Our work schedules also didn’t meet up. Dave worked late morning to early afternoon for a large telemarketing firm selling insurance. When I asked what type of insurance he just said, “The types we all need,” and left it at that. Warren spent the day as a bicycle courier in Manhattan, but he would often leave the house at six a.m. to get in some extra riding. Frank often missed rehearsal because he was a sommelier at a just opened trendy restaurant called Le Petite Cageot, and often didn’t get home until three or four in the morning. Peter worked third shift as a lab technician at Mount Sinai Hospital. From what little I gathered he did something with blood, but Peter spent most of his time in his room so we didn’t talk much. My work as a lighting designer for MTR Lightening was picking up. We had a handful of large events coming up so I was spending a lot of time meeting with clients and drafting. Much of the work I did from home, so I fairly quickly became attuned to the patterns of my new housemates.
When one of them was home, they gave me my space as we all got used to each other. Warren did spend three hours the second night in the house setting up his sound system in the living room. It appeared to be cobbled together from the history of sound reproduction. Fancy sleek modern black speakers, plywood subwoofers, strange components with vacuum tubes, and a thousand dials and sliders that he spent forever tweaking. And miles of cables and wires and cords. I paid attention for about fifteen minutes as he exuberantly explained to me what he was doing and about the vast superiority of each individual until over all the other similar devices ever devised. Quickly I gave up. When he finally got it up and running, I had to admit it was the best of whatever it was. He immediately hooked up his Xbox 360 and logged onto the internet.
“You, Allen,” Warren declared, “are going to get an account right now. And then you’ll join my online Halo 3 clan. Clan Equus. And I shall school you in the kick ass art of schooling.” So, many nights were spent with Warren and I, miked headsets on our skulls and controllers in hands, shooting at fourteen-year-old boys all over the world. At first, Warren became a bit frustrated with my lack of ability at videogames, but by the second week my reflexes had improved and we had a fair amount of teamwork going. It was exhilarating to tap into that primal competitive zeal. Warren trash talked non-stop, leaning farther and farther forward on his chair. Most games ended with someone thousand of miles away yelling that they would “fuck our moms” or that we were “noobs” or “hella gay.” Sometimes they would end up crying. At first it bothered me, but I noticed that even when Warren didn’t trash talk, the same thing would happen anyway. Whenever we player each other, I would be lucky to get off a shot, and I spent most of the time watching my virtual corpse just lie there.
Warren also taught me what “corpse humping” was. Many many times.
On the rare occasion Frank was home and not writing music in his room, he’d whip something up in the kitchen. His treats couldn’t be called “meals” because they were always so small. Always perfectly crafted and beautifully plated, but tiny little things. His “nachos” was a plate of ten tortilla chips, handmade and fried, each with three beans, a sliver of grilled steak and some odd cheese he’d discovered at a market in Queens near their rehearsal space. Each bite was delicious, but I often found myself sneaking into the kitchen looking for something more substantial when he’d gone back upstairs.
It was rare that Peter and I crossed paths. Whenever he came home, he would quickly shuffle up to the top floor and close himself in his room. I really had no idea what he did in there or what his room even looked like. The door was always closed. Sometimes I’d hear muffled unidentifiable music coming from inside. And there was a smell. Very slight and not bad, per se, but a smell nonetheless. Kind of a sweet bitter smoky organic metallic smell. You couldn’t sense it anywhere except right outside his door. I tried not to think about it.
Dave and I ended up spending quite a few late nights watching TV and drinking a beer. It was oddly nice. Just nice. Just sharing time with someone else, not an ounce of pressure or expectation. Just me and Dave and the TV. He really enjoyed The Daily Show with Jon Steward. He said it “cracked him up,” although it was hard to tell because Dave didn’t really laugh. He’d smile, smirk, grin, beam, snicker, tehee. Once I even heard him giggle. But never laugh. Dave would often comment on the news and events but never with a lot of emotion. Just very matter of factly.
He said he found The Colbert Report “curious.”
One day, he came in as I was watching CNN. There had just been an industrial plant explosion in Germany, and the reporter was saying that at least seventy-five people were dead.
