The four of us walk inside. Clarissa stops. “Do you smell that?”
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. There’s no scent. We’ve never played anywhere that doesn’t have a distinctive odor.”
“Look up at the ceiling,” I say. “It’s clean.”
We all look up and admire the ceiling.
“Do you think it’s been recently washed?” asks Mel. “Or did the stains not make it all the way up there?”
We walk over to the bar to introduce ourselves to the manager, marveling at the way our feet don’t stick to the floor.
“That’s the stage,” says the manager, pointing to the elevated platform behind him. Obviously, we didn’t need him to point it out, but this is the kind of venue where people are polite. “Get yourselves set up, and we’ll do sound check in about thirty minutes. Can I get you guys anything to eat? Club sandwich? Nachos?”
Our first impulse is to decline his offer because none of us would dare consume any food from the Lane, not even a bag of chips from a vending machine. But here? I bet their club sandwiches contain the meats you’d typically associate with that type of sandwich instead of the Meat that Might Be Ham and/or Turkey, the Meat that Might Be Roast Beef and/or Bacon, and the Meat (?) that Could Be Anything. Put your guesses in the jar for a chance to win fifty bucks and food poisoning!
I bet their nachos wouldn’t turn your digestive tract yellow.
I bet if I had a cherry cola, it wouldn’t look like an oil slick, and the last sip wouldn’t stretch from my mouth to the glass like cheese sticking to the pizza box.
So we have dinner. I’m not saying that it was Michelin star dining, but it’s nice to be offered food that isn’t actively harmful to our well-being.
We set up our instruments. Sound check goes perfectly.
The lead singer of Fist Knuckles (who also plays the piccolo in the most punk rock manner imaginable) walks up to the stage. “You Fanged Grapefruit?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re big fans.”
“Of Fanged Grapefruit?”
“No, of Fist Knuckles.”
“That’s cool. We’re playing tonight.”
“We know. We’re opening for you.”
“Interesting. Any idea where the stage is?”
“We’re standing on it.”
The lead singer looks down. “No, I’m not.”
“We are. You’re standing in front of it.”
“If you don’t know the answer to my question, you could simply say so.”
“Sorry.”
“Mind if I vomit?” he asks.
“Go right ahead. You’re the headliner.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, sir.”
The lead singer smiles. “You bet your…”
We all wait for him to finish the thought.
“I can’t remember what we were going to bet,” he says.
“Our bottom dollar?” suggests Mel.
“You bet your bottom dollar I’m the headliner! Those other four losers in Fist Knuckles think they bring in the crowds, but it’s all me, baby. It’s all me. You’ll tell them that, right?”
“Probably not,” I admit.
“That makes sense.”
The lead singer wanders off.
“I can’t believe we get to open for Fist Knuckles!” says Clarissa, bouncing with excitement.
By showtime, the club is about half full, which means that it’s by far the biggest audience we’ve ever performed for. I don’t see any Fanged Grapefruit shirts out there, so Blake has been slacking on his bribes, but there’s a definite energy in the crowd. As long as Blake doesn’t sabotage the show, it’s going to be incredible.
I’m sure he wouldn’t sabotage it. He set up the gig.
I know what you’re thinking. Have you not been paying attention to your own book? Of course he’d sabotage the show, fool!
But it would reflect badly on him too.
I know what you’re thinking. The mess-up with the minivan also reflected badly on him, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a piece of his evil puzzle. He could absolutely be planning to sabotage the show, and if you’re not prepared for that possibility, you’re a simpleton.
Still, maybe everything Blake did was to be more closely involved with Fanged Grapefruit. Maybe he’s achieved his goal, and now it’s in his best interest for everything to go well tonight.
I know what you’re thinking. Maybe you’re right. Everything might go fine. However, as your reader, I want you to remain vigilant during the show. Don’t let down your guard. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, okay?
Thanks. That sounds like a solid approach. I’ll stay optimistic, but I won’t be dumb about my optimism.
Mel, Clarissa, Blake, and I sit in the greenroom, which is—and I’m not exaggerating—eight trillion times better than the greenroom in the Lane. You can sit on this couch without wearing a hazmat suit. The bottles of water still have their original seal. At the Lane, they provide bottled water to the performers, but you can tell that they just filled the bottles with water from a faucet. The tint gives it away. And there are free apples. Apples! So healthy and delicious!
The door opens, and the owner sticks his head in. “Sixty seconds,” he says.
Blake stands. “Good luck to all of you.”
Wait. What did he mean by that?
I immediately do a mental replay of “Good luck to all of you.” Was it sincere or menacing? His tone seemed to straddle the two options. He didn’t wring his hands together and go “Muahahahahaha!” but I’m not convinced that he was genuinely wishing us good luck. Are we headed toward disaster? Should I warn Mel and Clarissa? Should I come up with some sort of excuse for me and Blake to walk outside of the club and then knock him unconscious and lock him in the trunk of my car so he can’t follow through on his devious plan?
Hope for the best. Hope for the best. Hope for the best.
The owner takes the stage. “Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says. “We’ve got a great show for you. Our headliner is the one, the only, the legendary, the angry, Fist Knuckles!”
The crowd goes berserk.
“But to start things off, please welcome Vampire Grapefruit!”
Close enough.
The crowd’s level
