A Song for Julia

  “Julia!” I heard someone call. I scanned around, and there was Linden, packed in at a table with Adriana and Jemi and three guys I didn’t recognize.

  I pushed my way to the table and slid in next to Jemi.

  “I didn’t think you were going to come,” she shouted, trying to be heard over the music, giving me a casual hug with one arm.

  “Maybe I need to get out more,” I replied. Adriana tried to introduce the three guys, but I couldn’t hear her. They were from Tufts, blonde, blonder and blondest. All three were cute, and I guess smart, but I wasn’t interested.

  Especially when the music stopped.

  A balding, fifty-year-old guy stood at the stage and shouted into the microphone, “It’s time for the real music to start. Everybody give a shout out to Morbid Obesity!”

  The crowd roared, and the lights went black. Thirty seconds later they came back up, and the spotlight was centered on Crank and a beautiful Indian woman, Serena. I’d seen her briefly when the band played at the protest, and, of course, I’d seen her pictures on the band’s website. She had a fantastic voice—rich and filled with beautiful, deep tones. As she and Crank started playing their guitars simultaneously, and the drums joined in, I felt myself tense. The music was intense, inspired. I’d spent the previous summer as an intern at Division records, mostly doing filing and taking phone calls, but I’d snuck down to the studios often enough to listen to the bands recording down there. Morbid Obesity was an order of magnitude better than the vast majority of them. Of course, when my parents found out what my summer internship was, they’d gone ballistic, but I’d persuaded my father that the job would involve learning about international trade, and eventually got them to stop complaining about it.

  From what I read about the band, Crank wrote nearly all of it, though occasionally Serena contributed lyrics. As he sang, he was transported, energetic. Sweat poured off of him, his energy level focused and intent on playing the crowd as much as his instrument. Their duets were magical, harmonic. The dynamic between Crank and Serena was scary. Both of them incredibly sexy, singing together into the same microphone, flinging sweat. They were sex personified.

  The crowd was going insane, and I got out on the dance floor and threw myself into the music. Jemi joined me, and I found myself dancing with an abandon I hadn’t felt in years. I felt sweat running down my forehead, my arms, my back; the crowd pulsating around me like a single living thing. The music was raucous, haunting, driving. Unusually for a punk band, the lyrics were clear and understandable, and it was clear that Crank was as gifted a lyricist as songwriter. He sang of alienation, isolation, grief, loss and rage, and at one point I almost felt myself in tears.

  I was soaking wet when the band took a fifteen-minute break, so I made my way to the bathroom with Jemi following me. A long line snaked out of the bathroom, so I stood at the end and waited. The band members disappeared to a room in the back. I watched as Crank headed that way, his arm casually thrown across Serena’s shoulders.

  Jemi followed my eyes and gave me a conspiratorial grin. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

  I snorted. “Sure, but every girl in here wants a piece of that.”

  She laughed. “I bet most of them have had it too. He’s a bit of a whore.”

  I swallowed, and my face flushed. Thank God, it was so dark in here she probably didn’t see. “I’m sure,” I said.

  “Speaking of guys,” she said, “whatever happened with that guy you were dating? William?”

  “Willard,” I corrected. I shrugged. “We broke up last spring.”

  “Bad one?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. It just…wasn’t right.”

  “Ahh,” she said. “Any new prospects?”

  For just a second, I was back in front of the White House passionately kissing Crank. “No, not really,” I said.

  “So … what’s different?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you so wild! You were really into the music.”

  What was different? I didn’t know. I thought of my mother, telling me not to do anything that might reflect badly on my father. As if she had any right to say that to me. I thought of the guitarist in Harvard Square, and how for a brief few moments, I felt free. I thought about how music had been the only thing that helped me survive high school.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s time for me to live a little.”

  She grinned. “Well, I’m glad you came out with us. You don’t get out enough.”

  “I agree!”

  Soon we were back out on the dance floor, laughing, and at one point, singing along with a couple of covers. About thirty minutes after the break, I gasped when Crank pulled a girl out of the crowd, up onto the stage, and kissed her on the neck as she screamed. Then he reached around and grabbed her ass. What an obnoxious shit! But, she was laughing as she rejoined the crowd.

  Serena took the microphone about two hours into the show and said, “We’re just about done, because poor Crank has to go babysit! But first, we’re going to play our newest song, written by Crank Wilson just this week. It’s called, “Julia, Where Did You Go?””

  I froze as Crank opened the song with a slow, ascending arpeggio, the song a mournful wail. Then he started singing, and I felt my face flush. The first verse described the moment we met, just on the side of the stage in Washington. I took a deep breath, then another, as he launched into the chorus.

  I didn’t know how to say no

  Oh Julia, where did you go?

  Jemi leaned close and shouted over the music, “What’s wrong?”

  “I gotta go!” I replied.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, but it wasn’t true. I wasn’t okay at all. I started to push my way through the crowd, but that was a losing battle. All I could see in my mind was Crank singing that stupid song, Crank grabbing that girl’s ass on the stage, Crank kissing me and me actually taking it seriously.

