“WHERE’S FLUFFY!” Dev shouts. He pats my back in excitement then raises his arms like he’s Rocky. “WHERE’S FUCKING FLUFFY!”
Exactly. This was the reaction I expected from Nick when I told him about the show. I mean, they’re only the best punk band out there right now, named for the f**king apathy of a xenophobic f**king nation oblivious to the f**king terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they’re too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something. Where’s Fluffy can actually play instead of just wail like f**king pop-punk goof-offs. They sing everything right about everything wrong—they’ll come on pro-NRA, anti-choice, homophobic—to remind listeners what’s worth fighting for. Where’s Fluffy are the real deal, and if there is anything between me and Nick, it will be determined when the show starts, if we’re front and center in jumping throttling exhilaration together, fist-waving and shouting “oi oi oi” at all the right moments, in sync. So to speak.
The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.
9. NICK
Things are going so well. We’re volleying words back and forth. Everything she says, I have something I can say back. We’re sparking, and part of me just wants to sit back and watch. We’re clicking. Not because a part of me is fitting into a part of her. But because our words are clicking into each other to form sentences and our sentences are clicking into each other to form dialogue and our dialogue is clicking together to form this scene from this ongoing movie that’s as comfortable as it is unrehearsed.
I know she’s holding back a little. I know she keeps shooting me questions so I won’t get too close to her answers. That’s fine. Who is she, really? Fuck if I know. But I care. Yeah, I’m starting to care.
The club is really packed now, filled with that pre-gig mix of anticipation and extreme impatience. Dev is so completely Dev and ramps himself over to us to lead the WHERE THE FUCK IS FLUFFY? cheer. Tony/i/é comes over and wants me to help with some gear. I look at Norah and almost ask if she’s going to miss me while I’m gone. But I don’t want to push it.
It’s pretty cool to be in the realm of Fluffy, even if I can’t see any of the guys and all I’m doing is making sure the mics work. Just to be standing on their stage is a bit of a rush. I’m testing 1-2-3 and testing FUCK-SHIT-COCK and the crowd is looking at me with this unanimous wish that I’d get the f**k off the stage, and if it wasn’t for the presence of a glowering man in Playboy Bunny pose watching over me, I might be having some head-meet-bottle moments. And it would almost be worth it. It’s not often that you can shed blood for one of your favorite bands.
It’s all so f**king surreal. And suddenly I’m wanting to tell Tris about it. Which is so f**king wrong, but it’s not the kind of thought that’s a choice. Where’s Fluffy was the second show we went to, and the sixth, and the eleventh, and the fourteenth. She’d never heard of them, so I dragged her well past midnight to see them at Maxwell’s, underage but not underambitious. She was so skeptical of bands she’d never heard of—like she couldn’t get a buzz if there hadn’t been some buzz. Where’s Fluffy convinced her, though. She got it on the first song and wasn’t afraid to show it. She whooped and hacksawed and knifed up and hair-flailed nonstop for the full 110 rpm set. Afterward she said, “Man, those guys were hot,” and I was so entirely jealous of them, until she said, “But not as hot as you right now” and I became a firework waiting to happen.
But that wasn’t all. I’m thinking about the sixth time. I was dancing, doing my thing, and she just stopped for a moment, looking at me. And I screamed, “What?” and she screamed back, “You have to stop that,” and I screamed “What?” and she told me, “You’re still here. You have to go farther than that.” And at first I didn’t get it, but then I realized that she was right; I wasn’t giving myself up to the music. I was looking at the people around me. I was self-conscious. I was contexting every single note. “Just let go,” she yelled. And at first I couldn’t, since I was so grounded in the trying. But then the band launched into “Dead Voter” and for the first time ever I freed myself from everything but the chords. I didn’t think about Tris—she had hidden herself behind the song, orchestrating it all. After we were done, sweat-glazed and panting, we didn’t have to say a f**king word. We just looked at each other and there was this recognition. She’d pushed me and I’d gotten there. I was grateful. Am grateful.
I look at the crowd for a moment, trying to find her again. I know she’s there somewhere, even if she’s not in the room. Even if she’s making out with some other guy in some other club without one single synapse connecting a thought of me.
“Wake the f**k up!” some guy pressing against the stage says. I realize that my hands have fallen idle. Like I can’t think of Tris and do anything else at the same time. Which is such a lie.
I finish the connections. The mics are ready for the assault. Tony/i/é nods and the lights dim. I head off, but not before I catch the nod of Evan E., Fluffy’s drummer. I smile and nod back, then press back into the crowd. I’ve lost track of Norah, lost sight of where our table used to be. All the tables have been shoved aside now.
Fuse: lit.
Fuse: burning.
Ready.
Set.
Explode.
The guitars rampage. The drums batter. Owen O. snarls bastardizations at the world. A bell rings and Pavlov’s dog has a f**king seizure on the dance floor. Since I’m not a part of it yet, I see it: how a group of people can become a blizzard, how all the time spent buying and picking out exactly the right clothes doesn’t mean shit now because nobody is looking at clothes or poses. It’s about force and pulse and unleashing the gigantic urges. I am pushing through skin and spike to get to Norah. I am jolting through this human turbulence to catch sight of Tris. I am slamming though this bright, bright darkness to figure out who the f**k I’m looking for, and why.