Outsider

A novel by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

CHAPTER ONE

Did it all start that way for Sid Wasgo? Yes and no. If she wrote Tequila After Dark to remember her first encounter with Second Look, and yes, take her revenge on the rock singer, there had been a prelude to this first chapter. Back in time, she had been a singer, too. Back in time, a friend had mentioned Second Look. For some unknown reason Sid had assumed they were just another women’s band playing folk music. She couldn’t be bothered. Back in time, she had been feeling lost and despondent with her music, wondering which direction to take, wondering where to perform, wondering what to do. Was it still worth it? Did she still have the spark in her? Back in time, a friend with more piercings than she could count insisted on playing her one of the Second Look’s CDs. Sid had relented and decided to get done with the chore. But she wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of raw emotion. The first bar had been a swift arrow to her forgotten heart and a more than tough blow to her under-stimulated mind. She forgot how to breathe. And when she remembered how to speak, she asked:

"Could I borrow this CD to make myself a copy?"

Was it the voice, powerful, vindictive? She had always wanted to sing with such gusto and rock power, but had never known how. Was it the music, aggressive, direct? She had always wanted to play screaming riffs and lethal leads with her guitar, but had never known how. She had never felt that way before. There was a bright and blinding light expanding in her heart. So overwhelming that she didn’t know if it was pleasure or pain. Later, she realized that these two women called Second Look had done the totally unthinkable, something that no one else in a million years could have ever done: they had made Sid feel redundant. What was the point in carrying on with an uncertain career, trying to achieve something, when someone was already doing it, and doing a bloody good job at it! She was shocked. She didn’t know if she wanted to hate or love Second Look.

A year later, yes, it took a long and busy year, Sid was strolling in her local park, enjoying the beginning of the summer, the peace of the blue sky and the green trees, when she spotted a battered copy of Hot Tickets in the middle of her path. She picked it up, checked it was only dated from the day before and, satisfied, sat down on a conveniently nearby wooden bench to read the gig listing. She hadn’t done so for too long a time.

Life was going slow, but fine, even without much music. She scanned the names, knowing already what she’d be up to the next evening. When Second Look jumped at her. Bold lettering on the printed page. She read and read, and read again. Her eyes were not hallucinating. Her heart was suddenly swelling with light, beating out of rhythm, engulfing her soul. Second Look. Second Look would be performing the very next night in her very borough! Throwing her into a conflict of interests… She had said a long time ago she would attend a women’s benefit up in North London. But, but, Second Look was a powerful beacon pulling her into the light. Her blood was pulsing in tight bursts against her tattooed skin, threatening to break through.

* * * * * * *

The first Second Look gig she attended turned into a totally unusual evening for Sid, somehow. In "Tequila After Dark", she had simply written out the three friends she had accidentally dragged along. The one she had never met before responded to an Irish name that Sid didn’t remember beyond the next five minutes, and Nat, who simply fancied her, accent and all, had actually brought her along. Nat, whose impossible-to-stop chatter irritated Sid, was an acquaintance of Sid’s and a friend of Judy’s. Judy, stout and low in her comments, was the tallest of the lot. They were way too early and wandered to the nearest chippy. They strolled in the park, devouring chips and chatting away, but Sid’s anxious mind was already by the stage, already listening to the music.

She found a one-pound coin on the pavement outside the Blue Moon, shining for her eyes only, and later on, uncharacteristically, spent it on an A4-size poster of the band. Nat, considering the two performers good-looking on the photo, got herself a bigger one, furthermore irritating the currently impatient Sid.

From then on that night, everything happened to Sid with a tinge of extraordinary. She contemplated the ceiling of the music lounge painted dark blue with lazy clouds and vague stars. She felt too restless to stick to the same corner and hang out with her friends. She chatted with the roadie selling Second Look paraphernalia. Yes, said the woman with a dark ponytail and without reserve, Terri the singer had more than the one dragon tattoo featured on the poster and Dawn, the keyboard player, had none. Sid herself was hiding under the shabby, long sleeves of her black, hooded shirt, Native American totem poles from shoulders to wrists, similar works in progress down her legs, some Navajo designs on her chest and abdomen, and, of course, a very realistic Smirnoff tarantula on her jugular. Because she was into vodka, sometimes. But not tonight.

