Wanna Smoke A Doob? (Short Fiction Story)

“Lemme guess? You’re not supposed to be in here!”  This authoritarian grunt comes unexpectedly from behind me as I am bent over picking up a mess of wires from a milk crate of gear.

Thus the shit is just about startled out of me, and I nearly jump.  I turn to see a six-and-a-half-foot-tall overweight metal-head dressed in all black with shiny chrome piercings of various gauges in his ears, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, lips and throat. At this moment there is nothing I am more thankful for than the fact that I actually am supposed to be in here. There is nothing on gods’ green earth that could make me want to get on this dude’s bad side.

“I know I’m early for load-in, but the bartender said this was the green room. I’m playing tonight.”

“Ok kid, just stay the fuck out of the stock room. If I catch you trying to slip beer out of there you and your band ain’t opening shit from shineola. You get three free beers for each band member, but not until you perform. Remember that and we shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Yeah man, no problem.”

“Alright, sound check is in two hours, and we need your bands guest list then too.”

I am pretty relieved when he turns and walks away. This is unnerving enough, my first real gig.  The band I’m in, Using The Force has been together for three years; but I just started with them a couple months ago after their old bassist Derek decided to leave so he could accept the scholarship he got to Berkley.  We have a pretty decent group of fans who know our songs note-for-note, and having been one of them myself I know quite a few from going to shows. Therefore it’ll be that much more embarrassing if I end up fucking up tonight while we’re on stage. No pressure now.

The bass is a familiar weight in my hands as I pick it up from the case and begin tuning it, big string first, to B. Warming up always helps to mellow me out, and before I get the chance to fully realize it I am feeling more excitement than fear as I look around the room seeing all the different band stickers covering the walls. Some of the logos are familiar; from the bands of guys I’ve seen before, looked up to, studied the techniques of and prayed someday to be half as good as. My band’s sticker is up there too, right above the bathroom door handle. Classy, not so much. The utter lack of class here does not change the fact that the feeling being in this room gives me is nothing short of magic. I might be high as shit sitting on a severely sagging couch with a badly stained and fraying blue denim cover that smells like a winning combination of spilled whiskey, beer and bong water; but I’m not some dope-head going nowhere, my dreams are being realized here.

Derek’s shoes are going to be big to fill, but I’ve been practicing really hard. The guys in the band decided to choose me to fill in because I already knew some of the songs from my obsessive watching and memorization of how Derek does his fingering- it’s fucking masterful, the dude is truly a genius with time signatures. No wonder Berkley gave him the scholarship, he’s the only guy I’ve ever seen get away with rocking out a seventeen-nine bass line while keeping the crowd grooving. Not an easy feat but that’s kinda our prerogative, make the sound as wild and technical as we can without losing a beat that folks can dance to, it’s sorta like The Dead go disco dubstepping and we make it sound tight.

 “Hey Bobby-o! You ready for the show?” I hear our drummer Sam ask as he walks in the green room.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I reply with a hint of sarcasm.

“You’ve been working hard man, don’t stress it and you’ll be fine. Check it, I got a present for ya.” Sam says sympathetically.

“Whoa, is that a pin with a Simpsons cartoon Jerry strangling Trey? That’s wicked dope! The colors even go with the mandala Bodhi painted on my pranksta hat. Thanks man!”

“No biggie friend, excited to be playing with you tonight. I wasn’t sure what was gonna happen with the band when Derek said he was leaving, but you really picked right up where he left off. We were laying that shit down right at practice yesterday.”

“Yeah I know, we’re gonna rock it.” I say with a bit more enthusiasm, and now I think I actually believe it.

“Bet your ass we are boy! Speaking of asses- that chick Nebula who’s ass you’ve been drooling over is gonna come out tonight, I put her on the list. ‘Bout time you made some moves on her man.”

Moves…… Moves are elusive to me. Something I’ve never possessed or even had momentary attainment of. The only move I have is to offer to smoke a joint with a chick. That is the full extent of any “Rico Suave” there is in me. Back in high school I was so nervous around girls that I frequently stammered or forgot words in the middle of pre-thought sentences I’d already worded and repeated in my head a thousand times. Which lead to a lot of awkward encounters that landed me a very safe distance from S.T.D.s in the friend zone. I like to claim ‘I practiced abstinence all through high school.’ Because I feel it sounds less lame than ‘I just couldn’t get the balls up to ask a girl out.’ It’s not a lie exactly. I was abstinent, just not for any religious vow or even by my own choosing.