  I didn’t want to take it seriously, and the last thing I wanted was for him to take it seriously. Why did he have to write that song?

  I wasn’t even halfway to the door when the song stopped, and Serena yelled, “Metro Somerville, good night!” The crowd screamed and cheered and called for more, but the music didn’t start again for almost two minutes, and then it wasn’t live.

  Finally! I got to the door and shoved it open, gasping for air. It was relatively quiet, despite the packed traffic. I took a few breaths to gather myself and then turned to walk around the building and back to my car. I barely made it five feet before my cell phone started ringing.

  I took the phone out of my purse, snapped it open and said, “Hello?” in a tone I would normally reserve for my worst enemy.

  Turned out it was my mother. Again. My mother, who never, ever called me on my cell phone.

  “Julia. We need to talk.”

  I stopped in my tracks and rolled my eyes. “Don’t you think we’ve done enough of that tonight, Mother?”

  “Julia … maybe I was wrong. Too hasty.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling my entire body tense. I started walking, quickly. “Mother, I am so done with this!” I spat the words out in a rush, not caring that they couldn’t be recalled. I reached my car and fumbled for my keys, finally getting the car door open and slipping inside as she spoke again.

  “You’re done when I say you’re done, young lady,” she said. I cranked the engine as she continued. “I don’t know where you get your attitude, or why you hate me so much.”

  “Maybe you should look in the mirror?” I said.

  “Julia, I’ve never done anything to make you hate me!”

  I gripped the wheel, the phone in the crook of my neck, as I shouted, “Oh, that’s rich, Mother! Will you just leave me alone for a little while?”

  Damn it! Why did she have to call me now? I turned my head back to look over my shoulder, and phone still cradled next to my ear, put the car in the reverse and pushed on the gas.

  My head snapped back when the car slam
med into something with a loud crash, and the phone went flying into the back.

  “Oh, shit!” I cried out.

  All he needs is to be accepted (Crank)

  “Go take care of your brother,” Serena said, a half smile on her face. She was drenched in sweat, beads of it sparkling in the hollow between her breasts. She looked hot as hell. “We’ve got this.”

  I put a hand on her upper arm. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

  “Go, before we change our minds!” Mark called.

  I nodded, and as I ran toward the back door, Serena shouted, “Crank! That was the best show yet!”

  I pumped a fist in the air then hit the back door, slamming it open with a bang.

  The crappy car I bought earlier this week was for this sole purpose. Sometimes my dad was on shift on the weekend, despite the fact that he shouldn’t be on patrol at night at his age. But it was what it was. Mrs. Doyle would come over those nights if I had a show, but she couldn’t say past two A.M. and getting from wherever the hell I might be to Southie by two could be a real problem on the T. The car meant I could almost guarantee being there on time.

  I pumped the gas pedal three times then cranked the car, only relaxing once the ancient engine came to life. It was wheels, but not exactly high end. Did I give a shit? No. I did not give a shit. It was going to do the job. I pulled out in the parking lot and drove toward the exit. I checked my watch. One fifteen. I should be there in plenty of time.

  Too late, I saw the reverse lights whiten on a car to my right. It backed out, very suddenly, and I only had time to shout in alarm when it slammed into the passenger side of my car. Glass went flying, and I shouted a curse. My whole body went into adrenaline shock, and I threw open the driver side door.

  The entire passenger side of the car was crumpled in, and the right front wheel twisted at a crazy angle. “Goddamn it!” I screamed and stalked over to the other car.

  It was a brand new Honda hybrid, the bumper crumpled in a little, but with little other damage. I was shaking with rage when the driver of the other car opened the door, and they hadn’t even got out before I shouted, “Why the hell weren’t you watching where you were going? You could have killed someone!”

  The driver got out and turned toward me. She was shaking, in shock, and probably in fear with me screaming. And then I recognized her.

  Holy shit. I stared in shock. This couldn’t be happening. It was Julia.

  I shook my head in disbelief. What in God’s name was she doing here?

  “Oh, my God,” she blurted out. “I am so sorry!” She saw the damage to the car and raised her hands to her mouth. Then her eyes darted back to me, and I think only then did she recognize me, because they widened suddenly, and she muttered again, “Oh, my God.”

  Slowly, now. Calm down. I took another deep, shuddering breath, then said, “You seriously could have killed someone. What were you thinking?”

  She shook her head. “I … I … oh God.”

  This time she completely covered her face. She spoke through her hands. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the damage. It was an accident.”

  I blinked, confused by her reaction. Of course, it was an accident. What else could it be?

  “I … kinda assumed that. Unless you were trying to kill me.”

  She looked up from behind her hands then and shook her head rapidly.

  By this time, two or three people from the club were approaching. Some guy, obviously drunk, said, “Fuuuuck,” then leaned over to puke behind a car.

  I checked my watch. Jesus Christ. It was 1:25. “Listen … Julia. I gotta go. I’m pushing the damn car into a spot, and then I gotta catch a cab to Southie to watch my brother. Give me your number, and we’ll settle this … tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “I can give you a ride. I am so, so sorry.”

