The Man of Mystery

I made it just in time for rehearsal to begin. Pushing through the glass door, I stepped into the club. The floor was littered with a disarray of tables and chairs and the stage was small, but certainly welcomed by our meagre dream.

“You finally showed! I thought maybe you’d chickened out. Told ‘em you didn‘t have the bottle to take anymore fame.” Josh laughed, knocking back the last of his beer. He threw the bottle, which smashed into tiny shards on the grey cement floor, and stood up. Placing his guitar strap around his neck, he plucked the loudest chord he could, on his oddly shaped, red guitar, and messed with the foot pedal to draw out the note. He threw back his head, muddling up his slick black hair, and hoisted his left arm into the air, hand forming the rock symbol. “Now that’s rock, baby!” He laughed, again, jumping off the stage, his metal wallet chain swinging madly at his side, while his black skinny jeans clung tight to his slender figure.

“Blimey, stop messin’ around! You’re gonna get us kicked out of the line-up. And clean up that mess while you’re at it!” David yelled, square jaw line firmly set. Once he was done scowling, he went back to checking his microphone. His shoulder length, red hair fell around his face as he arranged the picks on the stand. He was the only one in the band to sport any facial hair, and it came in the form of a patch of red fuzz covering the spot below his lower lip.

I walked past Josh, who was now sweeping up the broken glass, and made my way to the stage. Picking up my own instrument, the bass, I strung a few chords to make sure nothing was out of sorts.

Alec was, also, finding his beats, adjusting his keyboard to the right setting. His brown eyes were focused on the keys, forcing his long, dark face into a sour looking expression. Eventually, he got it right and he began to shake his short, wiry dreads to the rhythm.

Neil walked over from the bar, bottle of water in hand.

“Water’s for tree huggers! When will you ever man up? You’re the drummer, for bloody sake! We can’t have a pansy in the band.” Josh rolled, waving his hand, which contained another beer.

“Shut up, Josh,” Alec groaned.

“What? You like pansies?”

David rolled his eyes, and snatched the beer away from Josh. “No more until after the performance. Then you can get as smashed as you want. Just don’t make a fool of our band tonight, okay?”

“Fine, no more.” Josh agreed, grudgingly.

Neil ascended the stairs and nudged me in the arm, “So…you stoked as I am, Liam?”

“More than you know.” I replied, looking up from my bass guitar.

Neil smiled, crookedly, “I just want to provide for Sarah. This could be it…or maybe not. Either way we’re gonna rock, no doubt.”

I smiled back, hoping he could finally be accepted by Sarah’s father. His career’s unsteady past was due, mostly, to failing restaurants and small demand for short order cooks.

Neil grabbed his vibrantly designed drum sticks and began to bang on the black drum set. His crazy blonde hair moved with every bob of his slender, oval head. His stripped pink shirt added colour to our predominantly black wardrobe. Neil was, by far, the best looking in the band, yet because of his conservative nature, Josh claimed all of the ladies.

“Guys, it’s about six forty-five. We need to start heading back to the dressing room. The doors will open any minute and we have to wait backstage.” David informed us, as he put down his guitar.

We filed through the back curtains to the dressing room and began to clean up a bit. The muffled sounds of Death Cab For Cutie and The Artic Monkeys began to pound through the walls. Tensions were high, as other bands applied lots of eyeliner and gave each other intimidating looks. I must have seemed intimated myself, because the lead guitarist of Cottonmouth patted me on the shoulder and winked at me, condolingly.

Faintly, I could hear the announcer rallying the audience’s adrenaline, as well as my own. It was almost time. We were on first. There could be no mistakes and no taking quick notes from the previous bands. The announcer’s voice died out and I could feel myself moving to the stage.

As I picked up my electric green bass guitar, I could hear David introducing us.

“We’re The Shit!”

The audience screamed and we began to play. I felt detached from this moment, for some odd reason. I sensed myself watching instead of playing, but the show must have been a success, because the audience was screaming uncontrollably and a roar of applause broke out. Once off stage, I sifted through the crowd and found an empty table in the corner, where I could scope out the other bands.

Most I liked, but some were awful. I even plugged my ears for one. Then a tall bloke with a big nose plopped down in the chair next to me. Startled, I glanced his way. He didn’t look the type to be interested in Indie bands. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and greying in his brown goatee. Instead of sitting through the awkward aura that surrounded us, I piped up.

“Which band is your favourite, so far?”

“Would you like me to say, The Shit?” He asked, seriously.

I raised an eyebrow at his lack of style.

“Look, I am not here for your petty bands. I have something far more important to talk to you about, Mr. Cooper. May we step outside?”

I hesitated, but agreed, knowing there were bouncers guarding the doors.

We made our way to the back and out into the cool night air. I leaned against the dark brick and waited for his inquiry.

“Your book is quite incredible. You must be proud.” He smiled, putting his hand in the pocket of his khaki pants.

“Not exactly.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t much like fantasy.” I answered, frankly.

“That is interesting.”

“Why, I got lucky.”

“No, you were meant for the knowledge, just not for the purpose of writing a story.” He smirked.

“What are you getting at? Who are you anyway?” I asked, irritated.

“I’m called Deen Proctor, and I have a theory.” He stated placing his hands together.

“And that is…”

“Your writing is…a bit…abnormal.”

“What’s that supposed to…”

“Your writing is very similar to that of Tolkien’s, in the sense that it is set up as, more of a history book, than a novel, per se.”

“And you got a problem with that?” I was more offended now, than irritated.

“No, but I…I think you have done just that.” He started to sound excited.

“Done what?”

“Wrote a history book. I think all of the events described in your book were actual happenings. I believe you hold the key to greater fortune than you realize.”

"You're crazy. My story is nothing but rubbish." I turned around and made my way back inside the club, all the while hearing his shouts of nonsense. History? No, my book was a load of crap, fictional crap, to keep readers enthralled. That was it.