Things got a bit better after high school when I found jambase online and got into the jam band and music festival scene. I could be cool just for liking the same band as a girl, which helped to ease the stress I used to put on what to talk to girls about. I no longer had to ask them if they wanted to go out with me, just if I would see them at the next show. Then they knew I wanted to see them, but they could say no without me needing to take it personally. I can no longer claim to be abstinent, but there has been what you may call a ‘drought’ since the drunken overnight escapade I had on Saint Paddy’s.

It was shortly after that, maybe around Cinco de Mayo when I first saw Nebula. Nebula with sparkly streamers and many brightly colored feathers in her long dreaded hair framing her smiling warm angular fairy face. She was stunning, utterly captivating; wearing electric yellow fishnets and a skin tight home-made white leotard that laced in the back and glowed purple in the blacklight. It was during Eoto at Higher Ground in Burlington. I’d eaten half a ten strip that night and I’m pretty sure I was spun out of my gourd, but I still remember her fully. She was on stage dancing with a flashing multicolor L.E.D. hula hoop in ways that twisted my perception of perfection around her little finger. I didn’t even return to the bar to get a second round that night. I just stood dumbfounded by the movement of the lights on the hoop and her grace, and also how hot her ass looked in that leotard. I wanted to tear it off her, but found myself stammering in my head and couldn’t even say hello.

I found out a month after at Strange Creek that Sam was a mutual friend, so I made him introduce us. I’d never met a girl so gorgeous who seemed more down to earth, but I still didn’t get up the balls to do anything more than smoke a doob with her in one of the late night cabins on Saturday night. Then I never ran into her again before going home Sunday. I’ve seen her at another couple shows since then, but never when the opportunity seemed right to talk to her. I’m a pussy at chasing pussy. At least that’s what our rhythm guitarist Ratdog-Dave says, but I like to think I’m just more patient than most guys, more gentlemanly perhaps. I’m not the type of guy like him who’ll walk up to any hot chick at a fest and say ‘It’s dirty tent sex time baby, your tent or mine?’

            The two hours pass in what seems like moments and Sam hands the manager the guest list, which Nebula is at the top of. Sound check goes smoothly. The club even replaced the blown monitors that our keyboard player Brian warned me about from the last time they played here at Valentines. The new monitor is a pleasant surprise, considering what a shit hole of a bar this is. But shit hole or not this place has been known for great music and cheap beer for over thirty years, and the turnout of their shows typically reflects this. You don’t see the preppy college girls wearing stilettos here, it’s too dirty – the bar is always sticky and the floors are uneven and sticky, plus you can smell piss quite clearly within a fifteen foot radius from the men’s room. There is a crowd of regulars that attend here though, the local herd of hippies. We don’t mind the complete lack of class in the ambiance. We’re just happy to be able to go out to see good live music where we are free to burn on set break and can drink pale ale on tap for less than five dollars with tip.

The bar starts to populate a little before we go on. No Nebula though. I suppose it’s just as well, my nerves and my excitement are now battling to the death. The bartender comes into the green room, bringing up the first of our complimentary three rounds, which I pound while sparking up some sour d in my green dichro sherlock to share with the guys before we hit the stage. As the bowl makes its rounds I re-tie and double-knot my brand new black hemp Ipath sneakers. Then I make sure the fly on my gray cargo pants is all the way up, and take off my black Hooked Productions Cadillac   ‘live the life you love’ hoodie so I don’t sweat my balls off on stage.

I hear the house music cut out and know the time has come, in a line we all hustle down the stairs to the stage where our equipment waits. We start with the title track to our second album, ‘There’s no remote for life, so get up yourself and change it.’ Nebula comes in while we are playing our second song, wearing a long royal blue crinkle cotton skirt and a lime green Dopapod t-shirt, but no hula hoop tonight. Her dreads are tied up and sticking out in every direction from the back of her head; when the stage lights hit them they illuminate around her like lady liberty with a flashing psychedelic crown. She dances like an untamed phenomenon, limbs flailing, but in proper context- anticipating changes in the beat, interpreting them seamlessly in her motion.

I feel nervous, but so fucking excited I’m glad I don’t sing because I know I couldn’t talk straight, I can barely think straight, never mind sing. Amazingly I manage to play nearly flawlessly, a couple minor hiccups, but no major wrenches. As if on auto pilot the right notes flow out of me in a steady stream on cue with the other guys. The crowd is moving to the beats I’m hitting- everybody digs it, and for the first time I am feeding off the energy it gives me. This is an adrenaline rush to remember. We play all the way through both our albums, encoring with a killer remix cover of Talking Heads’ ‘Girlfriend Is Better.’ The audience is sweaty, and now I’m fairly certain that I can smell the dirty wook’s B.O. over the eau de men’s room. Though I can smell the crowd, I see nothing but Nebula as she lifts the bottom of her shirt up to wipe the sweat off her face revealing a pierced belly button so sexy it pains me. I force myself to look away, trying not to stare; time to load out.

