'Nother Sip of Gin - Rhys Ford
In The Beginning
“FUCK, SINJUN,” Damie spat from his perch on a tall stool. “I’d need another hand to get this damned transition done the way you’ve written it.”
The odd summer heat made San Francisco muggy and oppressive, seemingly sucking the oxygen out of the air to leave behind a dank sandy vapor to breathe in. Ground down by the rare simmering wave, the city retreated into its holes, pulling most of its people off the street, leaving behind tourists intent on seeing the sights and posing next to landmarks while wilting beneath the unrelenting sun.
Despite the building’s strict rules, Damie conned the SRO manager to let him and Miki share a single slot, promising to deliver all kinds of favors and good behavior if she would just look the other way. With a soft spot in either her head or heart, she’d agreed, and they’d settled into the narrow one-room space with its makeshift kitchenette and a bathroom shared among the other thirteen people on the floor. Still, it was a corner space, coveted for its two windows and, despite its tight confines, one of the larger rooms the SRO had to offer. Miki didn’t know what Damie offered Old Lady Weng for the room, but he didn’t care. The two windows gave them a bit of a crosswind, sucking most of the heat out of the room with a few well-placed fans. Despite the lukewarm muggy breeze, the city felt as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break over it.
Miki could only hope that something would be a thunderstorm and bring a bit of cool back to the sloping hills and winding streets. As hopes went, it was a safe one to bet on, especially since the air turned metallic, a burnt-steel whiff carried in on the hot breeze, bringing with it a promise of some rain.
Either that or the auto shop across the street had another car catch on fire and it would be a few minutes before they were assaulted by fire truck sirens.
“This shit breaks every rule written for a lead guitar part,” Damie groused. “No wonder no one wants to be in our band.”
“They don’t want to be in the band because they think you’re an asshole for wanting to practice,” Miki reminded his best friend. “Three times a week doesn’t seem to be shit. What about that Dave guy? The one we met down at Queenie’s? He sounded cool.”
“Yeah, I liked him. Steady. You just like him because he gave you the rest of his burger.” Shooting Miki a grin, Damie chuckled at Miki’s upraised middle finger. “We need a bassist. Unless you want to play bass.”
“Can’t sing if I play bass.” He shook his head. “Fucks me up. I can write it but can’t do it together. Throws the beat off in my head. Unless we got another singer.”
“Sinjun, there’s no way in hell I’m going to bury that voice of yours under a bass guitar.” Damie fingered the chords again, stretching his fingers out until they hit the right spots. “You okay with being up there, though? Last time we got up on stage, you seemed… a bit out of it.”
Miki flopped back down on the mattress they’d laid under the narrow wall’s window. Another just like it lay against the opposite wall, set on a raised platform so they could use the space under it to shove their instruments away whenever they left the room. Since Damie was using the framed bed to sit on and practice, the mattress was the only other place for Miki to sprawl over, and the linens smelled of Damie, a bit of night sweat, baby powder, and lavender mint from the soap he’d gotten on sale from the Dollar Store. There weren’t enough pillows on Damie’s bed to be truly comfortable, but Miki didn’t mind. Topped with some memory foam squares they’d gotten from a pile of evicted tenants’ belongs Mrs. Weng put out for anyone to scavenge through, the bed was soft and cradled Miki’s lengthening body, easing some of the growing pains eating at his joints.
“I thought I saw Vega in the crowd.” Damie sat straight up, and Miki waved off the pour of outrage and anger he knew he’d hear if he let Damie loose. “It wasn’t, but it kind of threw me. I get scared sometimes. Shit, he can’t hurt me anymore, and it’s like I see someone who even looks a bit like him and I curl