Punk and Zen (44 page)

We eyed each other again.

Jerkster stretched out and went back to sleep.

It was midnight or thereabouts when we arrived in
Barcelona, and since load-in for a gig usually started somewhere around seven
in the a.m., it was right to bed, as soon as we could figure out where that
was. This was the first time we weren’t staying at the friend of a friend’s
cousin’s wife’s brother’s dog’s lover’s ex-girlfriend’s place. It was an honest-to-goodness
hotel room—two rooms for the Microwaves (and they needed it) and one, count
’em, one for Adam’s Rib.

I got to the room first, Stephie a step behind me.
We’d left Jerkster back somewhere in the hall, playing with the ice ABC Page
223machine.

Stephie stood next to me as I stared at the single
beds from the middle of the room. We exchanged a look that said, “Where’s
Jerkster gonna sleep?”

“Not with me.”

“Not with me, either.”

Hey, it really is true what they say about band
telepathy, though an observer would have seen only an exchange of arched brows
and a couple of strange mouth movements. That’s totally okay—Stephie and I knew
what we meant.

He marched into the room singing something atonal,
kilt swinging, and helmet full of ice under his arm.

“Hey.” He stopped short as he saw us. He looked at the
beds, then back to Stephie and me. “Who’m I staying with?” he asked, a wide
smirk showing his teeth as he glanced from me to Steph. “No, wait, don’t tell
me—you guys are gonna share!”

I put my guitar—which was still slung over my
shoulder—down safely in a corner while Steph and I exchanged another look.

She slapped his helmet off his hands and tossed it to
me.

“Yo, wait!” Jerkster exclaimed. “Give it…” He lunged
for me and I jumped out of the way. Since he’d had to bend when he reached, I
did the logical thing—I dumped it on his head, then shook it to make sure all
the water came out.

“Oh that sucks, that sucks!” he bellowed as the ice
and the cold water flew over him.

“You’re sleeping in the tub,” I told him as he
straightened, that smirk for each of us firmly in place. I tossed the helmet
back to Stephie, and she held it dangling from the strap as she leaned her
weight on the opposite leg.

“You’re gonna need more ice,” she told him, flicking
her finger against the helmet.

“Don’t do that!” Jerkster asked as he snatched the
helmet from her. He inspected it. “Poor George, did she hurt you?” he asked the
sticker as he smoothed it.

“George?”

“Yeah, for Georgie Porgie Pudding Pie,” he said and
showed us the sticker—a yellow square with a cartoon pig dressed in a blue
sailor suit. “I’m getting more ice,” he informed us.

“Okay,” I drawled as he walked to the door. I picked a
bed and threw my stuff on it while Stephie did the same on the other side of
the room.

The next morning was as brutal as we’d predicted, and
for the record? Neither Stephie nor I really let Jerkster sleep on the floor or
in the tub—I called the front desk and asked if they could send us up a cot, a
foldaway bed, or failing that, at least a half dozen pillows.

The fact is, we’d all bunked together on many
occasions, but this was an opportunity to sleep on a for-real bed, not a sofa,
a floor, or a seat that didn’t recline enough while the ground whizzed by
underneath and the overhead lights never really went out.

I’d already left messages for Samantha letting her
know we’d be in Barcelona, and called from the front desk as soon as we’d
walked in—after handing the clerk the equivalent of several dollars—to let her
know there’d be some downtime in Ibiza before we went back to the mainland and
on to Madrid.

I didn’t know if I’d see her in Barcelona, Ibiza, or
Madrid, but I was certain on one thing—I hoped it was sooner rather than later.

We took some time in the evening for general and
maintenance grooming to make sure we’d hit the stage looking the way we wanted
to.

I’d made a few small changes: I’d let the red streak
fade, and the black, too; my hair was a bit closer to its actual color. I’d
also started to let it grow on the sides by my ears so that it swept down into
a curved point along the line of my cheek. Stephie thought it was cool—she said
it matched my smile. Jerkster didn’t notice, but I didn’t expect him to. Graham
thought it looked cool and apparently a little something else, too.

