All Three Words

All Three Words

“Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three. Testing.” I breathed into the mic as the The Moonstruck---the rowdy nightclub I used to work at---swarmed and sweated to their tables. A line of people stood on the back wall, chatting up gossip and drinking Budweiser. “To be or not to be,” I droned, “testing, testing.”

A shout-whistle erupted from a front row, and a black-headed puffball lifted his drink to me. I waved meekly (truthfully I wanted to slap him) and twisted up the mic so I didn't have to bend down to be heard (and hopefully neither would the lead singer of Lorelie---we're about the same height). I checked the wires bursting from the mic, and traveled the length to the stereos. I made sure the wires were plugged into the back of the stereos, plucked a string of Jonathan Bray's guitar (I was the only one allowed to. We were so close you couldn't put a pin between us. That might've been why they got the gig at The Moonstruck: 'cause of me.) and ambled over to make sure the bass was wired, the backup mics were charged, and that my headset worked.

“Hey, Vic, everything OK from the booth?” I asked as I stepped off the stage. I pressed the headset to my ear so I could hear him over the noisy crowd. There hadn't been this much of a hype since The Massacre of Sheep played a gig here three months ago, and 30 Seconds to Mars had a surprise tour visit five months, three days, and twenty-two hours ago (I'm a big fan, can't you tell?).

“Sure is, love. Everything's supercalifragalisticexpialidocious.”

“Great. Sound levels good?”

“Except on mic two, but we always have those little fluxes,” Vic replied from the other end as I heard him stretch. I cast a weary glance to the sound booth---which was mostly just a little fold-up table in the back of the club with over two-thousand dollars worth of equipment sitting precariously on it. I've tried to tell Marley, the club owner, about upgrading but he won't listen. The stubborn bastard.

“Another bad mic flux might totally kill any hope of us landing any descent bands.”

“Lorilie isn't a good band?”

“Only because of Jonathan Bray...”

“Your boyfriend isn't that special, love.”

“He's not my---”

“Whatever, love. I know soulmates when I see 'em.”

I sighed and elbowed my way through the growing mob towards the bouncer at the entrance. God, there were so many posers in this place it was suffocating. Couldn't they lay off the music scene and just go see a movie one Saturday night instead of bugging us with their cheap smokes and fake IDs? We'd just opened the doors not even thirty minutes ago and I already had to tell the bouncers to shut them before the real club-hoppers got wind of Lorilie playing here tonight. If they did then this club would be fucked. We had room for only so many before tables began flipping. "Benny and Joons had Switchfoot last week. And Fall Out Boy," I throw into the mic to Vic.

"Mediocre bands, hon. Mainstream mediocrity. Have they got The Massacre of Sheep yet?"

"No but---"

"Then there we go. As long as we don't get bands like the Fuck Offs playing here, we're A-OK."

I tapped Carl's---the bouncer's---shoulder. He spun around with an eyebrow raised, realized who he towered over, and melted like Satan surprised with a warm fuzzy panda. "Stella! Big crowd, eh?"

"Too big," I replied over the noise. "Cut 'em off."

"Yes ma'am," Carl replied. He was big---WWE material---but he had a four-year-old daughter at home named Emma and a homely wife, and anyone who knew anything about Carl knew he was a big softy who just so happened to have roiling muscles and a kick-ass I'm-Going-To-Kill-You face. Just what The MoonStruck needed. A good homey bouncer.

“You heard the lady,” he stopped the next poser with his meaty hands.

“Son of a---we paid good money---”

“Have a good night, sir,” Carl shoved the blue-headed man right back out the door onto cold Tuttle Street, hung the 'full' sign, and slammed the door. An array of curses and fists quaked the door, but all Carl had to do was crack his knuckles and the disgruntled clubbers wandered away. They'd be back though. They always were.

"Thanks Carl. See you around."

"Bye, Stella,” he rumbled. “Tell Vic to make sure mic two is covered or I'll kick his ass."

"He might like that," I slyly replied. Carl barked a rumble of a laugh, and I took my cue to leave. We all knew mic two was just up shit creek, and the poor shit who just so happened to sing backup was shit out of luck. Besides, not even with my sound expertise, we didn't know how to make it not jump. I wandered up to Vic and sat down beside him, taking off my headset and instead dawning on the sound-check headphones. That was Vic's job, but I had the best ears around. "We have to keep mic two from getting retarded on us. Carl said so."

He yawned. "Don't matter. It's just Lorilie. No one big."

"But you just said they were a good band."

"I lied." He checked his watch and took off his headphones. "I gotta go to the potty." He stood and left for the ladies room. (I know, it scares me too sometimes.)

For the next five or six minutes, I went through the routine checks at the booth. Made sure the levels were hunkie-dory (I didn't trust Vic with three cups of Coors inside of him). Then I rechecked the levels. When everything was green and humming, I buzzed Rhiana---our backstage manager---to ask when Lorilie'd be on. She told me they were ready and impatient.

"Then send 'em on. We got it."

"You sure? They'll be starting early."

"We already closed the doors, Rhi. The room's full. Let's kick it."

“Hey, you guys ready to perform?” I heard her shout. There were mixed grumbles through her headset, and after a moment she hesitated. Silence echoed through the receiver.

“What's wrong?” Silence is never golden at The MoonStruck.

"...we have a slight problem."

"Huh?"

