Bar Crawl(3)

“Come on!” CJ playfully blocked my exit. “It’s just a question.”

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I sighed. “I’m not your type.”

His mouth swung open. “I don’t have a type.”

My eyes widened at his perverted honesty. “You’re a pig.”

I waded through the humid bar, Bradley next to me and CJ on our tail. “That’s not what I meant. Frankie. Frankie!” CJ called in animated angst. “Ah, man. Whatever. I’ll get your answer one of these days. See you next week!”

Before I’d even reached the door, Bradley had convinced me to stay at the bar. It was only a little after ten, and he said we weren’t allowed to be old people.

“Fine. We’ll stay for a few more drinks.” I tossed my bag onto the stool next to me, and kept my back to the stage.

Bradley grinned and shook his head. “I don’t get you women sometimes. You’d claw each other’s eyes out to get a guy to notice you, and then one does, and—”

“Shut up.” I held up my hand and arched my eye brow at him. Well, tried to. I’d never been proficient at it. “First of all, I don’t clamor for guys’ attention. Second, he wasn’t even paying me attention. It was more my tits, ass, and whatever else his sick little brain could come up with.”

“What’s the difference?” Bradley shrugged and guzzled some of his beer. His impish grin saved him from a swift smack.



As Bradley and I enjoyed the rest of our evening, complete with meeting up with a few of our coworkers from a sister school, I worked diligently to keep my back to the stage and my eyes far away from the misogynist percussionist who showed little interest in anything but his drumsticks or his…stick.





CJ


“Did you just strike out with that girl, Ceej?” Lex hoisted a full pitcher of beer over my head and held it in his thick hand as if it were simply a pint.

I shrugged passively, avoiding looking over my shoulder to where I knew she stood with her friends. “Whatever. Wanna talk about striking out? Let’s take a look at your birth certificate, Lenox,” I mocked his birth name—which is why he always went by Lex—bracing myself for what was sure to be a pissah of a shoulder punch.

Once feeling returned to my upper arm, I continued. “Nah, she’s just some girl I know.”

That was a massive lie. I didn’t know a damn thing about her aside from her name and those freckles. That, and I’d never seen her at the same bar twice except for tonight. And, this was only the second time I’d seen her at Finnegan’s. She was different. She seemed to spend most of her nights out watching people just like I did, though I doubted her motivations were the same.

The scanning. The guessing. The piecing together of stories only shown in the bar for a few hours a night. It might get old for some, I guess. But, I couldn’t help but find people completely fascinating.

A few months ago when she’d turned me down. I’d forgotten what she’d looked like by the next morning when I kissed Tanya goodbye and sent her on her way in a cab I’d paid for the night before. That lasted until the second time I saw her, at Dunes up in Provincetown.

Not only did she stick out because she wasn’t a local, and only locals too drunk to know better or too license-restricted to go anywhere else patronized Dunes, but her flippant rejection of me from earlier stuck out as plainly as those freckles that speckled her nose and cheeks. She didn’t wear a ton of makeup. Nice, I’d thought passively as I mentally thumbed through the catalogue of “mornings after” I’d had. Sunrise is not always a magical experience. And, tan face makeup shit doesn’t wash easily out of pillowcases.

“Yo, CJ.” Lex snapped his hands in front of my face and pointed to my pitcher of beer, which was still three-quarters full.

“Yeah?” I tried.

He rolled his eyes. “Get over her, man. Look at all the skirts in here tonight.” He held out his hands and took a deep breath, as if he were in a flower shop.

Gross, dude.

“You’re right,” I said, feigning agreement, allowing my eyes to resume scanning.

I was well-versed in the bar scene. From an early age, I was able to sneak gigs at local pubs, bars, and dives. My parents were pretty cool about letting me play during open mic nights when they were there to supervise, and I quickly figured out how to sneak out of my third-floor bedroom window for those times that were outside my curfew.

The attention drove me wild. It pumped adrenaline through my veins each time someone clapped or cheered for something I had played. It was hard for me in those early days to tease out if it was the drums that I wanted to master, or the crowd. Sometimes it’s still hard, but I’ve aligned my passion with the craft. The attention is a major perk, though.

Before I could say anything else, Lex elbowed me and pointed out a pair of blondes walking our way. They had intention in their eyes as they licked their glossed lips. It was go time.

I never understood what it was about girls and musicians. For the most part, musicians are underemployed, keep awful hours, and hang out with a shady cast of life’s characters. Maybe that was the intrigue. Whatever it was, it helped me play my cards after my sets were done. Girls wanted to touch my arms, run their fingers over my tattoos, and ask me all about how long I’d played the drums. They didn’t care one ounce how long I’d played the drums; they just wanted to seem interested in order for me to get interested. I’d always played along with their questions and fake-fandom because the sex was good and it clearly meant something to them to keep up the appearance of having a conversation before allowing me to take them home.