“Let me get a good look at you, love,” he asked,
catching my arm as we were about to troop to the immediate backstage. “Come
on,” he urged, pulling me to his dressing room, Well, at least he had a
dressing room, I thought; we had an old storage closet. But fuck it, it worked,
right?

“Let’s see you, then,” Graham said, narrowing his eyes
and putting his chin in his hand. His index finger stroked his thin red-blond
mustache. His delicate mouth scrunched up into an expression I’d learned was
his “how do I change/work/fix/explain this?”

Not once did I ever, ever, think of Graham as a woman.
He wasn’t—not in his voice, not in his dress, not in any way, manner, or form.
Graham flirted with
everyone
outrageously—male, female, gay, straight,
whatever, and Jerkster had wondered if Graham was, “You know, gay?” but he
never thought for a second that Graham was anything other, or different, than
Graham—a guy with an almost too-pretty face.

“What’s the matter,” I asked him with a smile as I
held my hands out from my sides, “something showing that shouldn’t? Do I have a
tag sticking out somewhere or a lump that shouldn’t be?”

It was already pretty warm, and Spain was hotter than
most places. I’d found an awesome pair of long cycling pants made of stretchy
black material; they had a really neat two-layer checkerboard strip down the
sides with a red ABC stripe in the center, plus they were a lot cooler
heat-wise to wear than leather or denim. Besides, the checkerboards were homage
to the Microwaves—they were a ska band, after all.

Stephie and I’d discovered some really cool zip-top
bra sort of things, and we picked up a bunch (we didn’t know where in the world
we’d be able to find those again, if ever—this is one of those secrets I’m not
sharing); some totally formfitting, everything-holding tank tops; and some
cycling jerseys—they were too cool! I stuck with basic black, although I had a
few with some contrasting stripes—and my racing jerseys were wild! I wore one
of those super-tanks tonight, because it had a similar checkerboard on the
seams that matched the pants. I thought I looked pretty darn good.

“Put your hands on your hips?” Graham requested, so I
did.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said.

“What?” I asked, puzzled.

“The way you stand—no, stay just as you are,” he said
as I started to shift, “just look in the mirror—here,” he said, and stepped out
from in front of it.

He stood behind me. “What do you see?” he asked softly.

I looked, I really looked. I saw me, booted legs
planted wide, hip cocked to one side, cool new outfit, and the gleam of the two
silver charms on my neck and throat.

“I look ready to play,” I told him.

He put his hands on my hips. “Stand straight,” he
said, pushing my hips into position, “and keep looking.” He took his hands off
me.

It had been a long time since I’d really seen myself,
seen anything but my hair or that my clothes were set right, that is, so I
looked again.

Hair—cool! Shoulders—kinda wide. In addition to the
width I’d gained over the years from swimming, I’d lost weight and developed
that “T” shape that so many guitarists have. A large and well contained chest.
Small hips, beat-up boots. My eyes were grayer than I’d remembered.

Graham stood behind me and placed his hands over my
shoulders. He didn’t touch them; he let his hands hover about an inch above
them as he measured their width.

“You’ve got great shoulders…small back…small hips…”
and he followed their outlines without touching me.

“Now look at that face—androgynous,” he said, “very
gamine.”

I gazed at him directly. “Gamine?” I asked with an
arched brow, looking straight into his mischievous brown eyes. “What’s that
mean?”

“It means a young boy or girl—and you could be
either.” He gently faced my head to the mirror. “You should try drag.”

“All life is drag,” I shot back at him with a smile.

“Glad to see you’re learning. Here…” He grabbed one of
his jackets and threw it at me. “Put this on.”

It was one of his black jackets—double-breasted, too,
which I happen to prefer. I shrugged it on, and it fit. It did nice things for
my shoulders. “Got a tie?” I asked him.

