You win the worst cousin of the year award, and it’s only April.
* * *
TANSY: I’m sorry. I feel awful.
* * *
ME: No you don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be ditching me.
* * *
TANSY: Are you pissed?
* * *
ME: Of course I’m pissed. WTF is wrong with you, T?
I’m not afraid of confrontation, and I’m certainly not going to pretend everything is fine and dandy when it isn’t. My harsh words clearly have an effect on her, because after several tense moments, she backpedals like crazy.
TANSY: You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. Let me talk to Lamar again and we’ll meet you at the club, ok?
My jaw falls open. Is she nuts? Why would that be okay? Teeth clenched, I quickly compose an essay. Thesis statement: fuck you.
ME: No, not ok. And don’t bother with the club. Just stay at Lamar’s—that’s clearly what you want to do tonight anyway, and I don’t want to spend time with someone who doesn’t want to spend time with me. I’m making other plans, T. I’ve got other friends in the city, so enjoy your evening and maybe I’ll see you tomorrow morning.
Five seconds later, the phone starts to ring.
I ignore it.
My sparkly dress and I end up at a small music venue near Fenway Park. Initially, I try hitting a couple of different bars. I usually have no problem going out alone and talking to strangers, but I’m in such a sour mood tonight that I find myself scowling at anyone who tries to approach me, male or female. I don’t want a hookup or a conversation. I want to be left alone.
I decide I need a place where the music is so loud it’ll deter any and all overtures.
Bulldozer fits that bill, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore, either. I want to order a drink and sulk in silence. Or rather, sulk to deafening heavy metal music, because the venue I wander into is featuring a metal band tonight. Perfect.
The club consists of one main room just big enough to house a narrow stage and a tiny mosh pit. A few standing tables are tucked against a brick wall that’s painted black and spray-painted with graffiti. There’s a bar on the other wall, but no counter space, so I saunter toward the tables. They’re all empty.
Everyone is staring at me as I cross the dark room, probably because I’m dressed for a night out on the town, whereas most of them look like they crawled out from under a boardwalk. Rumpled clothing, greasy hair, and more Pantera and Slayer shirts than I can count. Luckily, the lighting is practically nonexistent, so it’s nearly impossible to make out people’s actual faces in the shadows. While I feel their stares, luckily I don’t have to see them.
“What can I do ya for?” A waiter with black hair that hangs down to his waist comes over to serve me. “Band’s about to go on, so you’d better order quick.”
“A vodka cranberry, please.”
He nods and walks off without asking me for ID. I have it with me, so I wasn’t worried anyway. I angle my body toward the stage and watch as the longhaired lead singer bounces up to the microphone stand.
“Hello, Boston! We’re Stick Patrol and we’re about to FUCK YOU UP!”
If by “fuck us up” he means they’re going to play six ear-piercing songs with garbled lyrics and wrap up before I even finish my first drink, then mission accomplished.
I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and honest-to-God cry.
What the hell was that?
As the singer thanks everyone for coming, I stand there gaping at him. I’m goddamn agape.
Their set lasted fourteen minutes. That averages out to about two-and-a-half minutes per song. Aren’t metal songs supposed to be a gazillion minutes long? I swear every Metallica track I’ve ever heard is longer than the Lord of the Rings movies.
Fourteen minutes, and then the house lights flicker on and I’m left watching the band dismantle their equipment. Some guy carts an amp off the stage. Another one is rolling up the microphone cords.
Fuck you, Stick Patrol. Fuck them and their dumb name, and fuck my cousin for not adhering to the girl code, and fuck Harvard for winning their game tonight, and fuck global warming for dumping all this unwelcome rain on us. Fuck ’em all.
I drain the rest of my drink in one gulp, then signal the waiter for another.
This is truly the worst weekend ever.
“Wait, did I miss the