“Yoko. There, I said it,” Calvi says as he stands up and takes a step back from the bar as if he just lit a stick of dynamite with a short fuse.

Switch takes a shot of whatever it is he’s drinking and keeps his eyes forward. I can tell this is something they discussed between them more than once. I can also tell Calvi wants Switch to back him up and is frustrated that he’s on his own confronting me about this.

Calvi sits back down and the three of us stare forward and say nothing. Switch waves his empty glass to the elderly barman.

“A round for the three of us,” Switch says.

I take in a slow breath and prepare myself. I don’t want to drink but all things considered I’ll play along. There’s mutiny in the air and I need to bond with my mates. I need to get Calvi to knock off this shit right now, comparing Lael to Yoko Ono. I also try to not think about tomorrow’s hangover, but I do.

Sure, I’ll feel like a dirty dishcloth for the next couple of days so I can make you happy, I think. The barman lines them up and the three of us shoot them back.

“Why do you guys even care? She’s awesome and you know I won’t let you down,” I say still wincing from the shot. God, it burns.

“The truth is, if we auditioned 100 more people we wouldn’t find a better bass player,” Calvis says, not looking at me. “But it’s not about that. It’s about who her father is, man. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. AKA, don’t fuck this up. For all of us. She’s young and she’s hot and you’re getting carried away.”

“Another round,” I say, snapping my fingers.

That’s the problem you see. I’m a guy who doesn’t like to drink a lot until I have a drink. Then I’m a guy who likes to drink a lot.

“I like her,” Switch says twirling his empty shot glass.

“You mind taking this out of my back?” Calvi says, referring to the imaginary knife Switch has stabbed him in the back with.

“Cal is right,” Switch says, changing his tune. “You’re getting carried away with her. Maybe it’s time for you to back off. If the label drops us and Ronald puts a team of lawyers on us to keep us down, it’s all of our careers not just yours.”

I shoot the whisky back and think about his words as it perfectly burns my throat. I have been with these guys for almost a decade. They have let me lead them, they have had my back the entire journey. They’ve never been a part of negotiations with Ramsey Records. I have always been the liaison between the company and the band. I would come back from a meeting and tell them what happened – they have always put a great deal of trust in me. If I fall, we all fall, I get that.

“Brad, look, think about it, how can this end well? Explain to me one possible outcome where your little affair with Lael will not have an awful ending?” Calvi is speaking to me closer then I like and I can smell the whisky from his breath. “There are no secrets, you know Ronald will find out everything that happens on this tour.”

I’m happy Calvi brought this up because Ronald does seem to be getting a play-by-play and I’ve been wanting to know who’s been feeding him the information. I’ve suspected it was Arnie but Calvi is quickly becoming suspect number one. I can tell he knows I’m suspicious of him by the way I’m looking at him and his body language becomes defensive, which makes me even more suspicious of him.

“Don’t you find it strange, how Ronald always knows what’s going on?” I ask him, eyes narrowing. “Calvi, I wonder who’s feeding him information, huh, who’s the rat?”

“What are you saying, you think I’ve been telling Ronald about you and Lael?” Calvi responds, clearly offended.

“Well it sure as fuck isn’t me,” I answer.

Calvi stands and I stand too, we face each other, staring each other down. My barstool is knocked over by Switch wedging between us.

“Relax, fellas, have a drink,” Switch says pushing us apart. Three more shots are on the table and after a tense moment we all take whatever glass is closest and shoot it back. Calvi and I are still staring each other down and we both slam our glasses on the bar without breaking the exchange.

“So you three kiddies are And Then…?”

Calvi and I break our standoff and put our attention on the man speaking to us.

I recognize him, his name is Gregg something or other, plays drums in a band called B.S.R. He’s an older guy with a reputation for causing trouble. If half of the rumours I’ve heard about him and his band are true, I don’t want to make trouble with them. The man is clearly looking for trouble.

And, feeling that whisky course through me, I take his challenge and square off with him.

“Hey fellas, come take a look, it’s Ronald Ramsey’s boy band.”

Gregg is talking to two ominous looking characters sitting at a table behind him. I’m surprised I didn’t notice them until now that all three members of B.S.R were sitting only steps away from us.

