Rock Out Together

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Cody

It’s late, and I’m on stage at the Underground, a seedy club in the back ass of nowhere in Seattle.

My days are spent in a dead-end job, entering numbers into computers, but most nights I perform in dives like this one, trying to make it while I fake it.

Sweat stings my eyes from rocking out, guitar in hand. This place is so rundown it doesn’t even have any fucking air-conditioning. The crowd is a sea of flannel shirts, and there’s an overwhelming smell of beer and cigarette breath.

The onlookers aren’t ignoring me, but they aren’t exactly singing along either. Someone near the front shouts something I can't hear over the music. He pumps his fists in the air like my words are his salvation, and I know immediately he’s too drunk to understand their meaning.

So far, the show has been one of my better ones, and there’s been some interaction with the audience.

However, when I see the big, burly dude pushing his way through the crowd, swaying with an excess of alcohol, I know the mood’s about to change, especially when he knocks a beer out of someone’s hand.

I'm still onstage when I hear the first fist connect, and as people in the audience start screaming, a body crumples to the floorboards.

My final note turns into a screech of feedback as the venue erupts into an all-out brawl.

As security pile in like riot police, I can't stop thinking I'm getting too old for this shit.

Frustrated, I pack up my guitar.

My set is over!

My friend Otis is sitting at the bar. I’ve known him since our high school days. If I’m all rock and roll, Otis is country and western with a touch of something darker.

As I carefully maneuver toward him, avoiding the fight, I can see his gaze is focused on the glass of whiskey that’s clasped tightly between his hands.

He looks like hell with his hair exploding from his head, like it’s trying to escape, and his green eyes, cold and empty, conceal the genius hidden beneath.

We all know he's trouble. I’ve seen, firsthand, the angry outbursts, violent brawls, and smashed up kits.

Here he is, again, just waiting to blow. I’m not sure if he's come to see me, to out-drink me, or to join in the fight that’s escalating around us.

“Good set.” Otis slides the glass with the remnant of whiskey he’s been nursing along the bar to me, and I down it in one.

“Maybe one day it’ll be appreciated.” I roll my eyes, and we both duck down at the same time when a chair comes flying overhead out of nowhere and smashes into the back of the bar before falling to the floor.

We look at each other, nostrils flaring with frustration.

“Too old for this shit,” we mutter in unison.

“If you get blood on my shirt, I won’t be pleased.” The familiar voice, low and commanding, comes from behind us.

My other high school friend, Norrie, is moving toward us through the crowd.

He doesn’t tell anyone to move—he doesn’t have to.

His presence is so electric that people take one look at him and give him space.

He’s the only guy I know who can look composed and menacing while drinking beer from a Solo cup.

Norrie's been trying to get me on board with his latest project. He’s forming a new band, and he wants me to join.

It's flattering if I don't think about it too much, but the truth is I think about everything too much. Especially when it includes my brother, Sebastian, a man I haven’t seen eye to eye with for a long time, and I know Norrie wants him in the band as well.

Norrie was the same in school—he was always trying to save someone. Now he’s acting like a band messiah come to lead us, mere mortals, to greatness. It’s a shame we couldn’t make it happen in school, but there was too much shit going on, mainly at the hands of my brother.

Sebastian and I both play guitar, Otis is a drummer, and Norrie has a fantastic voice, and on the few occasions we played together in school, the music and lyrics just flowed, but Sebastian always managed to make me feel I was never good enough.

As the club security motion for everyone to leave the bar, it’s clear that no more music is going to be played here tonight. The three of us exit through a side door, scuttling like rats escaping a sinking ship. We make our way into an alley that reeks of old piss and rotten trash.

Norrie lights up a cigarette and stands silent and motionless. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, maybe for luck to be on our side for once.

“Hell of a night,” I say, massaging the pads of my fingers. They’re swollen and calloused, rough from the strings. I should be getting used to the discomfort by now, but after all this time, maybe I never will.

Otis looks at me then at Norrie, who has a scowl on his face which could set ice aflame.

“Who pissed in your beer, Norrie?” Otis asks.

The sound of a bottle breaking echoes from inside the club, as if to answer his question. Here we are at the end of another night, and we’re no further forward with our dreams of success and fame.

“Let’s not do this here. We should leave before the cops arrive,” Norrie urges.

I can see the tension in his jaw as he pulls his jacket tightly around his chest like a shield.

“What’d you expect?” I say with a shrug. “It’s another Wednesday night at The Underground.”

There’s a long pause. We look at each other without saying anything. It’s always this way. We all know we’re getting nowhere—losers in a big city that swallows even the most talented up and spits them out.

My friends and I have never been in a band together, but at the end of evenings like this one, we always seem to find ourselves in each other’s company. Over the last few months, it feels like maybe we are destined to play together.

“Something has to change,” Norrie mutters, scanning the alleyway

I’m not sure if he means my show, because I’m here again, running out of a club where a fight has broken out and only half my set’s complete, but my guess is he’s still talking about the three of us forming a band.

“It was another close call in there,” he continues. Our history with the club has shaped us—endless nights of disappointments ending in fights or drunken forgetfulness. “You guys think we got away clean again, but we never really do.”

Otis runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Cleaner than usual, though. Look, no blood.”

“So far, but the night is young, and we have reputations to maintain,” I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. I can still feel the notes I’ve been playing vibrating in my bones.

Otis shrugs. “Same time next week?”

“Probably, unless we stop trying to do it on our own,” Norrie responds. “If we keep trying to go it alone, we’ll keep ending up here.”

I don’t appreciate his certainty but know it’s the truth. This is our life now—the three of us going nowhere and likely to end up defeated and in dead-end jobs or prison. The latter being particularly true in Otis’ case.

The blue neon sign advertising the club’s name flickers on and off above the door.

It’s broken tubes fail to illuminate most of the letters, making it indecipherable and pointless.

We all stare at it, as if it bears some deeper, hidden meaning for us.

It probably does, representing an unfulfilled existence of potential without ever fully achieving.

“Why are we still here?” I ask nobody in particular while musing on my life.

Since my brother and I got into a fight two years ago, everything has gone downhill. I blame him. I always will.

Norrie blows out a trail of smoke. “I’m here because I recognize a good thing and know what we could be.”

A distant siren wails, getting closer.

Norrie crushes his cigarette beneath his boot. Otis hasn’t moved. He’s just standing with his arms folded across his chest. The silence grows between us until we step away from each other, deliberately and slowly. We have this discussion regularly, and nothing ever changes.

The side door opens, and the club manager steps out, my guitar case in hand. I take it from him. Not saying a word. He gives me the apologetic look I see too often, the one he probably gives to everybody who plays here and ends up hiding in this alley at the side of the club.

It’s a look that offers the kind of remorse I don’t want, because it means I’ve failed again. I didn’t get to finish my set, and nobody even noticed. He nods at the three of us and disappears back inside.

Turning around I see Norrie and Otis walking away.

Norrie cocks his head my way. “Coffee?”

There has to be more to life than this.

I let out a loud huff of frustration and set off after them. “Not as if I’ve got anywhere else to be.”