| Did
you say something?
No. I don't think so. Alright. Wait. Did I say something? I think maybe you did. Wow. This is intense. Yeah. I don't even know what you said and it's freaking me out.  english Quentin relates his story with the usual panache between frequent sips of his vodka gimlet. "So, I'm the last bloke on the plane, right? Been out all night playing a gig in Bristol, and barely make it back to London in time to make the flight. And there's not a fucking centimeter of space in the overhead bins, so I've got to put my record bag under the seat in front of me. I'm stuffed into the seat like a salted fucking sardine." "This girl sits down next to me. Fucking blonde American girl. Can't be more than twenty-one, with these little pig tails and a visor and a pair of those fucking dark blue Adidas sweatpants with the white fucking stripes. She sees that I'm carrying some vinyl, and she asks me why. So I tell her I'm a dj, right? Spin records." Quentin stops his story here to take an especially long draw on his drink, fortifying himself, it seems against his tale's approaching conclusion. He exudes the distinctly European odor of expensive cologne and cigarettes. Paige, nestled beneath one of his arms, is all but lost in the voluminous folds of a black, mid-length leather jacket. "So for nine bloody hours I have to sit there while this girl tells me about all of the clubs she's been to, what color her fucking pacifier is, and the stupid fucking names all of the pills she bought from these 'wicked cool British drug dealers'." Quentin embellishes the end of his story by taking a fistful of dreadlocks in each hand, bobbing his head back and forth, and imitating the voice of his traveling companion with a high-pitched squeak. "'Do you know Sasha? I just love Sasha.'" Renzo starts laughing so hard he has to put down his drink. Asking a dj if he knows Sasha is tantamount to asking a rock and roll buff if they've ever heard of The King. "At the end of the flight, she gives me her number, tells me she knows people, says maybe she can hook me up. It was torture, mate. Fucking torture." Renzo picks up his drink and tips it pedantically toward Quentin. "That's what you get for riding coach class," Renzo says. "Bloody right," he says. "I mean, someone famous like you." "What?" "You should wear funny hats and Gucci sunglasses." Quentin finally gets the joke, and raises his middle finger above the rim of his glass. "Right. Fucking superstar dj," he says. They have been standing at the bar for a few minutes. The place has a loungy vibe, a kind of neo-Rat Pack retro, punctuated with dark wood, red velvet wallpaper, and Martini glasses hung readily over the bar. The dance floor is currently empty, and the dj is playing something low and unobtrusively groovy. Renzo, upon entering the joint, had found that Paige and Quentin had only been there for about fifteen minutes, sitting at a table in the corner amongst select members the usual crew. Yoshi and Tate, emanating their usual disconnected cool, sat across from Mondo, Antoine, Alex and Kimmie. Katie was nowhere to be seen. Renzo, wanting a chance to catch up with his friend, had invited Quentin and Paige to the bar for a drink; the offer, he had said with a gesture both indicative and demonstrative, was in defense of his royal fucking treasury. Quentin, having successfully finished his story, gulps down the rest of his gimlet. Renzo, already more than a little drunk from the cocktails he'd swallowed before coming over, is enjoying another generously poured vodka Red Bull. "I'm off to the pisser," says Quentin, leaving Renzo and Paige with the responsibility of obtaining his next drink. Quentin and Paige are what Renzo would designate a nice couple. They have been seeing each other for a little more than a year. If a successful relationship is based on being happy, horny, and generally interested in the same things, Renzo figures the two of them have a bright future. There has been some talk of cohabitation, and Renzo has given his friend a resounding thumbs-up. "How have you been?" she asks. "Living," he says. "We missed you last night," she says. "I went to that other thing." "Downtown?" "Yeah." Paige takes a breath. "I ran into Katie," she says. "She was asking about you." "Yeah?" "She said she hasn't heard from you since that party." He knows the party to which Paige is referring, and he also knows that it is something he doesn't feel at liberty to discuss. A feigned ignorance seems the path with fewest risks. "Really? Which one?" Paige's eyes narrow, and she smiles as if there is an obvious secret that they both share. "Is there any other party I could be talking about?" she asks. Quentin returns from the bathroom. Paige winks at Renzo, kisses Quentin on the cheek, and heads back to the rest of the group at the table. The bartender drops off Quentin's drink, and Renzo, having just finished his own, orders another. "I met your friend Jazz outside." "Did you? Isn't she a fucking trip?" "Yeah. Where do you know her from?" "Paige. Jazz is her yoga instructor. Twist you around in ways you