Switch

Part Two

As expected, Lynn Lee and The Spastic Sirens played an amazing show. The instrumentals were dead on and the crowd fell even more in love with the woman they came to see. Throughout the set, Lynn Lee effortlessly commanded the attention of the entire venue.

At one moment between songs, she was explaining how it felt to be liberated from a toxic relationship - which made me wonder if she knew I was there - and some drunken concertgoer yelled, “Shut up and play!” The crowd booed loudly and the people nearby began pushing and swinging at him. Lynn shrieked like a wild animal and dove fearlessly into the crowd. The sea of loyal followers made way submissively, allowing her to quickly get to the heckler and beat the shit out of him with her microphone. The scuffle ended with Lynn jumping back on stage and two large bouncers dragging the bloodied shit-talker outside. The crowd cheered as their rock goddess took a bow and said, “Fuck that guy,” just before the opening riff to their newest song, aptly titled, “Picking Fights.”

At the end of the show, the band stood together and graciously applauded the audience before staggering off the stage. They had played their asses off. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t equally amazed and envious. Despite our little tours and handfuls of groupies, the band I was in never played shows like that – not at that level of intensity or to that large, or devoted a crowd. Lynn Lee and The Spastic Sirens were clearly a force to be reckoned with and I was not ready to interview them.

The gravity of the situation finally hit me full force.

My hands began to shake as I glanced around nervously. My eyes wildly darted around the venue before settling on the bar near the back of the building. I had been sober for almost three years, but nothing had made me want to take the edge off as badly as having to interview my ex-wife, who, despite my unapologetic indifference and emotional abuse, had become what I longed to be for so many years: an incredibly talented and successful musician.

The band had already gone up to the green room on the closed off, second floor of the large club when the bouncers began yelling at everyone to get out. I stepped up to the bar and looked over the rows of old friends that lined the mirrored walls. Wild Turkey was always my favorite. “One shot would be just enough to kill the nerves,” I thought. I began to salivate as I remembered the sticky, sweet burn of the whiskey that was within reach - the liquid courage and solace that could ease the tension when I faced her for the first time in years.

I held my Press Pass up in the air and the bartender ambled in my direction in cinematic, slow motion. “Hey man,” he said as he smiled and coolly waved his arm toward the impressive selection, “whatever you want is on the house.” Small beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I licked my lips.

My voice cracked when I finally said, “Water would be great.”

When the water arrived, I received a text message from Bruce Tussler. The unexpected vibration in my pocket startled me and caused me to knock over the half-empty glass I had just been given. The bartender laughed and got me a replacement as I sheepishly looked down at my phone. The text read, “5000 words by next week. Blow me away and you’ll be guaranteed more work. Good luck!”

Bruce was the relatively new editor at the magazine, but everyone wanted to work for him. His track record for launching writers’ careers was unmatched in the publishing industry. During his tenure at a major publishing house in the nineties, he had made household names of dozens of authors and poets. After becoming the best eye for talent in the literary field, he decided to take on a new challenge by crossing over to the world of entertainment journalism. It didn’t take long for him to deliver the best content in the business.

It was strange to get a call from him out of the blue, but I didn’t want to question my luck. He said that he had read some of my stories and a bit of my new manuscript, and that he wanted me to write something for him. I couldn’t believe it. Writers killed for two minutes with Bruce Tussler. He was a literary giant. But, on that particular day, he called me.

He wanted to generate some new content about certain up-and-coming bands and said that he liked my style and the musical experience that I could bring to the table. I desperately wanted to write for the magazine, so I concealed the shock that I felt when he gave me my first assignment. I couldn’t tell him that Lynn Lee was actually my ex-wife, Evelyn Godlee, and that the two of us hadn’t spoken since she punched my lights out. I couldn’t risk losing the offer. If I wanted to take my career to the next level, I had to deal with the uncomfortable moment that was rapidly approaching and get the interview.

I slammed the water back and fought the increasing urge to order a real drink. The text message had sent an extra shockwave of adrenaline and anxiety through my body. If I didn’t get the story, then I could kiss working with Bruce Tussler and the most famous music magazine on the planet goodbye. After that, my book editor could hear that I was unreliable and pull his offer off the table. Then, if all of that happened, I would be finished.

My thoughts were snowballing out of control and I knew that I had to step away from the bar before I made a bad decision.

A no-neck, mass of muscle and testosterone stood menacingly between me and the stairs that led up to the green room. The bouncer glared down at me as I timidly showed him the Press Pass dangling from my neck. He frowned, disappointed that he had to let me by, but waved me through anyway.

The stairs behind him seemed to go on forever. It became harder to breathe as I made my ascent. I was getting closer. The door at the top was propped open and led into a dark, narrow hallway. A yellow-orange light stabbed at the darkness below the solitary door at the opposite end of the hall and my heart raced as I quietly approached it. I didn’t know if she had been told that I was the one coming, but I couldn’t avoid her any longer. I wanted, more than anything, to become a successful writer and this was the story that would set things in motion.

Outside the door, I forced a deep breath into my lungs. There was no sound when I finally exhaled. No more waiting. I closed my eyes, balled up my fist, and knocked three times.