“Makes you think,” Dave said as he sat down on the couch. “Each of those Germans woke up, kissed their wife or hit their frau or masturbated in the shower or fed their dog, and just went about their day. And then, Allen, boom. Just boom. Either they were killed instantly or burned or fell or were crushed. One asphyxiated in a janitor’s closet, hiding from the flames. And it wasn’t because anything they’d done. It wasn’t a karmic pimp slap. This event isn’t some balancing of the Universe because of the Holocaust or knockwurst or Kraftwerk. It just is, Allen. But what about that one guy who fell asleep at his post and missed the warning light as the secondary furnace started to over heat? Nope. No pay back. No reason. It just is. You just get to live each day and each moment. Not as if it is your last, because that would be filled with panic and fear. Just take each second and be in it, Allen.”
Dave and I sat there in silence, watching the sickly smoke pour from the building on the screen. Finally, Dave grabbed the remote from me and said, “Hey, Gigantor is on the Toon Network. I gotta to see some space age robot action.”
Three weeks into my new housing situation, Jake called on a Saturday afternoon. “When was the last time you talked to Oscar and Julie? I have to admit, I haven’t been so good since they moved to the Bronx, but the Oscarmayer just rang me. They’re having a CD release party at Hanks Saloon tonight. He mentioned you. Wanted to know how you were hanging in. How are you hanging in? New roomies working out?”
I could hear Warren shouting at the TV downstairs. Dave was actually sitting at my computer playing Minesweeper. Frank had decided that I was ignoring my backyard and was weeding the flower beds. Peter was home but shut up in his room as usual. “It’s good,” I said. “We get along pretty well. You were right, Jake. This was what I needed.”
“That’s great,” Jake said. “Bring them along tonight. I’d like to meet them. Tu homies es me homies. Unless they are too cool for a little country hip-hop. Is so, they can bite my big old ass.”
For once, no one was working that night. They had planned on getting some rehearsal time in but it took no effort to sway them to come out. Even Peter seemed excited about the prospect. I immediately got nervous about mixing my old world with my new world. You never know how things will work out. It's like mixing medications. Jake can be larger than life and hyper-blunt in his good-natured way. And my housemates were certainly unique and had their quirks. I could see Dave charming and relating to anyone, but the other three were all extreme in their own way. And Oscar and Julie’s band was, well, different.
For the last three years they had been in the HayZeedz. It was mish-mash of hip-hop and country/bluegrass, or what Oscar liked to call “hick-hop.” Oscar and Julie both sang and rapped, and they were backed by a guitar, bass, drummer, fiddle and turntable. It was fun music that got people out of their chairs and bouncing their heads. But I didn’t even know what type of music Chapter Six played, much less if they would enjoy this. Yet they all seem enthused.
“Dude,” exclaimed Warren, “if it’s up, if it’s pumped, we’ll like it. Even if it blows, we have some tact and will be nice. Or we'll bail if we hate it too much.” Slapping me on the shoulder, he said, “You need to relax, dude. Pull that stick out of your ass and beat something with it!”
Hanks Saloon was a true-to-god dive country biker bar in the heart of Brooklyn. Sitting on the edge of a Muslim neighborhood and a row of antique dealers and a stones throw away from a Target, it managed to keep itself honestly grungy and honky-tonk. Rough looking, rundown, painted in black and ceiling reaching flames, it opened every morning (except Sunday) at 8 a.m. for people who just can’t wait until after breakfast for their first drink. At night, the grunge was less noticeable if only because the lighting was so poor. And of course, as with anything genuine, it was quickly adopted by “hipster,” but Hank's managed to remain sincere.
When we arrived at 10 p.m., it was close to packed and the HayZeedz were setting up on stage. As we entered I felt like we were our own mini-horde, quickly surveying the room, immediately being noticed by those near the door. Dave particularly loomed large with his bright yellow silk-screened Tupac t-shirt. Julie noticed us as we moved through the crowd and rushed down to meet me. Throwing her arms around me, she hugged me hard and said, “Oh, Allen, how are you? How are you doing? Are you okay? Are you?”