She was impatiently scanning the punters steadily crowding the music lounge, easily spotting groupies with their Second Look t-shirts in the humming hubbub of conversations. A soundtrack punctuated the consumption of various beers in many pints and unexpected disguises. She recognized Melissa Etheridge’s voice. And suddenly, she saw them.

Being shortsighted, she didn’t exactly see the performers nor picked them out of the crowd because of a different style of clothes, she had learned to trust other senses; she was forever learning to live and cope with her extreme sensitivity. She simply knew, like a spontaneous knowledge, like an outburst of intuition, that these two women, one with blonde hair stopping short of the shoulders of her shiny, red top, the other one with coppery, wavy hair reaching to the top of her long sleeves, who had just walked into the room and were now talking with an anonymous punter, were Dawn Ferndale and Terri Harley, collectively known as Second Look. How could she be so sure? It was something about them, something different and familiar in their auras, their energy fields, and their vibes. Something echoing Sid’s. Ironically enough, in other circumstances, Sid wouldn’t have noticed the blinding light shining all around them; Sid would have never given them a second look.

The two women made their way through the crowd, greeting friends and long-term fans alike. By the time the singer stepped onto the stage, Judy’s friends were squatting the last round table before the exit, and Sid and Judy were standing, waiting, a few feet from the stage.

The woman with red reflections in her coppery hair knotted a black bandana around the microphone stand and spared them a quick look. The keyboard player ignored them, more concerned with her various instruments: a double keyboard, a minidisk player, various effects machines stacked on the side, and proudly erect on a guitar stand a beautiful Ovation 12-strings.

When the singer greeted the crowd, she commented on the presence of Second Look virgins in the audience. Sid knew exactly what she meant: people attending their gig for the first time. But she didn’t want to be a virgin. Suddenly the word felt offensive and invasive. Uncharacteristically she shouted at the performer:

How do you define a virgin?

What did you say, Babe?

I’m no babe. She knew it was only a word but she couldn’t help reacting. Was she premenstrual?

Ok. What did you say, Girlfriend?

I’m no girlfriend either. How do you define the word virgin?

The performer, who had the wits and the sting of a Scorpio, answered:

Someone who’s never been to any of our gigs. And I can see: you are a Second Look virgin!

The audience laughed delightedly along Terri’s wide grin. Obviously, Sid was the first green mohican in their audience, and no matter how much she could argue the world and how well versed she happened to be in Second Look’s first album, she couldn’t match the red head’s wits.

(Tequila After Dark)

It started like any other gigs. The usual groupies. The usual drunk punters. The usual late soundcheck. The usual kind of pub (music lounge at the back). This woman they had seen a few times, never drinking alcohol, not even smoking (as far as they could tell), never coming near touching distance of the stage, but always dancing like everyone else and apparently having a good time, a few rows of writhing bodies behind. She was non-descript: shortish, brown hair vaguely attempting curls, dark eyes, the thin and pale line of a scar across her left cheekbone, no tattoos to be seen, black jeans, black simple boots (Doc Martens?), red T-shirt, black jean jacket. Well, was she saving this outfit especially for the Leos? It was a case to make you wonder, or it wouldn’t have been, if she had stuck to her usual behavior.

The ceiling of the music lounge was painted like a blue sky with vague and lazy clouds. Billie was making her way to the stage, greeting some long-term fans and friends alike, her progression punctuated by a rocky soundtrack and her wild, curly, red hair regularly falling before her green eyes, like following a three-beat rhythm of their own. Mel, always the quiet one, was a few steps ahead of her. Jo was fidgeting with her stool behind the drum kit. She had done it a thousand times only during the sound check. At safe distance from her music-possessed feet, two pint glasses were secretly containing pure vodka (the one with bison grass). Mel had three pints of soon-to-be-not-so-cool water on the ready by her techno-musical paraphernalia (sound effects, equalizer, etc) near the double keyboard whose undisputed master she always was. Her electro-acoustic guitar, gorgeous Ovation twelve- strings, was leaning peacefully just a foot before the back wall. Billie would be front stage with a microphone, level with Mel. On a narrow round bar table almost off the small stage, she had a few shots of Tequila ready for quick consumption, and two pints of water. She was used to sweat a lot on stage. Well, astrologically speaking, she was a wild Leo. Mel was Leo, too, but rising only; she was a favored and blessed Libra. Jo didn’t care. Probably Scorpio.