wouldn't believe." Renzo nods, remembering the way she moved. "No. I believe it." "She's also does spoken word. That girl's got fucking flow. She and I have been working on a few things together." "Does it have to do with Saturday night?" Quentin smirks. "Yeah. Keep it open." "I'll see if I can pencil you in. How was the rest of the trip?" Quentin looks at Renzo for a moment, a slow smile creeping over his features. "Bloody good, mate. Nice to be around some rational fucking people for a change." Quentin has just from returned from his home in the UK. He made frequent trips there in order to visit friends and family in Manchester, shop for English vinyl, smoke cigarettes freely in public places, and, having been playing basement clubs and countryside raves since well before he was old enough to drive, spin dj sets at two or three local clubs where he enjoys a mild form of celebrity. "Did you buy some records?" "Yeah. Too many fucking records. Lots of new breaks and garage tracks coming out of London. Never enough quid in your pocket or room in your bag." "Tell me how it was." Quentin, marshalling his thoughts, takes a careful drink of his newly-filled gimlet. "It's like it always is, mate. Wintertime. Cold and wet. The streets are slick, sometimes icy. You walk places, right? You forget about that, living here. Fucking walking, looking out for icy patches on the ground." Renzo nods. "The light's different. The sky's different. Manchester sky is like, like rising smoke, shifting shades of gray, with smokestacks cut against the horizon like church steeples in London. The streets are close. You pass by pubs, with two three or mates blowin' a few quid on a pint, talkin' about their birds or Man United or how the government doesn't know fuck-all about fuck-all, or whatever, but you recognize it, right? Even if you don't hear the words that they're saying." Quentin takes another drink, staring out somewhere beyond them. "You turn down Oldham street and everything just kind of looks right. I mean, things are in the right place. Like I walk into the record shop, and Sid behind the counter is already pulling out a stack of vinyl, and I know I'm going to buy all of it, every single one. People know who you are. I don't know. It's home, mate. It's fucking home." Home. A warm wind, the sun high and undistorted, pinned to the top of the sapphire expanse of the sky like an unflawed diamond holding all of the light in the world. Still and quiet, the air slow and sure, and the mountains a familiar and comforting wall to the east. Reds and yellows, ochres and rust. Shadows are few and precious, and the rocks carry their own heat, storing it against the coming of night. She is out there, waiting, her solid eyes collecting the colors around her like heat and passing them down through her outstretched arm like a river. Time is caught there on the canvas like an insect in amber, and her eyes turn to the west, infused with distance and pain. "Cool, Q. Sounds cool." They sit there in silence for a minute or so, watching the crowd start to ooze onto the dance floor. "And what about you, then?" Quentin asks. "What have you been up to?" Renzo finishes his drink, sliding the tumbler towards the back of the bar. There are things that Quentin may already know, but Renzo doesn't feel as if now is the time to get into them. He keeps the answer short and comfortably non-specific. "Not too much. Work's been real busy. And I've gone to a five or six shows." "Yeah? Anyone good?" "Farina. Anthony Poppa." Quentin nods. "Sounds like you've been burning both ends but good." "I guess." Renzo smiles wanly. "Feels like I haven't been sleeping too much." "That's what you get for hanging out with these fucking degenerates." Quentin says, gesturing to the group at the table. "You're one of them, English." "Bollocks. I can barely stand the lot of you." "Who invited you to this party, anyway?" "Got to keep you out of trouble, mate." Quentin turns back to the bar and takes a sip of his drink. Renzo looks at him, his jaw cut against the neon beer sign on the far wall, the wide shoulders draped in leather, the razzmatazz of dreadlocks sprouting up from his skull. There is something comforting about having him back, an indefinable solidity that sets him apart from the rest of the Tuesday night regulars. Whereas Jazz had seemed to throw things into an enigmatic blur, Quentin seems to do just the opposite, lending the space around them a dense substantiality, grounding them in space and time. Renzo realizes how much he has missed him. Things have changed while he was away. "So," Quentin says. "Just exactly what the fuck is going on with you?" Renzo blinks. "Say again?" "You. Everything alright?" "What do you mean?" "What the fuck do you think I mean, Renzo?" Quentin turns, leaning closer, familiarly combative in the way he has of assuming that people always know exactly what he is talking about. "Is there something going on with you that I should know about?" Quentin, it seems, knows about things that Renzo, at this point in the evening, wishes he didn't. "What are you, my