13: Scoring
A musty mist hovered over the patrons of Taylor's Bar.
Close at Michael's heels, Anthony waded through dusty, bottle infested tables.
Individuals, slouched at tables or at the bar, gazed downward. Some nursed
beers. Others chugged shots of a harder ale. And a few lay their torsos across
table or countertop, eyes either rolling in their heads or shut.
"A
funeral was held today for John Frusciante," a bass voice monotoned. Turning his
attention toward the television, Anthony saw a black and white mug shot of John.
The screen flashed, and a scrawny, middle aged newscaster took its place.
"Frusciante, a member of the band The Red Hot Chili Peppers, died last Monday
when he fell out the window of his eighth story room at the..."
Ner, ner!
Ner-ner! Ner,ner! Ner-ner!
An electric guitar blasted the familiar tune
from a smoke filled stage in the corner of the bar. Long, limp blond strands
hung over the guitarist's eyes and shook as he repeated the sequence. Drumsticks
clenched in filthy fists raised and crashed down on the drum set behind the
guitarist and thumped out a heavy beat.
The guitar softened, and a ragged
voice came in.
"Load up on guns, bring your friends
It's fun to lose
and to pretend
She's over-bored, self-assured
Oh no, I know a dirty
word
"Hello, hello, hello, how low?
Hello, hello, hello, how
low?..."
"Hey!"
Anthony glanced over as Michael clasped his palm
into another man's hand.
"How's it going, brother?" Michael asked the man
with a grin. The lean, sunken eyed other shrugged.
"Not too bad," the guy
leaned into a gray cigarette. He slurped noisily at the filter and held it over
an ash tray. "Been pretty good working the hole. Can't complain."
Michael
nodded and leaned against the bar. He gazed back at the man. "So, are you
anywhere?"
Sighing, the man held up his hands. A flat-lipped grimace
crossed his face. "Nah, I'm clean for the time being. I'm figuring I'll be on
the nod by the time I leave here though. This is the place..."
"Hello,
hello, hello, how low?
Hello, hello, hello, how low?..."
Anthony
glanced over his shoulder, at the stage. The band flailed about the stage, the
drummer wailing into his set, guitarist headbanging, lead singer thrashing on
the floor. The singer's black tangled locks mopped the floor as the guitar riff
set sail. The drummer bounced off his stool to the beat, the backward crimson
baseball cap on his head threatening to fly away.
The guitar softened,
and the singer got to his knees. He leaned over his legs, his snarled hair
curtained over his face, as he laid into the next verse:
"And I forget
just why I taste
Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard, it
was hard to find
Oh well, whatever, nevermind
"Hello, hello, hello,
how low?..."
"I'd be careful, man," the feeble, middle aged guy beside
Michael warned. "Not only is this place about to burn down, but, last week, this
one guy showed up here selling hot shot."
"Sh**!" Michael exclaimed, eyes
widening. "You serious?"
The man raised a hand like he was taking an
oath, and nodded. "I swear. But the junky the pusher was trying to fool wasn't
stupid. He bought it anyway, took it as a sign that someone wanted him dead.
Took it as his cue to skip town."
"Damn!" Michael shook his
head.
Ner nernerner nerner!
Ner ner!
From onstage. Drums broke
in.
Du dududu dudu
And vocals:
"So-n, she said
Have I
got a little story for you
What you thought was your Daddy
Was nothin' but
a..."
The withering man's crooked raised arm caught Anthony's attention.
A bony finger pointed across the room.
"That cat might be able to take
care of you."
"Thanks, man!" Michael patted the guy's poofy, oversized
sports jacket sleeve. Dust flew from it as Michael's palm tapped it.
The
singer skid to his knees and wailed into the smoke.
"Oh I'm oh I'm still
alive
bay hey yahi oh-
I'm still alive..."
Michael tugged at
Anthony's sleeve, and the two shuffled across the bar, to a gaudily attired
individual who looked like he'd just come out of the Godsmack "Greed" video. His
thin, cracked lips puckered into a twisted sort of smile as his dark eyes
shifted from one Chili Pepper to the other.
"Good evening, boys!" He
butted his head like a steer toward the newcomers. "Have a seat at the table!
You're blocking my view of the show!"
Michael slid across the faded red
vinyl cushion and stopped just a foot away from the man. Anthony plopped down
beside Michael, at the seat's edge. Gesturing toward the stage, he asked, "Who's
that playing?"
The gaudy guy snorted. "RadioActive, I think. I don't
know! Just some local cover band! The singer and the drummer aren't too bad, but
that guitarist sucks!" Gold capped teeth peered through his
sneer.
Michael nodded, staring after the band a minute before turning
back to the man. "Somebody told me you might be holding."
The guy swiped
sweat from his forehead with an already grease stained once white tweed sports
jacket. He snorted and nodded. "Yeah, I'm holding." A crooked smile swept across
his pudgy, bristled face. "But this ain't tea or C or M!"
"H?" Michael
offered.
"No. What I've got here is a Mexican delicacy. You boys ever try
peyote?"
Anthony shook his head.
"Once," Michael replied, his
eyes lighting up. "That junk is crazy!"
"It's great sh**."
Digging
around in his trouser pockets, Michael pulled out several bills and slid them
under the table. The man pulled them from Michael's grasp and counted them. He
scowled.
"It's worth more than this!" the man sneered.
Michael
shook his head, his lips pursed. "It's going to dry up over the next day and a
half, and then NOBODY will buy it."
