We get down to Riverside, around 84th Street, coming upon the massive rock right next to a playground, what could almost be called a crag if it was a little bigger and sharper. Tonight, the rock and the entire area by it are lined with kids, but not normal kids. Circus kids: punks, mods, Goths, metal heads, indie kids, emo rockers, rude boys, all of that kind of crowd. (Randall uses these terms as though he were compiling a hipster encyclopedia). A bunch of them have guitars out; one or two of them have bongos. Surrounding them are about a hundred candles, all waxed to the ground, lighting up the entire area like a cathedral. These kinds of kids don’t exist in my little Manhattan private school universe. Parents send their kids to my school, hoping we won’t fall in with this crowd, unaware that the rich preppy kids drink and do drugs more than anyone on the planet. Randall refuses to buy it, though. He’ll go to punk shows and the skate park and return with a hundred new friends from all over the city.
Nothing big, indeed: To me this isn’t a party, it’s a fucking gala. The strings in the back of my brain get tightened and pulled; my whole body rides a wave of twitchy anticipation. My teeth chatter a bit. I’m not one of those Music People. Yes, I have my album collection and all that, but I’m not as dedicated as this crowd here. I know what I am when it comes down to it-an awkward, skinny dude with little to nothing in the ways of social skills. What the fuck am I supposed to say to this carnival of pop culture? Lots of people. Lots of activity and talking and necessary interaction. Not my forte.
The venom shifts and itches. It wraps an agitated hand around my nerves and gets ready to explode if it’s needed. An angry venom is bad, but a scared, nervous venom? I’m in trouble.
“I don’t have to be, like, a social butterfly or anything, do I?” I manage through a shaking jaw.
“No, of course not.”
“And I can leave whenever I want to? You won’t be offended?”
“Stockenbarrel,” he says, sighing, “just relax. You can do whatever. This is not a fancy dinner your parents are throwing. Have a drink. Decompress.”
“Of course I’m-No, I just planned on sitting around and trying to feel as miserable as possible.”
Randall raises an eyebrow and gives me another grin. “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Touché.
We get to the rock and start climbing up the side. People are saying hi to Randall left and right; I know he has a lot of friends besides me, but it’s weird to see him in action, working the special handshakes and goofy nicknames (at one point he calls a guy “Brad the Rad” and I almost want to go home right then and there). Finally he gets to the top of the rock and pulls me up next to him, standing in front of everyone, illuminated by the candles as if we had flashlights pointed up at us. It’s actually a nice view of this mass of teenage insanity. This evening might not be so bad.
“Hey, guys!” he calls out.
An assortment of “Hey, Randall”s and “What’s up”s come from out of the crowd of kids.
He slaps a hand on my chest. “This is Locke!”
Randall, you sneaky son of a bitch. You dirty motherfucker.
“He’s new! Everyone say hi!”
A loud chorus of “HI, LOCKE!” shoots from the group.
“Locke, say hello!”
Shit.
I raise my hand as casually and say, “Hiya.” I sound puny and quiet and stupid. Well done, Locke. Fucking genius.
And that’s that. Randall and I sit down, and Randall starts talking to this girl next to him about Henry Rollins’s neck. I finish my cigarette and flick it over the edge of the rock and onto the curb a few yards away.
“Hey, watch it!”
I glance over the edge to see a tall, beautiful black kid with a Mohawk staring up at me. It suddenly dawns on me that I’d hit him in the head with my cigarette. He doesn’t look angry, just confused and a little hurt. Man, I just keep getting better and better at this making-a-complete-jackass-of-myself game.
“Oh God, I’m-I’m really sorry, I-”
“Don’t worry about it, Locke. Just be careful.”
I lean over and tap Randall on the shoulder. He looks over at me quizzically. “Who is that?” I say, pointing over the edge. “Tall black kid, Mohawk.”
“Oh, that’s Tollevin the Tower. He’s on lookout tonight.”
“Lookout.”
Randall shrugs. “We’ve had problems with the cops before. The lookout keeps an eye open for them.”
I nod. “And how does he know my name?”
Randall looks puzzled. “I just announced it.”
“And he knows it already?”
Randall slaps my back. “People catch on quickly here, and besides, they’ve heard of you,” he says, and goes back to his conversation before I can ask him what the hell that means. So, to review: Now everyone knows my name, and there’s a kid who’s casually referred to as “the Tower” watching out for the cops, who’ll probably make an appearance tonight. Fantastic.
As I’m sitting there trying to make sense of all of it, a voice beside me says, “Locke? You’re Locke?”
I turn around, and sitting there is an angel. A really, really inappropriate angel.
She’s a Goth girl with a spiky blue fairy cut, her face a light shade of pale with dark patches under her cheekbones and eyes. Her lips are flawless shining black with a single ring piercing her lower lip down the middle. She’s wearing a corsetlike top that pushes her breasts up and outward, vinyl pants, massive death-boots, and a spiked collar. From the bottom of her right eye, an upside-down cross curves down her cheekbone, as though she’s crying evil. She’s beautiful in a way that I can’t describe, but in a way that you can see under all the makeup and buckled-up leather. Her voice, her posture, the curve of her eyes, the way her lip ring makes her full lower lip puff up a little on either side…Jesus. I cannot take my eyes off this girl.
“Um,” I begin, “uh, I, um, yeah. That’s me.”
She bows with a bit of flourish. “Finally, we meet. Randall mentions you constantly, but it seems like every time you’re supposed to come out with us…Well, you tell me.” She smiles. “Sounds like you two are pretty good friends.”
“Best, actually. Best friends.”
“Oooh. Sounds official. Let me know when you guys head up to Brokeback.” My face must turn as red as it feels, because she smiles and scratches lightly at my shoulder with her long black fingernails. The sensation stays on my skin like an aftertaste. “Just messing around. No worries.”
“Sorry,” I say, and then, with all the eloquence of projectile vomit, “I’m just really, really, really not used to meeting new people is all, y’know? I’m a little on edge. This is a lot to take in over, like, five minutes.”
She nods slowly, smiling still. I’m trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage, and I’d be failing miserably if she weren’t so beautiful. “Want a Djarum?” she says, holding out a pack. I’ve heard about these-clove cigarettes, like smoking incense, big in the Goth scene-but I’ve never had the pleasure. I grab one immediately and light it on a nearby candle, an action that seems unspeakably cool to me.
One drag tells me I haven’t been missing out on much. Gag. Ugh. Yech. Medic. If I wanted to inhale potpourri, I would’ve hit up Gracious Home on my way here.
She lights her own and glances over at me. “Good, huh?”
I force a smile. “Great.”
“So, what sort of scene are you a part of?”
Well, shit. This is the music thing I’m so worried about. I have to calm down and not be a fucking nutcase. Maybe a raver? No, that’s moronic, look at yourself, don’t say that. Hip-hop? God, no, you’re about as convincing a hip-hop fan as you are a fucking jellyfish. Classical? Country? Polka?
“Well, I don’t really have a scene.”
Her pointed eyebrows arch. “Really?”
Okay, work it. I’ve gone with the honest answer, so I might as well stick by it. “I’m a music fan, but I like a lot of different stuff. I don’t fall into any scene or category. I listen to a lot of Tom Waits, if that helps.”