Night in the Ruts

The Walrus - Charlie

        He’s only a person, dummy.  Speak!  “Don’t you talk?” he asks, trying the door handle again.  Another rush of air.  “Well, no need,” he says, taking the towel from around his neck and wiping his face.  I am the luckiest person in the whole United States of America.  He knocks on the door.  “Goddammit,” he mutters.  “Don’t move.  I’ll be right back.”

        He paces away, to another door.  He goes in, returning moments later with a tight black shirt advertising the Yardbirds.  He likes the Yardbirds?  He leans against the wall, studying me.  “The band is that way,” he says, taking a drag from a joint he brought with him.  He points behind him with his thumb over his shoulder, not looking away from me.

        “Okay.”  I spoke!  Yes!  One thing you should know: when I’m nervous or feeling awkward or something a get really, really sardonic.  It’s gotten me in trouble quite a few times, actually.

        “So... Shouldn’t you be over there?” he asks.

        I blink.  Who does he think I am?

     The handle turns.  Jess.  Thank God.  She heard him ask shouldn’t you be over there? apparently.  He took a step back with a grin when he saw Jess, probably thinking, Now that’s more like it!

        Jess smiles.  “What do you mean?” she asks.  Jess was wearing a hot-pink tube-top with the sinfamous (like my word-play?) high-waisted, short black skirt.

        “Where’d you come from?” he asks, blowing some smoke from his lips.  At least he had the courtesy to blow it away from me.  The stench still made me gag, though.

        Jess smiles.  “Around.”  She’s such a flirt.  Can’t I have just one?

        The guy nods slowly.  I roll my eyes, feeling better now that my sister was by my side.  “I mean, we say that all girls go to the band’s room, not hang around the hallways.  Did they tell you guys the wrong number or am I just that lucky?”

        Oh my god.  He thinks we’re groupies.  Jess, yes.  Me, no.  I look worriedly back and forth from Jess to the lead singer.  His eyes are boring into me.

        “I think we got the wrong number,” Jess says sweetly.

        “Yeah, okay.  C’mon,” he says, leading us to the door he disappeared in to change his shirt a few minutes ago.  I noticed each door had a number.  The one I was frozen in front of was 105.  The band’s was apparently 107.

        “What’re you doing?” I breathed into Jess’s ear as he led us down the hall.

        “Acting like I belong here,” she whispers back.  “and you best do it too unless you want to get arrested!”

        “If the cops show up I’m done for either way!” I argue.  “I’m seventeen, pretending to be a stripper I guess, and they’re all stoned!”

        “Just–”

        “Here we are.  One-oh-seven, not five,” he says, oblivious to our conversation.  He holds the door for us.

        Music, the stench of smoke–not cigarette–the smell of alcohol, and the sound of talking and laughter resonates through my brain.  Jess steps in, I follow.  He shuts the door behind us.  I feel kinda bad not knowing his name.  Jess didn’t care either way.  She just went to concerts to get drunk and meet guys.

        An attractive fellow (shit, they’re all attractive) with long black hair offered me a bottle of alcohol.  I took it because I was too awestruck to decline.  I didn’t drink it though, I merely gave it to Jess.