Shrugging, the man dropped a plastic
bag on the cushion beside him. He slid across the seat, nodded his head to the
pair, and disappeared into the mass of barely breathing bodies.
Michael
grabbed the bag. Turning to Anthony with a ridiculous grin, he said, "You are
going to LOVE this sh**!"
Anthony's head was reeling as he stared at the
plastic bag. Through its clear, crinkled exteriour, he could see what looked
like avocado salad inside. A grubby waitress approached, and Michael stuffed his
loot under the cushion.
"You boys want anything to drink?" She snapped
her gum and chewed it like cud. Her weary eyes met Anthony's.
"I'll have
a coke, please," he replied. The waitress raised an eyebrow. She scrunched up
her nose and laughed through it. Then turned to Michael. "And for you,
sir?"
"Just a couple shots of whiskey, thanks."
The waitress
wandered away.
"A COKE, Anthony?" Michael chuckled at him.
"What?"
Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. He flipped open a palm to
his bandmate. "I've never done peyote. How am I supposed to know how it reacts
with alcohol?"
Michael snorted.
"Oh I'm oh I'm still
alive
bayhey yahi oh-
I'm still alive..."
Anthony glanced toward
the stage and watched as the lead singer leaned into his microphone and belted
out the chorus.
A glass full of soda plopped down on the table space in
front of him. "Your coke, sir," the waitress announced. She set down two shot
glasses in front of Michael.
"Thanks," Anthony and Michael replied in
unison. They stared after the frizzy haired waitress as she paced toward the
bar. Then Michael reached under his cushion. He opened the baggy and handed his
bandmate a fistful of the shredded herb.
"Wash these down with your
soda," he instructed. Anthony accepted the herb and shoved it in his mouth.
Raising his glass to his lips, he tilted his head back and took a swig of his
soda. The peyote scratched against his throat, and he gagged.
"Guzzle the
Coke," Michael's eyes met with Anthony's watering ones. "Makes it easier to go
down."
Anthony chugged his soda until the lump in his throat slid down
his esophagus. He gasped for air, sighed, and sat back in his seat. Tears lined
his lower lashes.
"How come," he panted, "how come YOU had an easier time
with it?"
Michael shrugged. "I didn't have a problem with it the first
time either."
The sweet lull of violin music wafted through the bar,
taking the edge off Anthony's horrific headache. A mellow guitar and a steady,
quiet drumbeat lay just beneath. Anthony looked to the stage and watched a husky
kid stream a delicate bow across a violin.
The singer flipped back his
hair and crooned in his scratchy manner:
"Has our conscience
shown?
Has the sweet breeze blown?
Has all the kindness gone?
Hope
still lingers on.
I drink myself of newfound pity
Sitting alone in New
York City
And I don't know why..."
"You know, he's right," Michael
heaved a sigh. His index finger ran a figure eight around the tops of his shot
glasses. "That guitarist DOES suck!"
Grimacing, Anthony nodded. "But the
violin is beautiful though."
"I guess."
Anthony rubbed his eyes
with his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed his eyes shut over them and pinched
the bridge of his nose. "Damn it! When's this sh** supposed to kick
in?"
Michael shrugged. "I don't know. Ten minutes? It takes a
while."
"Wish it would hurry up! I need the friggin' high!"
The
guitar came to the forefront.
"So I walk upon high
And I step to the
edge
To see my world below.
And I laugh to myself
As the tears roll
down.
'Cause it's the world I know.
It's the world I
know..."
Wagging his head, Michael snorted. "I don't see how they can go
from playing Nirvana and Pearl Jam to playing this sh**!"
Anthony's eyes
fell upon the drummer, the backwards cap sporting individual who tapped out the
song's mellow beat. "What song is this anyway?"
"How the hell should I
know?"
Wavy, light brown strands stuck out from beneath the cap and
bopped along to the beat. Solemn eyes, stern jaw. Anthony furrowed his brows and
stared at the drummer for the remainder of the song. He opened his mouth, then
closed it, then opened it again.
"I... I think I recognise that
drummer."
Michael sighed. "He's just some local loser. He looks generic
enough anyway."
Anthony shook his head. "No," he murmured. "I know that
guy."
"His day job could be as one of our roadies, for all we know!"
Michael laughed. "It's pathetic how people dream!"
The words stung
Anthony, his headache intensified.
The drummer lay aside his drumsticks
as the singer slipped the microphone into place on its stand.
"Hey,
folks?" he spoke into it as his fingers slipped off the mic. "We're gonna take
five. If anyone cares, we'll be right back though."
"I don't' care,"
Michael mumbled. "You suck anyway."
Nodding toward the other side of the
room, Michael announced, "I've got to go take a piss." He got to his feet. He
glided across the room, through a set of double doors.
Pain clenched at
Anthony's gut. He doubled over and groaned. "Damn it," he hissed. He pressed his
forehead into his knees and clutched his stomach.
"Hey, man," a male
voice came from behind him. "Are you all right?"
Anthony's body spasmed,
and he fell out of his seat. Rolling onto his stomach, he held onto the legs of
his chair. He convulsed. And toppled the chair. A solid chunk scratched inside
his throat, bobbing just behind his Adam's apple. He coughed and he gagged. With
every ounce of strength within his frame, he forced up the mass and spewed it
onto the floor. He was spent. His head came down on a pair of sneakers, and he
lay still.