The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [90]
The bar was hot and loud, the heat intensified and the noise amplified by the weird configuration of the room. Darcy’s was on the North Side, across the el tracks from an allegedly straight-friendly lesbian joint called the Bar and Grrl, in a neighborhood with high-rent shotgun apartments and low-rent attic-space theaters. The room’s tin ceiling was very high—probably four stories—and there was a narrow horseshoe balcony about halfway up, with the open end closest to the stage. A small bar served the balcony, which might have held seventy-five people, while the downstairs was dominated by a larger, more traditional bar, perpendicular to the stage, from which Nada scanned the room. Ventilation was poor, a fact testified to by the unchanging bolus of smoke that hung, in defiance of city ordinances, a few feet above everyone’s heads. Nada wondered if it had been there since before the smoking ban. Despite the occasional presumed fire inspection, there was only one obvious entrance or exit, a door currently fortified by an elite squad of bouncers who spoke almost exclusively to the tiny bugs in their ears.
The bouncers reminded her of Wayne.
Thinking about Wayne made her ribs hurt because Wayne loved her so much. What she felt for him was more complicated than love, a gray area of affection and annoyance and tenderness and, for a few nights, even passion. What was the difference between that and love? Was it only his size? She had asked herself that in the days since their first night together. Was she really so bothered that he was so much bigger than she was, bothered by the not entirely unattractive amalgam of muscle and fat that he carried with, she had to admit, a surprising amount of grace? If Wayne were a normal size, would she like him more? Would she love him?
Or was it just that she found it possible to imagine a life without him?
The buzz of conversation took a dip with the lights and a moment later the hush was splintered by cheers when a guitarist, a bassist, and a drummer walked onstage, heads down, coolly oblivious to the affection all around. A pair of female violinists joined them, as well as a trio of backup singers. After a beat, a big ball of a man walked out to another roar, also unacknowledged, but less self-consciously. Burning Patrick was large, larger than Wayne (maybe not taller, but at least heavier), and he was wearing a ripped black parka, even in the heat, and a dirty green backpack. He gripped a wire-bound notebook tightly with both hands, the way you might hold a steering wheel in mid-skid. His dilated eyes were unfocused and independent of each other, the result of a detached retina. He approached the microphone and began to sing without preamble, and the band tried to catch up to him with a rushed intro.
A few dozen fans of the Bat Wing Vortex had taken positions on the floor in front of the stage and even through the opening acts had sat cross-legged in circles, drinking bottled water or beer. When the band appeared, they jumped to their feet and started yelling, and when the Bat Wing Vortex began playing, they started moshing, some spinning in great repeated leaps, carelessly throwing their fists and elbows in all directions. Others preferred a charging style, running toward the tightly packed group and then hurling themselves backward into the spinners. With every new assault, a few kids were thrown to the ground, but they were up