Charades
When you do the door of a gig like this you become invisible. I'm not even sure how I ended up doing the door, but I know people in bands and when you know people in bands this is the kind of thing you end up doing. Sit on the door, mark hands with permanent marker, keep a record of number admitted, CDs sold, perhaps T-shirts if the band has got their act together. There are probably hundreds of places like this all over the country, at least one in each city. A place where the PA is knackered, the décor is tired and there never is any toilet paper in the ladies. I sit in the corner wondering if I still exist, periodically adjusting my bra (damn strapless things), while eyeing the cute butch of the lesbian couple sitting at the next table. My attention wanders between her and the groupie/girlfriend with the short skirt. Earlier the guitarist of the support band had paid for her to get in. The groupie's friend, all perfect makeup and pretty purse, was not happy as I brandished the big black marker pen. 'Can you do a small mark?' she asked, and I obliged the scuzzy venue virgin. Now they are talking to the other band members, laughing as the lads lift up their t-shirts, exposing hard, lightly furred, bellies. The smell of beer is in the air, dreams both broken and shattered, dreams still flying high. People who want to make their money out of music, people who've lost the will to live. There are zombified people drinking their lager and ignoring the band. People who think they're too big for this city. The local pintsize version of Brett Anderson flounces around the music venue, shining amongst beer stains, ashtray hearts and holes in the carpet. He has the attitude of a popstar and the face of an angel -- all sharp cheekbones, floppy hair, dark eyes and sultry attitude. The looks mean he could be a girl or a boy, the looks mean he could pull a girl or a boy. I watch as he drapes himself over the older man sat next to me, bodies fitting as if he was born to sit there, especially as an arm snakes around the star's hips. I sink further back in my seat gulping from my alcopop. Apart from Brett Anderson, and the guy I came with tonight, there are no men here that are easy on the eye. The guy I came with abandoned me for his friends, so I have been sat on the door slowly pickling my kidneys. One of the few people to talk to me tonight was a lad with red hair and an empty guitar case filled with a bunch of white flowers. 'Do you know any of the band playing?' he had asked me. 'Yes' I had replied. 'Who? Which one?' I had thought and realised 'All of them'. He had laughed a deep dirty chuckle, got up and wandered off, probably back to his guitar case and flowers. Now, I have nothing to do apart from listen to distorted vocals and fuzzy guitars. I want something to do with my hands. My left forearm is filled with black marker doodles of hearts. May be I should take up smoking. Then suddenly the cute butch is here at the table, glancing at me shyly, and I cannot hear her speak above the white noise of the second band. We play a game of charades over the music. She points at the CDs strewn across the tabletop, mouths, 'the band on now'. I nod, give the thumbs up, and signal 'two' with my fingers. We understand each other and she hands me a two pound coin, still warm from her touch. I pass her a CD in exchange. A beautiful smile lights up her face, I smile in reply as she saunters back to her girlfriend. For those few seconds she had been the most beautiful woman in the world. For some reason a piece of plastic does not seem recompense enough for how she made me feel. I had existed for that moment. How very funny. Pushing through the throng, the guy I came with squeezes past the star, to sit next to me on the seat. I look at him, I think I am happy, perhaps content. He slides an arm across my shoulders. I cannot decide if 'happy' is too strong a word to describe how I feel. Next to us the star gets up suddenly, knocking my table, and my alcopop - fizzy sugar water spilling over the scrap of paper covered with five bar gates, my doodles and band CDs. 'Sorry' the popstar in waiting says, hands up, smiling, turning his charm fully on as he mops the tabletop with my sodden piece of paper. He winks at me, slinks to the bar, hips swaying. I close my eyes and let the music wash over me.
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