  I opened my mouth to answer and closed it. Fine. “That’d be great.”

  It was official. She was frickin’ nuts. But, whatever. I needed to get to Southie and catching a cab all the way from Somerville at this time of night was going to be a huge problem, anyway.

  So, I put the car in neutral and got a couple of the drunks to help roll it back into a vacant spot. The car had a serious wobble now. I didn’t have to worry about locking it up. There weren’t any passenger side windows, anyway. I just grabbed the keys, took my guitar case out of the back seat, and trotted over to her car.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

  She nodded quickly then got in the car. I reached for the passenger side door, but it was locked. She was inside, staring at the wheel and still shaking. I sighed, then walked around to the driver’s side. “You’re a little shook up. Want me to drive?”

  “What?” she asked, startled. The problem wasn’t her being shook up. She was just somewhere else entirely. Drunk? Maybe, I don’t know.

  “Um … Julia? Are you drunk?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Okay … do you want me to drive?”

  She blinked her eyes. “No. I’m sorry. Get in.”

  “Can you unlock the doors?”

  She nodded and hit the button. I got in, placed my guitar carefully in the back seat, and she backed out. This time she looked out the rearview mirror.

  “Okay, where to?” she asked as she pulled to a stop.

  “Can you get us to 93? Bang a left up here at the light.”

  She nodded and carefully pulled out of the parking lot. Just a moment later, we were in traffic, and she came to a stop at a red light. After a moment, she took a deep breath. She was calm now and clear.

  “I’m so sorry about your car. I’ll take care of the damage, I promise. It was so totally my fault.”

  I coughed just a little and then asked, “What happened?”

  “What?”

  “What happened? You backed out of there like someone was chasing you.”

  She swallowed. The streetlights distort everything, but I’d swear she blushed. That was interesting.

  “I was having an argument with my mother.” She gestured vaguely toward the back seat.

  “Your mother? She’s not in the back … did you run her over?”

  “No!” she gasped out a laugh. “On the phone!”

  I shrugged. “Best not to argue on the phone and drive at the same time, I guess.”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  The light turned green, and traffic started to pull away, and we rode in silence. Not a nice, pleasant silence like you have with an old friend. This was more like the silence before the jury delivers the verdict, the silence of a last meal, the ominous silence you hear in the dead of night on a dark street downtown with no traffic. I didn’t like it, and I said, “Got any music?”

  She nodded and pressed the power button on the CD player. Instead of Coldplay or Justin Timberlake or some other pop shit that would have made me vomit, the sounds that burst out of the speakers widened my eyes. I concentrated a moment. “Is that Killing Joke?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. It’s a remaster. The song’s called “Bloodsport.””

  I grinned. “I know that.”

  She looked at me. “Oh right, you would.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.”

  She shrugged. “I may not be in a rock band, but music … means a lot to me. I like those guys. Nobody knows about them, but a hundred bands in the eighties imitated them.”

  “So what do you think of the album?”

  “It’s angry. Primitive.”

  I let out a loud belly laugh. “Primitive” was the title of one of the songs.

  “I’m intrigued. What else do you listen to?”

  “A little of everything,” she said. “I’m kind of eclectic. Comes from exposure to, um … a wide variety of stuff.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  She gave a slight laugh and smirked at me. “Pass me that case at your feet.”

  I did, and at the next red light, she quickly paged through a CD case stuffed full of CDs. Finally, she pull
ed one out. It had a flimsy paper cover of a Chinese guy surrounded by a flame, holding his arms up in the air. She ejected the CD in the dash and replaced it with the Chinese guy.

  Immediately, a bare electric guitar, backed with raw drums and an odd, almost ragtime piano filled the car. It was punk, no question. But odd, like nothing I’d ever heard. Ever. And it was good.

  “Who is this?”

  “He Yong … Garbage Dump. It came in, I think 94 or maybe 95? The Chinese government was cracking down on rock musicians then, so everybody had gone underground. I’m not sure exactly when it came out. You can borrow it if you want, though I have to get it back … I don’t think it’s replaceable.”

  I took a deep breath. “Hell, yeah, I want to borrow it. It’s awesome.”

  Before I knew it, she had us on 93 south headed into Boston, the windows were down and she cranked the music up. The sound in this car rocked.

  “Mind if I smoke?” I shouted. I was having trouble not banging my head and bouncing with the music.

  “Go ahead.”

  I lit up, careful to blow my smoke outside. When the song was over, we were just getting close to downtown Boston, and I said, “Couple more exits. That was amazing.”

  She smiled. “I thought for sure you would have heard it.”

  “Frickin’ Chinese punk rockers? Never would have guessed there were any. That’s wicked.”

  She grinned.

  “You don’t seem like the punk type.”

  She shrugged. “Appearances aren’t everything. And I’m into a lot of different music—I considered majoring in music, but my parents would have gone insane. I just figured you’d like this.”

  I nodded. “I do! It’s hard to find people who appreciate anything but the latest pop.”

  “You’ve got a gift, though. The show tonight was fantastic,” she said. But then something came over her face. She looked troubled, almost angry.