The first thing Billie noticed when she faced the crowd to roar her greetings, while Mel was flipping switches and rotating buttons, was the non-descript fan breaking established habits and standing first row, touching distance, slurping a pint of non-identifiable, yellowish, sparkling drink, next to the usual, forever-cheering groupies, given away by their flamboyant Leos T-shirts.

* * * * * * *

Before the end of the first set, Terri and Sid had shed their long sleeves, both revealing black t-shirts. Times had turned sweaty. It had been a long time since rock’ n’ roll; it had been a long time since Sid had such a good time. She had, as often, contributed to the quality of the sound with two visits to the engineer who had listened to her suggestions. They were both aware of the striking difference between the desk corner and the audience floor. At first, he had been able to hear the singer’s powerful voice four times louder than the music, while the audience’s ears were struggling to decipher the various instruments. Once again, she proved her theory right: too much treble and not enough bass in the singer’s microphone. Dawn had made lengthy visits, too, while Terri had made jokes about G-strings. Better keep the audience entertained.

During the break, Sid, hot and sweaty, went and stood by the exit of the lounge, keeping the door open for a stream of cool air. Feet apart, tattooed arms crossed squarely in front of her chest, she felt like a bouncer. The keyboard player, coming back from the toilets, beamed a wide smile at her, wide enough to generously bare all her white teeth and the gap between the two front teeth:

Alright?

Alright! Sid automatically replied, automatically giving a smile back. But feeling like running away, and unable to run away with knees suddenly turned to a jelly-like substance, because Dawn’s smile was so blindingly, dazzlingly beautiful. Dawn sneaked back in, unaware of her power over the green-mohicaned woman. Sid now knew why she had instinctively solely focused her attention on the charismatic singer. Ironically enough, it was all laid out in the only song where Terri was taking a step back, the song that Sid could have written if she didn’t feel so vulnerable, the number Dawn’s voice owned simply, but surely:

Track number five’s got the voice and the smile and the matching grey eyes.

If Terri’s eyes were a darker shade of brown than Sid’s, Dawn’s were blatantly deep grey.

(Tequila After Dark)

Jan felt brave tonight. She wanted to stand first row, face to face with her idols, without any interference, just Them and her. Maybe it was this new antidepressant she was on. Prozac used to be fine, until she started puking every day on each hour. It was not a side effect she’d care to live with. This new medication, whose name she kept forgetting, made her feel different. She was not afraid anymore, whatever it was that used to frighten her so. She stood tall and proud.

The rock-music background died down and the singer with wild, red hair (was she Irish?) started to shout into the mic. The crowd of groupies shouted back with excitement. Jan was just standing there, arms crossed in front of her lean stomach, her head slightly tipped to one side, her eyes bright with fascination, barely the hint of a provocative smile on her delicately chiseled lips, her drink temporarily forgotten and resting at her feet. She could see that Billie had noticed her and she felt satisfied. She was standing there, looking at the singer, straightforward eyes, daring her, challenging her. But challenging her to what?

The powerful voice, reminiscent of Janis Joplin and Melissa Etheridge pulled into one, started its mad acrobatics on the first rock number of the Leos.

But what are songs about? Generally about love. Unrequited love, crazy love, desperate love, dying love, crying love, new love, begging love. I would fall on my knees / I would make the sun rise / I’d walk on water / I’d tear the sky apart. Etc. Well, a happy love rarely brings a song.

Jan pushed her glass towards the stage and let the wild rhythm of Jo’s drum kit take possession of her, swinging her hips along tightening beats, undulating her body like a snake.

Between songs the singer would harangue the crowd, tease them, play with them, witty and flirtatious. It was her temperament. It also allowed Mel to programme the next song on her various machines.

CHAPTER TWO

Terri started the second set by congratulating the crowd:

Thank God you’re here!

Sid shouted back:

Nothing to do with God!

