Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

The venue is a dark little club with a bar along one wall, a modest stage in the back, some scattered tables, and a dance floor that’s already swarming with people, though the band hasn’t begun playing yet. Everything’s painted black: walls, ceiling, floor. Only the mirrored bar is lit. David Bowie, remixed to hip-hop, thunders from the loudspeakers. Very young men and women wriggle their bodies. Alice sits at the bar gesticulating with her tomato-red drink. Thomas struggles through the crowd to reach her. She smiles and embraces him and says something, he can’t hear what, so he only nods and finds the check from his back pocket and pushes it into her hand, which causes her to radiate like a small sun. He sits beside her, and somehow manages to order a beer from the bartender, a young man distinguishable by the impressive Afro protruding thickly and majestically around his handsome face. Two women Alice’s age catch sight of her and approach excitedly, greeting her with squeals and hugs, surrounding her from every angle with their long limbs, their chatter and giggling, their cheap jewelry, hair and scarves, and Thomas thinks that maybe he’s become hard of hearing, because how can they hear each other when he can’t. Hard of hearing and middle-aged. Perspiring, he pulls off his sweater and watches the dancers, who, like one enormous creature, slither in rhythm to the music. The women leave Alice to head in the direction of the bathrooms. One is short-haired and blonde, the other bears a long, dusty Rastafarian mane. Alice shouts into his ear: “THEY’LL BE ON SOON,” and he nods again (of course they’re on soon, why else would they be sitting here gawking?). All at once he realizes that he is the oldest person in the place. Maybe people think he’s Alice’s lover, that he’s a filthy old pig pathetically reliving his youth. Now she puts her hand on his thigh and leans close to him, shouting: “HAVE YOU EATEN?” He nods twice and barks: “DID YOU GET THE JOB?” She shrugs. “I DON’T KNOW YET, THEY’LL CALL IN THE MORNING.” She removes her hand, thank God, and something finally happens on the stage, the music stops, a couple guys are tuning the guitar and the bass, and Ernesto appears in a lumberjack’s shirt and shorts, sitting down behind the drums. There are hoots and cheers from people on the dance floor; the stage lights sparkle red and blue. A moment later music bursts into the room and grates at Thomas’s eardrum. There’s wild applause, the audience hopping manically, the thin little guitarist with bangs puts his mouth to the microphone and begins to sing loudly, crazily, without inhibition. In the middle of this booming, aggressive music Ernesto hammers on the drums, and the crisp roll of the snare follows the kick drum’s constant thumps. Ernesto takes every opportunity to bang the hi-hat and drown out the entire band. And then Luc’s standing right beside Thomas with his cockeyed grin. It’s as if he materialized out of thin air. Alice, who’s busy moving her torso, deeply immersed in the music, wraps her arms around his neck, then points at Thomas. And Thomas gives him a measured nod. Luc nods in a friendly way. Then Alice and Luc, or Luke, or whatever his name is, head to the dance floor. The bartender sets another beer in front of Thomas. A man in his mid-thirties takes Alice’s spot on the stool, pulling a young girl onto his lap. As they sit swaying, it’s clear that they’re on something. Heroin, to judge by the contracted pupils. Or powerful painkillers in large doses. Thomas has heard that’s common now. They’re easy to get a hold of and cheaper than either crack or coke. The girl can’t be more than seventeen years old. They lace their fingers together, and he runs one hand up under her peach-colored shirt. The whole time they’ve got these sheepish grins. Thomas turns his head and watches Luke dance with Alice. He’s in complete control of his body, he’s elegant and lithe, his hips rocking rhythmically back and forth. There’s something snakelike about him, and there’s an immense beauty. Alice jumps up and down swinging her arms. And the music gets louder, a guitar solo now, deep notes become shrill become high-pitched, infernal wails; the guitarist treats his instrument as if it were his enemy, then he bends lovingly over it, then he holds it away from his body like a taut coil, his body’s a taut coil too, his face cramped up, his bangs flopping with every wild jerk of his head. He growls into the microphone and throws the guitar across the stage floor; people cheer and clap like crazy. He snatches up his guitar and returns to what passes for a melody. The music crescendos, the lights turn green, yellow, violet, Ernesto goes amok on the drums — and the set’s over. The band absorbs the audience’s cheers and they climb from the stage, sweating. A moment later Thomas is surrounded partly by Alice and Luke, partly by Alice’s two girlfriends — who apparently know the wasted girl and her boyfriend — and again he’s clumped into a mass of hair and arms and squeals and hugs. They order Cokes, like at a child’s birthday party, and when he realizes that Luke’s looking at him, he says: “Good to see you,” and Luke responds: “Likewise.” And then there’s really nothing more to say. Luke’s eyes glide hungrily around the room, up and down girls’ bodies. Alice introduces him to her girlfriends and to the wasted guy, whose name turns out to be Mingo. This Mingo greets Luke and Thomas with a limp, moist handshake and an aloof, half-dead smile. The girl on his lap is Andrea; she went to school with Alice and the girls, and as far as Thomas can tell, she also dropped out. But the other two are still in school. “Come back to us, it’s so boring without you two!” says the one with the Rasta hair, and all at once he’s terribly concerned for his niece, who’s standing there, smiling and radiant, with her slender shoulders, the tattoo crawling up her neck. What will become of her? Is she also doing drugs? And how much more does he not know about her? Ernesto arrives, and he’s welcomed like a hero. “You guys are amazing, this concert was SO much better than the last one,” and so on. Thomas mumbles “Good show,” and thinks: I need to pull myself together , and orders a beer for Ernesto and whoever wants one. He wants to get away from there right now, he’s out of his element. But then this Mingo begins to talk to him in a snuffling, nasal voice. “I grew up right around the corner and you know what? I was really scared of this street when I was a kid. But not anymore.” He laughs an odd, soundless laugh. “No. Not anymore. You know what else? It’s got something to do with the light. Because it’s completely dark in the middle of the street, the buildings are so tall there, y’know. Did you notice that? It’s always dark in the middle of the street. That’s why I was so afraid, but now I just think it’s (he breathes deeply, leans back a little, swaying on the stool) wonderful, like. . stepping straight into night or death in such a beautiful, beautiful way.” Again this silent laughter of his, and his hand resting on Andrea’s back. Though her glass is empty, Andrea sucks and sucks on the straw. Mingo shakes his head dreamily, smiling, exhilarated. His eyes are narrow slits. Thomas can’t stand it any longer, not for another second, everything in him wants to get away, his heels itch, the muscles in his shins quiver. He pulls Alice aside. “Stay away from Mingo.”

She smiles, her head tilted to one side.

“What’s with you ? I’ve told you not to worry about me. I know how to take care of myself.”

“But you should stay away from people like him. Can’t you see how he’s filled that girl with drugs?”

“I think it’s the other way around.” Her girlfriends call for her, waving. She glances in their direction, looks impatiently at Thomas. He holds her gaze.