I was leaning against the outside wall of the club, smoking, when I heard the New Year’s countdown begin. I’m big on symbolism, and I felt like the whole world was counting down to the beginning of my new life. It reminded me of the day of the thunderstorm. That day, I was counting Mississippis after each flash of lightning, trying to figure out how far away the storm was. A part of me thought that this new countdown would finally wipe that one away. Stupid, I know, but I thought it just the same.
“Ten!” came the muffled shout, from not only inside the club but from half the apartments in earshot.
“Nine!” I closed my eyes and tried to picture where I would be in twelve months.
“Eight!” Would I be standing outside some bar, waiting for another gig?
“Seven!” Would I be home from college for the Christmas break and watching the ball drop on TV with my parents?
“Six!” The door to the club slammed open, and a drunk girl came stumbling out, landing both hands on a car parked right in front of me.
“Five!” She hurled. Right on the car.
“Four!” I tried to go back to actualizing my future, but the damage was done and I was pulled out of the moment.
“Three!”
“Oh, shit!” the girl said. She looked around in a panic, like something was wrong. “You!”
“Two!” She took a step forward and grabbed me by the collar.
“Prepare to be kissed,” she slurred in my face.
“One!” And the girl planted a big, sloppy, vomit-ridden kiss on me. What is it about girls and me and throw-up? She took a step back and looked at me for the first time. “Whoa,” she said. “I must be more drunk than I thought.”
There were two obvious choices: One, I could just push the girl away and go back inside, thoroughly disgusted. Or, two, I could make out with her.
I did the only thing I was wired to do. Option three, try to be the nice guy.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Can I help you?”
She mumbled the words New Year’s and staggered back to the party raging inside the club.
RICHIE MCGILL
When the clock struck midnight, I was hanging with this crowd of fans and we all clanked glasses, high-fived, and hugged. It was pretty cool. Then, out of nowhere, this drunk chick stumbled in from outside and planted a big nasty kiss on me. I say nasty because she tasted like puke. It was pretty gross.
“Happy New Year’s,” she muttered, and stumbled away. I found out only later that it was probably the same girl who’d kissed Harry outside. I like to freak him out by telling him that when she kissed me right after kissing him, it was like me and him kissing. The dude is such a prude. Cracks me up every time.
HARBINGER JONES
When I went back inside a few minutes after midnight—my impromptu date thankfully nowhere to be seen—I found Johnny sitting alone at a table near the front, nursing a beer. Richie was at the bar with a bunch of people, and Chey wasn’t anywhere in my line of sight.
“Happy New Year,” I said. Johnny just nodded in response.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Johnny answered, looking at his shoes. “I’m just so tired, Harry.”
I figured he meant tired of the ups and downs with Cheyenne, or maybe that the long night was too much strain on his leg. Whatever it was, he just seemed so sad.
After a minute, Johnny let out a big sigh and pushed himself up from the table. “Let’s go tune your guitar to the keyboard.”
And we did.
CHEYENNE BELLE
I don’t want to talk about the actual gig.
I don’t remember a lot. And what I do remember, I don’t want to talk about. The other guys can give you what you need on that one.
HARBINGER JONES
It was the worst gig we ever played, or ever would play, mostly because Chey was falling-down drunk. And by falling-down drunk, I mean that she couldn’t stand up.
When the band before us started breaking down equipment, we gathered by the side of the stage, ready to move our gear up quickly. Johnny was motionless, lost in his own thoughts. Richie was a ball of nervous energy, rat-a-tat-tatting his sticks against his thigh. I had my guitar slung over my back and my hat pulled low, trying, but failing, to look cool.
I figured Chey was in the bathroom and didn’t pay it much mind until we had all our equipment—including her bass and her amp—on the stage.
“Where is she?” I asked. Johnny was just about to answer, a look of resignation on his face, when Chey stumbled up the stairs on the side of the stage. I reached out and caught her before she nose-dived into Richie’s mounted toms.
When she looked up at me, her eyes were sparkling, but not the kind of sparkling that made me fall for her. Maybe glassy would be a better word. Her eyes were glassy. Or maybe swimming would be the best word. Her eyes were swimming.
“Are you high?” I asked.
“No,” Johnny offered from his seat on the cramped stage behind me. “She’s drunk.”
“Oh, shit,” I mumbled. “Can you play?” I talked to her like she was an imbecile, and that made Chey laugh.
“A courz Icahn play,” she slurred. She gained her footing, found her bass, and put it on. The weight of the instrument against her small frame was too much, and Chey fell backward onto her amp. She caught herself so she landed on her butt, and it looked more like she sat down roughly than anything else. She giggled.