I start to disconnect my wiring and am putting my bass in the carry case when I realize that though most of the crowd has now thinned, Nebula is standing in the front of the stage, talking with Sam. I swallow the frog forming in my throat and try to ride with the new high I have from playing my first show with the guys.

“Yo Bobby-o I totally didn’t even realize that it was you who was taking Derek’s spot. Awesome job dude, you nailed it. I was scared when Derek left that y’all weren’t gonna be able to find someone who could slap the fuck out of the bass like he did, but you do! That was sooo fun tonight, I’m still sweating like crazy. Thanks for putting me on the list Sam, I couldn’t have afforded to come out tonight otherwise.”

Nebula talked to me. Nebula talked to me and she knows my name and she said I rocked it. Holy fucking shit. I still don’t know what to say.

“You wanna go to the green room with me and smoke a doob?” I ask her, because it’s still the only move I know.

“Um, yeah! I’m afraid I can’t match though, I gave my last bowl pack to Ritchie to get a ride here tonight.” Nebula replies

“No problem-o, I have enough headdies to go around.” I answer back as I lead Nebula up the stairs to the green room.

“Who made that silver wire wrap? That’s about the sickest stealie pendant I’ve ever seen. Are those Herkimer diamond eyes?” Nebula asks as she sits next to me on the couch.

“My procrastinating but amazingly talented wookie friend Matt made and gave me that at harvest fest after I hounded him last summer the entire tour. It’s hands down my favorite piece of hippie bling. I mined the Herkimer myself, and the lightning bolt is made of labradorite, carnelian, lapiz, and fire opal.” I answer.

“That is some seriously sweet hardware man. You gotta take me mining sometime; I’ve always wanted to go.”

Wait a minute, did Nebula just ask me to take her somewhere?

“Uh- yuh-yeah, whenever you want. My aunt Dee has a claim up in Herkimer, we could go next week if you wanted, uh, if you aren’t busy that is.” I stammer back an invitation while packing up the sherlock.

“That would be awesome, I’m totally free. The only thing I have to do next week is go see The Brew to pass out fliers for Heads In Harmony on Tuesday at RedSquare.” Nebula says, taking the pipe from me.

“Oh yeah, are you going to that one? That’s gonna be my first festie performance.”

“I want to, but I don’t have a ride and it doesn’t look like I can afford the ticket anyway.” She answers disappointed after exhaling.

“You could go as my plus one, and I can give you a ride too if you need it.” I say, excited beyond belief to be able to make her the offer.

“Oh my god! Really? That would be soooo fucking sweet dude! I’ve been wanting to go to that all year.” Nebula exclaims as she throws her arms around me, and kisses me on the cheek.

No freaking way, my arms are around Nebula! This close I can smell her infectiously delicious honeysuckle perfume and feel her boobs squishing into me. Simultaneously I can feel my face and ears turn beet red, but I don’t care. I’m now wearing the biggest smile I can recollect ever having without the aid of a psychotropic substance. This feels like a dream, and I can hardly believe it’s happening. While pulling away she brushes my slightly shaggy chestnut cowlicks aside and tucks one of my unruly curls behind my ear. My ear is pulsating and feels so warm it must be turning purple.

“Just do me one favor. You gotta bring your glow hoop to Heads.” I say without being able to stop myself from fantasizing about her ass in that leotard.

 “I don’t festie without it, I even have a car charger for the batteries. Do you think I can do it on stage for your set? I have an awesome suit I made that glows under blacklight I could wear.”

“I’m pretty sure that could be arranged. Sounds like you’re gonna earn that plus one.” I reply cashing out the bowl.

“I love to hoop, and it’s the least I can do. Plus I haven’t gotten the chance to do it on stage in a while. Say, are you going to the after party tonight?  I came with Ritchie, but he has work tomorrow and so he went home after set break. Sam said I could ride with him, but you know if I do I’ll be packed like a sardine in that tiny hatchback of his with all the drums.”

“I am and you can. You can even ride shotgun, nobody else is riding with me.” I say, now fully confident that I don’t need to find the perfect debonair pick up line to get Nebula. I feel like I’m at the top of my lack of game and I don’t have to try to be like someone else. I realize that finally I am the dude I used to look up to, and some headdie doob is the only social lube I need.