Terri glanced at her and launched herself into Mercedez Benz, Janis Joplin’s tongue-in-cheek acapella song. Sid had guessed with amusement the worry in the singer’s eyes, the what’s wrong with this woman? and decided to calm down. She didn’t want the band to get pissed off with her. She made one with the audience and played the game, singing along the repeat of the first verse, knowing only one word out of three, struggling with the tune whose key was slightly too high for her voice. When was last time she had vocalized? Terri swiftly followed the song with another Joplin’s number: Take a Little Piece of My Heart. The audience went wild. Janis would have been proud. While Sid still enjoyed the title of craziest dancer.

Rocky number after rocky number, the audience was in love with the mischievous singer who always had the word to make them laugh, while the keyboard player was fidgeting and twiddling buttons around her electronic apparatuses.

Terri, shouting and haranguing the crowd, complained about the plastic containers given to her with each shot of her favorite drink:

They must have heard of us! I always break the glass after drinking my tequila. So last week I broke a window. At the time, it seemed to be the best surface to break my glass!

The crowd roared with laughter. Terri went on:

That must be why they didn’t pay us! After a calculated facial expression she added: No, I’m sure the cheque is in the post! and started on the next cover, a favorite of Sid’s, Black Velvet. She used to love Alannah Myles’s version, but Terri’s voice, a voice echoing Janis Joplin’s and Melissa Etheridge’s, had no trouble eclipsing any other contender. She was the best, even if Sid was still trying to figure out the lyrics.

After another heroic number, a tall guy with short brown hair and a quiet face –Sid identified him as a roadie-, created a pause when he proffered a blasted plastic container with a guaranteed content of 100% pure tequila to the appreciative singer.

At first, Terri just stood there, in the middle of the stage, microphone in one hand and drink in the other. Long enough for Sid to notice the golden signet ring on the right little finger and a few tight silver bracelets around the left wrist.

Terri brought the tequila to her left nostril and inhaled deeply. Repeated the operation with the right nostril. And exhaled a long and greatly satisfied sigh. She eventually stated:

Don’t know about you guys, but my hay fever is suddenly feeling much better!

Mine is on vacation! Sid shouted back spontaneously.

Terri looked at her, charismatic as ever:

Wanna have a taste? She stepped to the edge. You’re gonna be nice to me now?

A bit wary because it was in her nature, Sid closed the leftover distance and with a smile protested:

I worship your voice! Well, I also enjoy being a bit of a troublemaker sometimes.

Shut up and open your mouth!

Sid had never been one to obey orders. But somehow, she didn’t mind if it was the brash and butch Terri. The spell-weaver poured the tequila on top of the exposed, pierced tongue. Sid closed her mouth and her eyes, savoring the surprising taste. Not the burning firewater she expected. She reopened her brown eyes and bit into the lemon crescent offered by the other brown-eyed singer, even though she was in unfriendly terms with every citrus fruit. She swallowed the alcohol. It was heaven.

What’s your favorite brand of tequila? She impulsively questioned Terri, simply ignoring their surroundings and circumstances, the gig and the audience.

Mescal, Red Head answered, surprised. But recovering swiftly she told the delighted audience, in the deepest voice she could manage: Bring me the worm!

I’ll bring a bottle to your next gig. When is it?

Brightly: Mardi Gras. The yearly gay festival in London.

I don’t do Mardi Gras! Too commercial for Sid’s politics.

The mighty Scorpio struck another ace:

But I’m sure they’d do you!

The rioting uproar of the audience gave another point to their hero. Sid could only acknowledge her defeat. But she didn’t mind losing a round to such a worthy adversary.

The gig picked up with another powerful rock song, 100% courtesy of Second Look, wilder than ever. Sid was dancing, pogoing, stomping. She was possessed by music. Still on Cloud 9. By the time the singer ordered the audience to give her five, she had moved to a corner in front of the double keyboard. She saw her friend Judy giving five, then another dancer. Terri was making her way along the stage with the confidence of a rock star, step by step getting closer to Sid, who deliberately looked away. A woman eagerly placed herself between her and the singer for a five. But Sid knew, between wild beats of a speedy rhythm track, and waited. The hand entered her field of vision, strong and square. Sid looked up and smiled out to the smiling freckled face. Their eyes exchanged understanding while Green Mohican gave Red Head five. Not really five. Instead of slapping the extended palm with the flat of her hand, she squeezed it. And was