�ll have to play it by ear. I�m not sure how long I can convince the Boyfriend to stay.� At that, he realizes the Boyfriend is standing behind me. They exchange hellos. The conversation just hangs for a minute.
I�m standing sideways in between the two of them, trying not to stare at the Artboy. Without even realizing, I reach out and touch one of his sideburns. He laughs, �Yeah, I�m growing those for the summer. Once they get real long, I�ll cut the top of my head.� I smile and pull my hand away from his face.
Behind me, Duncan has taken the stage and launches into his trademark heavy metal spoken word. I love listening to Duncan. He�s pure energy up there. I am almost captivated enough by his words to forget the Artboy is behind me. Eventually, he moves. I never completely lose sight of where he is.
Duncan finishes his set and the first band takes the stage. Their lead singer is a short bald man with a strip of bullets around his waist. The music blows us back away from the stage. We take refuge near the sound booth. From what we can gather, the only prevalent word in all their songs is �FUCK!� Over and over. One song after another.
They make us laugh.
The Artboy walks past us on his way to the bar. He leans over and says, �My band is afraid of this band.� I laugh and tell him so am I. The music is so loud that the only way we hear each other is to speak directly in each other�s ears. That close, I can smell his Artboy scent, the same scent I woke up next to four and a half years� worth of mornings. I could pick him out blindfolded. I feel the Boyfriend�s hand on my shoulder as I turn back to share with him what the Artboy said.
Finally, the last �FUCK!� rings out and the band leaves the stage. The Boyfriend asks the sound guy for the band�s name. He consults his list and tells us they go by Watchmaker. We don�t think their name fits them at all.
The Boyfriend is looking less awake by the minute. I glance at his watch. 10:50. I promise him we�ll only stay for the beginning of the Artboy�s set. He nods. We find a couple empty stools and sit.
The equipment is being swapped. I wander over and chat with Duncan while he tries to sell his CD�s. I contemplate buying one. He tells me about his job with Wonderdrug Records. I ask him some questions about performing spoken word. Other people come over. I drift away, back to the Boyfriend, who is afraid someone will take his seat if he stands up.
The Humanoids step on stage and take their positions. The Artboy sits behind the drums and scans the crowd. I know he can�t see us from there, but I wonder if he knows I didn�t leave. They start playing. I am pleasantly surprised. The band sounds good. I kneel on the stool to get a better look over the heads in front of me.
I have always loved to watch the Artboy play.
As the reverb from their fourth song dissipates, I start to put my jacket on. I�d like to stay and hear the rest of the set, but I know the Boyfriend is ready to go, and I don�t want to push my luck too far. We walk over and say goodbye to Brendan and head out into the blissfully smoke-free Boston air.
The Boyfriend takes my hand as we cut through the Burger King parking lot. �Hey,� I say, �Thanks for coming with me tonight.�
�I had fun,� he insists. I�m not sure it�s not just for my benefit.
The drive home is quick and uneventful. He�s in bed and almost asleep before I come back from brushing my teeth. I settle in next to him and breathe in his Boyfriend scent, the same scent I�ll wake up next to tomorrow, and the day after, and most likely many days after that.
In sleep, my encounter with the Artboy is very different, much less appropriate to describe. At the end of that dream, I dream that I come in to work and write out a detailed account of that encounter and post it to my diary. The dream is jumbled and a little nonsensical. Somehow, the dream entry is linked to the Artboy�s band website and his NGF�s website. The NGF in my dream isn�t the NGF in real life. Instead, she�s the girl from the club, the one the Artboy was talking to when I approached. I am trying to remove the links, but the Artboy and the NGF have already read the entry and the rest of my diary. I am afraid someone will tell the Boyfriend I kissed the Artboy before I do. Although I�m not sure any more that I did kiss the Artboy. Uncle Bob tells me I�m out of his army because my diary is passworded. I can�t remove the password. The dream spirals onward and gets lost into the grayness of sleep.
I wake up this morning with the Boyfriend at my side and my written recount of the night still ahead, no clandestine kisses to confess. We both still have leftover cigarette smoke clinging to our hair. My shower washes off the remnants of last night.
All that�s left is a slight ringing in my ears.
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