I pulled away and took both her hands, trying to be reassuringly firm. “Yes. I’m good. Congratulations on the CD.” Sometimes sympathy can be stifling and just draws the hurt back to the surface. Will there ever be a time I don't see that pitying look in friends' eyes?
I quickly introduced her to the four. Jake had already shot off to greet the two dozen people he just happened to know in the bar.
Dave took Julie’s hand in both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. “Julie, Allen has nothing but good things to say about your band, so I am ready to be impressed. Are you beer-while-playing types or water-while-playing types? I’m thinking you, the sweet girl with the fiddle, that bassist and that guitarist are all beer people. And this seems like a Pabst Blue Ribbon type place. PBR all that way.” Julie nodded, slightly taken aback. “Right. And water for the rest. Well, they’re on us as long as you return the favor and come to our gig.”
Julie responded, “Oh, you’re in a band. When are you–“
“We’re not. Yet. But soon. Be right back,” and the four of started pushing their way to the bar.
“I’m renting rooms in my house to them,” I explained. “You know, extra money and, well….”
Julie leaned in and gave me another hug. “I understand. I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve missed you tons.” And she slipped back towards the stage. Oscar caught my eye and gave one of his nonchalant head bobs in my direction.
I was hoping to find a chair or a stool. I get uncomfortable standing before the band starts playing. Not physically uncomfortable but emotionally. I never know what to do with my body, specifically my hands. They keep going in and out on my front pockets, then my back pocket. Then I’ll try crossing my arms, but then I feel like I’m standing in judgment so I uncross them, but then I feel like a mannequin so I start the process all over again. Nothing was available, so I tried to at least make my way to the wall so I’d have something on which to lean.
Just as I got to an open wall space, I felt a tap on my elbow. Peter handed me what appeared to be a double scotch on the rocks. In his other hand he held a martini with six or seven olives. In a martini glass. I didn’t think Hanks had martini glasses but there it was. He took a sip and said, “Man, I dig this place. It has a feel, you know? A real feel.”
Dave, Frank and Warren were at the stage handing out drinks. They had a carefree vibe that I so wanted to emulate. Even with their odd behavior, they seemed to just accept everything around them and their place in it. Well, not Peter. But maybe that was just because I’d never seen him out of the house. He seemed fine at Hanks, less slouched and less preparing to take a nap. Either way, they were just so comfortable in their own skins, as if they had been in them for eons and nothing was going to change that. I wanted that level of self-assuredness. As opposed to feeling that I had to assure everyone that I was “okay.”
The band finished their sound check and the crowd started to shift its focus to the stage. Oscar picked up his mike and gave it a few raps of his finger.
“How ya’ all doin’, Brooklyn?!” An immediate already buzzed chorus of hoots bounced back at him. “Thank you all for coming out to our shindig. We’re celebrating the release of our brand new CD, Ho-Down ‘Ho!” Hoot, hoot, hoot! “So, without any delay, let’s get this party started!”
The drums and the bass kicked in, soon to be matched by the fiddle. By the time the turntable started scratching, people were already bouncing up and down. As Oscar and Julie launched into the harmonies of A Man of Constant Sorrow, they had the crowd going full tilt. Peter inched his way away from the wall to get in the mix, splashing his drink as he went. I stayed in my spot, sipping my scotch, enjoying the music and the scene, but still feeling a bit like an outsider. Looking down at my drink, thoughts entered my head. Does this feeling go away? When can I get away from this feeling that I’ve lost my chance at happiness? Is this it? Will I always be this sad? That last came as a sudden slap. Admitting that I was actually unhappy, that I was truly feeling on the edge of surrender to my own melancholy, hit me in a wave of awareness.
I looked up to see Dave, Warren, Frank and Peter all near the front of the stage looking back at me. They were all waving me towards them. Warren was so short I would never had seen him except he kept jumping violently into the air, his arm frantically trying to pull me to the floor from 20 feet away. I downed my drink in one burning swallow and slammed my body into the masses.
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