"Your boyfriend's missing. Went to get a drink ten minutes ago and hasn't seen him since."

"Fuck," I cursed and stood. The club was getting hotter by the second, like a crowded Hell smelling of whiskey and pot. I dumped my jacket into my seat and adjusted my spaghetti-strap top. Okay, where would a hot lead guitarist go, if not the bar (I'd already have known if he was there), the bathroom (the gays would already be squealing, including Vic), or backstage? "Rhi, tell the band to hold up. I'm going hunting."

"Hurry, Stella."

She didn't need to tell me twice.

Stepping out from behind the sound booth, I elbowed my way through the hostile crowd to the emergency exit that led to the side alley where we kicked all the garbage when we were done for the night. If I knew Jonathan Bray well enough, I'd know exactly where he'd be. He always had this pre-performance jitter. And you know how how The Rolling Stones played pool before their gig? Yeah, Jonathan Bray did something like that too to calm his nerves.

I forced open the rustic door with my shoulder. A winter chill eased in through the crack, and I shivered. Summer in Connection, North Carolina wasn't supposed to be that cold. Maybe I should've gotten the hint then that something was wrong, but I didn't. I squeezed through the crack in the door and inspected the grimy alleyway. Mountains of trash bags, rats, a homeless man sleeping on a cardboard box, and---oh, hello---there he was. I slid out of the door and closed it.

Jonathan Bray was sitting against the brick alleyway wall, cigarette hanging limply from his thin, pale blue lips, punk-black hair tuffled, grunge clothes mussed, one Converse untied. Not exactly the Jonathan Bray I fell for, but close enough. Everyone changes over time anyway, and Jonathan and I had been pretty close for a while. We knew everything about each other, from favorite color to most-hated food. We were almost a married couple, if not for his punk-ass attitude.

But some secrets he even kept from me.

His left arm faced upward, black dots spotting the veins in his elbow. A sickness curled in my stomach---disappointment. Just what I needed, a high guitarist who'd give me shit for waking him up for a show. Not to mention a high boyfriend who'd be on cloud nine for the rest of the night. Joy. Slowly, I made my way up beside him. Urg, how could he sit on the ground? I had the willies just walking over the disgusting grime and who-knows-what-else. I didn't think Jonathan Bray would be one to sit on grimy shit either, but I was never the best judge of character as those needle marks so bluntly pointed out.

I squatted beside him and watched his cigarette simmer orange and yellow. He didn't move. I picked up the needle beside his limp arm and inspected it. Empty. Must've been flying high by then. OK, some girls are totally nuts about queerband junkies like him, but I definitely wasn't one of them. If you couldn't have fun as yourself, then God just didn't want you to have fun. I might have been part of the music scene, but I hated the effects---the drugs, the booze. The only reason I worked at The Moonstruck was because Marley was my godfather. In fact, I was illegal, actually, in the music scene, being only seventeen and all. Unable to serve booze, but damn able to operate the soundboard for the greatest bands of mankind (not). How twisted life was.

"Hey, asshole, you gotta get up. Playtime's over."

He didn't move. Great. He was high in snoozeville. I flicked his ear. Still no movement. I felt his cheek. Stone cold. "Shit!" Faster than Flash Gordon, I reeled away from the body. And bumped into a stranger. I fell, screaming, on top of him and we collided again as we scrambled up, striking heads. The stranger cursed, I reeled again. My hands shook. "OhMyGod. Dude---sir! He's...he's..."

When I faced the stranger, silence fell upon me like a blanket. I had collided headfirst into a nightmare. "OhMyGod," I whispered again, and did a Hail Mary.

"Three minutes dead: rigor mortise," the stranger replied with stitch lips. He brushed off his jeans and rubbed at a stain on his Bare Naked Ladies t-shirt. "Twenty-nine seconds to be judged by Him: once in a lifetime." He cocked his head, his eyes as black as sin. "Eternity in Hell: priceless."

I stumbled against the wall beside my dead boyfriend, and sank to my knees. My heart raced. A dark gloom began coming over the alleyway, and the homeless man moaned in his sleep. I was as quiet as death. Something weird began happening to me, as if the air I breathed was filled with poison. My breath came in short, suspended gasps, as if the cold itself was choking me, and everything was just getting colder and colder, more depressed and volatile, making me want to slit my wrists then and there. He made me feel that way. This man. This thing.

He stared at me for a moment longer, then looked at his watch. Genuine surprise crossed his corpse-pale face. "Oh, time sure flies when you are having fun. Adeur, Miss Estella Rome, and sweet dreams." He began away, paused, and turned back with a thoughtful, estranged expression that didn't quite fit his horror-movie face. "Remember to turn off your car tonight, or I might see you sooner." Then he put his hands in his pockets and strolled down the alleyway as if he was just another human in the masses, into the lights of Tuttle Street, and disappeared.

I don't remember long I sat there beside the corpse of Jonathan Bray, or how long it took Rhiana to come looking for me, but she finally found me outside, shivering, lips blue, beside the corpse of Jonathan Bray. The club was shut down for the night. My parents were phoned. I was fired from the club, even against Marley's wishes. The police made me file a police report, being the only witness to the death of Jonathan Bray. (Later the autopsy would say he died of an overdose.)

But when they asked me what the killer looked like, I couldn't answer. I couldn't say a word. Besides, they wouldn't believe me anyway. No one sees the Grim Reaper before they die.

No one except me.