“What color do you want?” he asked, rummaging through
his collection.

“Red. Bloodred, if you’ve got it,” I decided. What the
hell, right?

He tossed it over my shoulder and hovered over me as I
knotted it.

“Hey, I do know how to do this, you know.” I scowled
playfully. “I’ve worn one or two before.” Which was true, I had, because I
could. Hey, I did work at a gay bar, after all.

“Really?” Graham drawled at me. “Well, knock me down
and call me pretty. I had no idea.”

I finished knotting the tie around my bare neck and
rolled the sleeves for the jacket to my forearms.

“How do I look?” I asked him with my best half-smile.

“Halfway there.” Graham nodded approvingly.

“Yeah, well, there’s kinda no hiding these.” I looked
down at my chest.

“There’s ways around that, you know,” Graham said.
“You can bind them, you can—”

I interrupted him. “Graham, it’s way too hot to do
anything like that and besides,” I hesitated a moment before I continued, “I’m
not sure it’s something I want to do—just yet.”

I glanced up over the mirror and at the clock.

“Holy shit! I’ve got to get to the stage!” I
exclaimed, and almost ran to the door—it was two minutes to curtain.

Graham snickered. “Don’t worry if ABC you’re a
minute late—I know the main act. I’ll take care of it for you.”

I smiled back at him as I dashed out.

“Keep the tie!” he called to my back.

Fuck, I wasn’t even thinking about that. I took it off
my neck and put it around my waist as I hurried backstage and found Stephie and
Jerkster, all ready to go. Paulie-Boy was already out there, settling into his
seat.

“Where the fuck
were
you?” Stephie hissed, more
out of concern than anger. She handed me my guitar.

“Graham wanted to talk to me,” I answered as I slung
my instrument. There, it hung flawlessly.

She did a double take and smiled. “Nice jacket.”

“You’re gonna sweat to death,” Jerkster warned.

Personally? I agreed, but I couldn’t take it off
because I’d already strapped in and there were the opening clicks of
Paulie-Boy’s drum sticks. Time to hit the stage!

The show itself was a total blast—we’d written a few
new songs during all those hours of traveling, and after we ran through them
during sound check, they were pronounced good enough to perform—we debuted them
that night. This effectively made our set about half an hour longer, which we
all thought was really cool. I did take the jacket off about a third of the way
through—it was way too hot for the way I played. I wondered how Graham managed
it all the time.

After our set we left the stage and went into the hall
behind it—the backstage area itself was crowded with the Microwaves horn
players. Hey, it ain’t ska if there ain’t horns, ya know.

Graham came rushing over. “Hey, Nina, don’t go off
yet—I want to ask you something,” he said, hustling me back over to the place
I’d just left.

“Yeah, sure, Graham. What’s up?” I asked, slinging my
guitar behind me.

“I’d like you to come up and sing a few songs with
us,” he told me seriously.

What? Who, me?

“What about Stephie?” I asked, confused. “Shouldn’t
you ask her?” She did do most of the lead vocals, after all.

Graham’s eyes twinkled at me. “No, love, it should be
you—and Stephie ABC agrees.”

I was taken aback at that, but okay, then, I’d go for
it. I was glad I’d held on to his jacket. Despite the heat from the stage, once
you walk away from it, it’s a pretty rapid cooldown. Besides, ska bands always
wear suits so I fit in, although I still kept the sleeves rolled and the tie
around my waist as opposed to my neck.

The Microwaves put on a great show, and as crowded as
ours were becoming? Theirs were jammed to the rafters! This place was normally
a nightclub with tables and chairs scattered around, but you wouldn’t have
known that—it was standing room only, though it looked more like leaning room,
because there didn’t appear to be any space anywhere. It is a very good thing
people jumped up and down—it made room for others for about half a second.

I did three songs with them, and Graham kept me on for
the encore—a down-and-dirty version of the ever-classic “Could You Be Loved” by
Bob Marley.