The Pit

I finished my set and waited as long as I could before moving like a minnow in the half-lit surf-bar on South 5th, through the vague, swaying crowd, who was once my audience. I found an empty seat by the taps. Is there anything sadder than an opener drinking solo at the bar? I was thinking it myself when Sal said it from my shoulder. He’d often parrot what I said so it wasn’t a shock when his outer monologue lined up with my inner:

But good fucking show. Great setlist, your sound was soft, serene, and sparkling. That new song about Alice was fucking killer. I haven’t heard that one before. Is that on the demo? It is. Fuck, she’s gonna be so pissed when she hears it! If it ever takes off. But what I was saying. Fucking shame this crowd was so distracted. Wrong vibes, nothing you can do about that.

Dave and his girl Phoebe showed up, too, and ordered a round, sad that they missed it and all, coming back from a boat ride in the Sound that serves free pizza and shepherd’s pie with every pitcher you order, whatever doesn’t make it down your gullet joins the chum bucket. The Captain, that’s what you call him, decides if you’re taking too long, but comes back with flounder, tautog, bluefish, dogfish, what have you and gives you a certain cut of the bunch depending on how much you’re paying.

The great thing about Dave is that he knows his way up and down the food chain. He’ll introduce you to someone who knows this other person and up and all the sudden he’s talking about sharing drinks with the regional talent scout of so-and-so record, you know the very one.

About the guy, sorry about that. All you can do is send out a line and see what you catch, you know what I mean. But I heard the Main Act is like on the verge of signing with Knuckle Sandwich records. You talk to them?

No, they were AWOL. Rockstar shit I guess.

I fingered the demo drive in my denim pocket and looked for the door, wondering if it was too late to book it back there and pass it off to any living body I could find. We put ‘em back—me in a rush, Dave because he saw me going and can’t help himself. But then the lights went down and the crowd moved to the stage like sharks circling blood in the water. We followed the flow as far as we could, meanwhile some sound guy tuned the guitars (to the cheers and jeers of drunks) and I asked Sal how he was doing.

Ehh, I’ve been okay. Still feeling kinda—

The striking lick of ‘Pour Some Hot Sugar On Me’ screamed through the place like a goddamn jet through the sound barrier.

I went, Feeling what?

Depressed!

Oh, depressed. How come?

Still thinking a lot about Sophie. Did you hear about her dad? Yeah, final stages. I went with her to visit him on his, I guess you could call it his fucking deathbed. Yeah, the whole family and me. Everybody said what they needed to say. Like Henry got all the pressuring him to be—

All a sudden, we’re plunged underwater in that I could only see him mouthing and my ears fill up with Misirlou, the sound-guy getting bigger waves of applause than I ever did.

What? All the what stuff?

Pressuring him to be a lawyer shit. And Sophie had a heart-to-heart about all that time when he was drinking like a fish. Everyone went, so it was my turn.

Your turn?

I said, EVERYONE WENT SO IT WAS MY TURN. I went up to him and leaned over the bed and asked him, So like, what did you not like about me? And he just looked at me, so I leaned in even closer, and said, how come you never approved of me? Was it because I didn’t go to an Ivy League? And he fucking gets up on his elbows, everyone shouting at him to conserve his energy, and tells me, get this, to get the fuck out.

Wow.

Like, you’re about to die. And that’s what you want everyone’s last memory of you to be?

Before I could say anything, the place went pitch-black except for a trio of tiki torches—looking like the pit of hell, only the stage lit a singular, heavenly light. Then this jamoke ran out like a relief pitcher wearing a Sharks jersey and camo pants. He swung his black Gibson loose and strummed a raucous opening chord. Meanwhile, the rest of the band strolled out, New England hipsters, guitars at their nips like The Monkees and playing like them too. The sound, clean as a whistle, yet Shark-boy whipped up a mosh, spinning through the patronage up front like the eye of a hurricane. The crowd churned away from him to spare their suds, pushing me and my crew into the storm. Dave got out of dodge, then Phoebe, then Sal. Then that ‘rhythm’ guitarist barreled straight into me like I was a spare pin. After I regained my footing, I shoved him onto the stage, where he belonged so far as I was concerned. Here he came again, his black hair flopping. Again, I pushed back. And one more time, he jumped off the stage and straight into me. I really put my back into it this time and heave-hoed him up there.

For a second, I descended into a place of pure darkness and pressure, as if plunged to the deepest trenches of the ocean. My eyes were bleary when I opened them. I blasted out of there, found a bodega, pet the cat, bought a tallboy or two, and traversed to a triangular-shaped park. The statue of some hooded saint sought her spiritual patrons, nothing doing. Just a drug dealer, who made a quick advertisement and kept moving; then a homeless man, who had me guess what was in his sand-timer. Sand? I hoped. He shouted, No, the ashes of my best friend. Lucky for me, his cart started rolling. A rat dashed into the bush, chased by a pigeon. I drank, I smoked, I spat. I had this daydream that my demo drive had a triangular shape and I had to find the triangular outlet.

And who should come strutting up but this fucking kid again. Head held high, black hair sweating, shoulders moving like a seesaw with every step.

Hey, you! At that point in the night, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do—confront him or pitch my tunes. I was reacting to what the night presented and trying to keep up with the reasons. All a sudden, I had my sea-legs back and they were sauntering out the gate. My executive function was on the fritz and I led with, What’s your fucking problem, man?

Woah, woah, woah. It’s a part of the show. He checked me out of his way. I checked him right back. Next thing I know, I was in the first fight of my life. Throwing blows, taking them. My jacket was flung off in the process. Then he got my shirt up over my head and flogged my ribs until I tackled him to the ground. We wrestled, but quickly we were wheezing our lungs out. We rolled onto our backs. He laughed and coughed, and soon, without realizing exactly why, I was too.

Too many cigs, I said.

Same, man, same.

I feel like I’m on my fucking deathbed.

You’re going to make it, he said.

We sat up, smoked some more cigarettes, and admired each other’s work on the other. He told me he was going to another show and said I would like it. By the way, he said, my name is Byron. Tom, I said, I’m in. The shit was shot on a long subway ride and the following walk.

You could hear the sound of it from a fucking borough away. Behind the green construction wall, an old pool had been drained and was now filled with shirtless bodies, dancing to hardcore covers of oldies, pop and indie songs. I could have another you in a minute, matter fact, he’ll be here in a minute. Byron jumped in. I looked in like I was dipping a toe in the water—the lights didn’t reach the dark, sunken pit. Just a blur of flying hair, torsos, and limbs. I dove in.

Byron found me a few songs later. I had a bloody nose.

Ah, fuck. do you need anything? I didn’t hear him, just read his lips—cut up and red.

I reached into my pocket, felt for my drive and took it out. It was intact. I dropped it on the ground, stomped it to pieces. No, I’m good, I said and joined the faceless churn.

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