shrink?" "Just answer the fucking question." Renzo shakes his head, dips his chin to the bartender, and then squares his shoulders to Quentin and looks him directly in the eye. "I'm fine." His assertion is followed by a staring match, a schoolyard test of wills infused with machismo and implied violence. Quentin looks him and down, sniffing loudly. "Fucking liar." "What?" "You heard me, mate." "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Arguments are not part of their usual repertoire, and they stand there staring at one another for what seems like two or three seconds too long. Quentin finally breaks it off, looking back out onto the dance floor. "I've been hearing things." "Things. Who says?" "People." "Who people?" Quentin takes a deep breath, pulling his hands back across the coils on his scalp. "Katie. She's worried about you." "Oh." "She said something happened between you guys. Something about a party last weekend." Over the last few days, Renzo has attempted to recall exactly what had transpired at the party in question, but so far the details have failed to become any clearer. Doing so again gives him the same disappointing result. He hesitates, buying some more time. "What does she say about it?" he asks. "She won't tell me a fucking thing. All I know is that she says something is wrong with you." Renzo flinches inwardly, feeling cornered by their concern. What he says next is a knee-jerk reaction, and he regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips. "Katie isn't exactly an unbiased observer." Quentin turns on him fast, the leather in his jacket creaking loudly. "That's a shitty thing to say, Renzo. Fucking shitty and childish." Renzo knows this is so, and doesn't bother to defend himself. "You better get things straight, man. Up here." Quentin leans just a millimeter closer, tapping the side of his head." Think about it. You only got so many friends care fuck all about you when things go pear-shaped. Believe. And it's too late when they stop asking what's wrong, do you know what I mean?" The bartender brings Renzo another cocktail, while Quentin aggressively finishes the rest of his own. He fishes a wad of bills out his pocket, a curious mix of dollars, euros and pounds. Finding a crumpled ten spot, he peels it off the stack and drops it on the bar in front of him. "I wish you two would just fucking do it and get it the fuck over with," he says. "Do what?" "Whatever the fuck it is you need to do to stop giving me such a fucking headache." Needing something to do with his hands, Renzo takes a sip of his drink and doesn't really taste the alcohol. He is straight-up drunk, his head packed in something that feels like warm, wet cotton. Quentin picks up the empty glass in front of him as if he is about to take a drink, then remembers and sets it back down on its cardboard coaster. The bartender comes by and takes it away. Renzo takes another drink, and the wet cotton further liquefies, resulting in an opaque body of water in which he finds himself fully submerged. "You going out afer this?" Quentin asks. "Yeah." Quentin nods. "You know she's going to be there." Renzo, in the middle of another sip, decides to drain the remainder of his cocktail. "I figured," he says, setting the empty tumbler on the bar. "You and Paige coming along?" Quentin doesn't
even bother looking at him when he replies. "Not a chance in fucking Hades," he says. *
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About an hour later, Quentin and Paige are saying their goodbyes, leaving Renzo to settle his bar tab. Kimmie, in a pair of jeans and a tight, v-neck t-shirt, saunters over to the bar and gives him a hug. The embrace is warm, and, with the remnants of the whiskey in him, deliciously suggestive. "Hey, sweetheart," she says. "Kimmie. How are you, love?" "Good, Renz. Coming out tonight? Should I keep you in mind?" He glances down, thinking about it. The ample swell of her chest rises pleasantly to meet his gaze. "Definitely," he says. Kimmie walks away, and Yoshi settles in next to Renzo at the bar to retrieve a credit card. Born and bred in the Inland Empire, Yoshi is an old-skool desert raver , a kind of Asian-American Lost Boy who still makes frequent treks to San Bernardino to spend dusty weekends with his hometown friends. His eyes are an unnatural contact-green, with platinum blonde hair falling over his forehead from beneath a red wool beanie. He wears a blue vest, an orange t-shirt, and a pair of baggy black pants, and everything is emblazoned with familiar logos, each worn with prominence as if they are his family's coat-of-arms. Renzo, having no idea what the answer is, decides to ask him a question. "How old are you, Yosh?" "Me? Twenty-two." Renzo is truly surprised at the differences in their ages. They are separated by almost ten years. "What about you, Renz?" Renzo smiles thinly. "Old, Yosh. Too old." The look on Yoshi's face turns suddenly serious. His skin, smooth and strangely reflective, gives him the appearance of a well-dressed mannequin on display. "Shit, Renz. You ain't old. You a fucking veteran." |
