to hear acts they couldn’t see anywhere else. In fact, there was one band loading in for sound check, so she stuck around to watch them set up.
After a couple of minutes, she noticed someone standing up against the wall checking out the stage and occasionally looking in her direction, as well. He seemed to hide in the shadows thrown by the light rig installed above the stage. He didn’t appear to be with the crew or the band, but he sure looked like he could have been. From what she could see, which wasn’t much, he definitely had the indie-boy look down cold.
Up close, things became much clearer. She was surprised to see that he was wearing a Dead Boys tee, just like one she had given away. In fact, everything he had on was totally authentic—no cheaply made reproductions that she could spot—and would definitely have cost a fortune at the local vintage boutiques, if you were lucky enough to even find this stuff. The most striking thing about it all was that he didn’t sport his kit pretentiously, like a rock-and-roll costume. He wore it naturally, comfortably, like, well, clothing.
She always thought she would end up with a guy who looked like he did: tall and built, but skinny; coal-black dyed hair and pale skin; and the attitude to go with it. He looked like the kind of guy who had groupies, but didn’t care because all that mattered to him was being onstage, performing. He was intimidating, even at first glance.
“Cool band,” Scarlet blurted, pointing to his T-shirt.
There was no response. He just kept staring at the stage, nodding along to the beat the drummer was laying down. The low-tech P.A. system, which was buzzing like crazy, wasn’t very chat-friendly, she thought. She waited until it quieted down and tried again.
“Love their live album,” she called out again, hoping to strike up a conversation. “Liver Than You’ll Ever Be?” She paused for a response that didn’t come. “Night of the Living Dead Boys is probably my favorite, though.”
Still nothing.
“Hey,” Scarlet moved in closer and yelled snidely above the din. Like Petula, she was not accustomed to being ignored.
“You talking to me?” the guy asked with a confused look on his face, like she was begging for money or something.
Scarlet didn’t mind a little attitude, but rudeness was a different thing altogether.
“You see anybody else here?” Scarlet said, spinning her head around.
“Sorry. I’m Eric,” he responded, his expression softening.
“Scarlet,” she said. “You from around here?”
“Yeah, I used to, ah…,” Eric stammered briefly, unsure of how to respond, “live here.”
“Cool tee. I have, or should I say had, one myself,” she continued. “You find yours at Clothes Minded?”
“Nah,” he said, completely oblivious to the whole idea of a vintage store.
Scarlet didn’t press, figuring he didn’t want to give away any fashion secrets to a nosy stranger.
“Are you with these guys?” she asked, changing the subject.
“No,” Eric said again. “I got my own thing.”
“Do you play?”
“Guitar,” Eric said. “And I write a little.”
Suddenly a surly voice blasted out of the speakers and filled the club.
“This is a closed sound check,” the roadie barked. “Out!”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” Scarlet said. “Eric, right?”
“Looks like you will,” he added vaguely, handing her a cassette. “Here’s a demo tape of my stuff. Let me know what you think.”
She was flattered that he would share his music with her, but the audiotape thing threw her. She hadn’t even seen one of those since her easy-to-use Playskool tape deck broke. She figured he was into a retro vibe though, considering his look, which, being a vintage fan herself, was just fine with her.
Scarlet was multitasking manically, cleaning and streaming, as she fired up the laptop for her iDate with Damen. He liked to joke that he was just a double click away, but cyberspace was no
After a couple of minutes, she noticed someone standing up against the wall checking out the stage and occasionally looking in her direction, as well. He seemed to hide in the shadows thrown by the light rig installed above the stage. He didn’t appear to be with the crew or the band, but he sure looked like he could have been. From what she could see, which wasn’t much, he definitely had the indie-boy look down cold.
Up close, things became much clearer. She was surprised to see that he was wearing a Dead Boys tee, just like one she had given away. In fact, everything he had on was totally authentic—no cheaply made reproductions that she could spot—and would definitely have cost a fortune at the local vintage boutiques, if you were lucky enough to even find this stuff. The most striking thing about it all was that he didn’t sport his kit pretentiously, like a rock-and-roll costume. He wore it naturally, comfortably, like, well, clothing.
She always thought she would end up with a guy who looked like he did: tall and built, but skinny; coal-black dyed hair and pale skin; and the attitude to go with it. He looked like the kind of guy who had groupies, but didn’t care because all that mattered to him was being onstage, performing. He was intimidating, even at first glance.
“Cool band,” Scarlet blurted, pointing to his T-shirt.
There was no response. He just kept staring at the stage, nodding along to the beat the drummer was laying down. The low-tech P.A. system, which was buzzing like crazy, wasn’t very chat-friendly, she thought. She waited until it quieted down and tried again.
“Love their live album,” she called out again, hoping to strike up a conversation. “Liver Than You’ll Ever Be?” She paused for a response that didn’t come. “Night of the Living Dead Boys is probably my favorite, though.”
Still nothing.
“Hey,” Scarlet moved in closer and yelled snidely above the din. Like Petula, she was not accustomed to being ignored.
“You talking to me?” the guy asked with a confused look on his face, like she was begging for money or something.
Scarlet didn’t mind a little attitude, but rudeness was a different thing altogether.
“You see anybody else here?” Scarlet said, spinning her head around.
“Sorry. I’m Eric,” he responded, his expression softening.
“Scarlet,” she said. “You from around here?”
“Yeah, I used to, ah…,” Eric stammered briefly, unsure of how to respond, “live here.”
“Cool tee. I have, or should I say had, one myself,” she continued. “You find yours at Clothes Minded?”
“Nah,” he said, completely oblivious to the whole idea of a vintage store.
Scarlet didn’t press, figuring he didn’t want to give away any fashion secrets to a nosy stranger.
“Are you with these guys?” she asked, changing the subject.
“No,” Eric said again. “I got my own thing.”
“Do you play?”
“Guitar,” Eric said. “And I write a little.”
Suddenly a surly voice blasted out of the speakers and filled the club.
“This is a closed sound check,” the roadie barked. “Out!”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” Scarlet said. “Eric, right?”
“Looks like you will,” he added vaguely, handing her a cassette. “Here’s a demo tape of my stuff. Let me know what you think.”
She was flattered that he would share his music with her, but the audiotape thing threw her. She hadn’t even seen one of those since her easy-to-use Playskool tape deck broke. She figured he was into a retro vibe though, considering his look, which, being a vintage fan herself, was just fine with her.
Scarlet was multitasking manically, cleaning and streaming, as she fired up the laptop for her iDate with Damen. He liked to joke that he was just a double click away, but cyberspace was no
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