starts singing “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Ron yells to me, “What the fuck did you say to this guy?” But I’m howling with laughter at what a ginormous asshole Flyers guy really is. Ron tries to take the mic back, but Flyers guy won’t let him have it and now the music has stopped. Dom is putting his bass down and it’s so totally on.
Before the bouncer has a chance to push his way through the crowd, there’s a massive crush towards the band and everyone is yelling, and I’d worry that Flyers is going to need a trip to the ER but this is indie-rock New Brunswick and we just don’t take our fighting that seriously here. Ron pushes Flyers towards Dom, and Dom is cursing at him and shoves him back and he falls into Hank’s drum set, and Hank is a little nuts so he leaps over it at the guy, fisting his jersey until it rips. This causes Flyers to Lose. His. Shit. He takes a swing at Hank, but Dom has grabbed him by the shoulders and thrown him off of him, which causes Flyers to come staggering back into the crowd where he bumps into me and sends both of us reeling towards the steel post in the middle of the floor. I clock my mouth on it and immediately taste blood. Great. I feel my teeth with my fingers and they don’t seem loose but I’m not sure because I’m really drunk and I’m certain my mouth should hurt more than it does. I’m staggering and calling Flyers a dumb motherfucker as I shove him off of me. I feel hands around my waist, pulling me. The room starts to spin and I don’t know if it’s the room or me that’s spinning, but now I’m facing Travis, who is lifting my chin so he can look into my face. He looks worried so I try to smile, no big deal, but I’m super queasy.
“Just how drunk are you?” he asks.
I answer by throwing up. Only partly on him. Mostly on the floor.
“Shit!” he yells as he rips his T-shirt off over his head and throws it to the floor where there’s a pile of my puke. Millie seems pretty okay with all of this as she ogles him, all prairie white with sculpted shoulders and lean but pronounced, amp-carrying biceps. I stare openly myself, so I can’t exactly blame her. Travis isn’t the kind of guy to casually take his shirt off in public like, say, Hank is. He’s from Nebraska, not Old Bridge after all.
Finally, the bouncers break up the crowd and drag Flyers outside. Ron tosses Travis a Red Five T-shirt from the merchandise table, where Sonia and Cole are happily sitting, enjoying the spectacle of the whole shit show. Millie brings me some napkins and a bottle of Poland Spring from the bar. I dab my lip and I’m not bleeding anymore, luckily. A few sips of water get the barf-boozey taste out of my mouth. Ick. Greg comes over with the bucket and the mop and in five minutes, that spot on the floor with my barf becomes the cleanest square foot in the whole bar. Red Five crank the set back up and Travis looks at me and shakes his head.
“I’m so sorry,” I yell over the music, duly mortified.
“Are you all right?” Travis asks.
“Yeah. I am now.”
“Want to go sit in the van, get some fresh air? I’ll take you.”
I see Millie make a disappointed face over his shoulder, so I shake my head no, I’m all right. She smiles gratefully at me and Travis shrugs and walks off with her to . . . I don’t want to think about it. I actually really like Millie and I don’t want to hate her because she’s trying to get into my guitarist’s pants. I can’t blame her, really, and I remind myself that if they were to hook up, that would be for the best as far as Soft is concerned. But I’m scowling anyway.
The crowd fills back in and I get several back pats for being a true rock-and-roll champ, as Billy Broadband calls me. I look up in horror as I realize Mickey, Dean Ween, is standing right next to me. He grins and hands me a full beer, which is truly the last fucking thing I need right now, so I shake my head, no thanks. He nods and takes a long pull