The lead singer of Nympho Punch was back at the mike. “Hey everybody,” she began and a bunch of folks clapped and hooted, figuring the band was going to do an encore. “Hey everybody, we got a surprise tonight. There’s somebody in here that you might know. He was the lead singer and guitarist of a band you might have heard of … Leaving Season!” The crowd erupted with cheers, hoots, a few shrieks as memory kicked in, and more than a few calls of “who?” The singer smiled and nodded at the bar’s reaction.
For a second I felt coiled power, disciplined, trained, close to me, then it was gone. Probably someone in the Life headed out the door. I dismissed it, still wanting to get a look at who was throwing off all that juice in the crowd. The tequila was warm in my chest and I felt loose and relaxed. Most of the folks around me now were clapping and cheering. A random hand offered me an unlit joint and I took it and tucked it in my pocket. I felt the bartender patting me on the back.
“I bet if we give him a little encouragement, we can get him up here to do a little something,” the lead singer said. The place went apeshit, and I have to admit I missed all this. It was as powerful as any drug you care to name, and it burned you out faster than any of them. But what a fucking way to go. I stood up and the cheering grew, people made way for me through the crowd, and I found my way to the stage stairs. At least from up here, I could see where all that mystic power was coming from.
The members of Nympho Punch shook my hand and hugged me. The lead guitarist had a threadbare Leaving Season concert shirt. When I saw it, he grinned and we fist-bumped. I huddled with them for a moment, and then one of their roadies handed me a guitar. I slipped the strap over my neck and shoulder and walked to the microphone at the edge of the stage. I was picking at the strings, making sure it was tuned, adjusting the fret pegs on the neck. People were pouring back inside the club, and the crowd was primed. I could feel their energy, their almost sexual excitement roaring through my sacral chakra as it built.
“How y’all doing tonight?” I asked, my West Virginia drawl falling out. The crowd surged, whooped, cheered, whistled. I saw a bunch of Bic lighters come out in salute. I couldn’t help but notice the white ones. I suddenly remembered the energy again. I was tripping right now, between the drugs, and the booze, and most of all the ego-stroking. Svadhisthana energy always got me kinda high, especially when it comes at me fast and in large doses. “Y’all not ready to go home yet?” The crowd howled.
I looked toward that section of the crowd where the torrent of energy was centered and saw the source. Magdalena was sitting there at a small table, a look of amusement on her face. She wore a black tank top, black jeans, and boots. Her hair was jet, long and straight, with thick bangs falling just above her warm brown eyes. She was small, about half a foot shorter than me, but when she carried herself like a queen, she always seemed much taller. Almost every inch of her olive-complected skin showed ink. She had a phrase in Italian tattooed in thin, elegant cursive running along her left shoulder and collarbone, partly obscured by the straps of her top. She had more tattoos hidden from view and she had gotten more during our time together. Some of the tats on my body matched the ones on hers, now. If it was possible, she had gotten more beautiful. It was hard to guess where she was from, maybe Greek, maybe the Middle East, maybe Italian. She spoke with a lilting accent that also hinted at many places but always sounded French to me. I had met her years ago and had broken every single promise I ever made to her since then. I winked at her, and she shook her head, a smile tugging at her full lips. She raised her plastic cup in salute.
I looked over to the lead singer; she had told me her name was Effy when she hugged me.
“You guys know any Pat DiNizio?” I asked the kid.
She nodded eagerly. “Hell, yeah,” she said.
“Fuckin’ A,” the bassist agreed, “old school. I saw ’em in Chicago.”
“All right,” I said to the crowd and the band, but my eyes were on Magdalena. “In the immortal words of Joey Ramone, one, two, three, four!”
I kicked into “Behind the Wall of Sleep” by the Smithereens like busting down a door, and the band followed me in. It was beautiful, like kissing an old love again after too, too, too fucking long and thinking, why did you ever stop? My fingers found their way over the neck of the beat-to-shit Fender Telecaster, and my body dropped back into that practiced, arrogant stance. I made out with the crowd, teasing them, pulling them close only to push them away again, make them ache for a little more, a little further. It was like I never left.
We followed it up with “Burnin’ for You” by Blue Oyster