I used to love hearing the stories about them from the guys that worked at the theater with Mr. Robson. Folklore legends, rock and roll’s most dark and obscure band is right here - calling us down to the lowest. They famously turned down Ronald Ramsey and every other offer and remain independent till this day, for better or worse. I’d actually say worse, since a critical acclaim and a tiny cult-like following only gets you so far. Especially now that they’re looking down their noses at us.

I don’t like this attack, especially coming from these guys, these too cool old know it all rockers. Calvi and I take our aggression and both take aim at the drunken bully. No one dares to call us a fucking boy band and lives to tell about it.

We take a step toward him and Switch follows suit. I feel like we are three wolves, hair on end, snarling, and growling at this intruder.

The other two members of B.S.R stand up, the six of us stand off and ready ourselves for battle. Just as tension reaches that critical point where fists begin to fly, the bar room door flies open and an old friend barges in - Roar.

Roar looks like he had run through a battle to get here, out of breath and full of hate as he makes his way to us. He kicks chairs out of the way to clear a path and has the walk of a fighter ready for war. The Viking.

I feel a smile begin to form on my face because our team has suddenly become stronger in this fight. I look at Gregg with a little more confidence and bravado, but my smile quickly disappears. Roar does not seem to notice he has just walked in on the beginnings of a brawl, he was focused on - me.

Oh right, I think to myself remembering I stole his vehicle and had it taken away by the cops. That was back in New Mexico, but it doesn’t surprise me that Roar is a few days behind. Nor does it surprise me that he’s here for blood.

As if it’s in slow motion, I see Roar’s huge fist come toward my face, it gets bigger and bigger, then slams into my nose with a crushing force.

I fall back into the bar and for a moment I feel like I’m floating. I’m floating because my feet are not touching the ground, Roar is literally throwing my nearly limp body over the bar.

I’m half in a dream and feel very little and when I crash land on the other side of the bar I sense the beating is over. My vision is clouded from being punched in the face but I can see the old barman polishing a glass, seemingly unaware of the full-scale brawl that is happening before him. I can hear the chaos of punches and chairs being broken, but the sounds slowly fade away and the old barman disappears behind the curtain of my eye lids as I fall into a dream.

“Wake up.”

The words sound like they’re far away. There’s a small part of me that knows I’m lying on the bar floor but I’m trapped in space and unable to respond.

“Wake up, man.” I recognize the voice and I’m pulled back to reality. Calvi is shaking me, he has a black eye, a bleeding lip, and his face is red with fatigue.

“Did we get ‘em?” I ask, referring to the brawl that I obviously missed.

Calvi waves his hand back and forth indicating it was a wash. “Those old guys are pretty tough. Roar almost had them all beat but that fucking bartender jumped in and beat the hell out of all of us.”

I must still be dreaming because that old timer could barely lift a glass.

I stand up and take in the the mayhem left behind. It looks like a bomb has exploded. There’s the old barman, slowly picking up a chair from the wooden floor. The neon lights in the window flicker, the music coming from the speaker is very low and the room is nearly empty making the sound of the chair on the wooden floor echo.

My head is still foggy, in fact I feel like hell and I’m slow to compute my surroundings. I feel like I’ve exhausted my visit behind the bar by the way the barman is looking at me. My broken brain finds the exit and I stumble through the narrow opening bracing myself on the sticky surface.

My mind is slowly begging to clear but a sharp headache is causing me to wince. I feel like a ghost in a dive bar trying to understand how I’ve ended up here. I feel like a ghost because the fellas standing only feet away from me don’t seem to notice me. The barman does but I assume he is able to see ghosts, just like that barman in The Shining. Or was that the other way around?

Getting knocked out; it’s no damn good.

The fellas I am standing next to are Switch, Calvi, and the three members of B.S.R. Switch and one of the guys are sharing a hug. Calvi and another fella are sharing a laugh.

What the hell did I miss?

“Some help you were,” Switch says to me sarcastically.

The other guys laugh. Roar walks out of the bathroom looking like a Viking that was at the losing end of a battle.

“I think it is time to roll,” says Jack Willow, the band’s lead. He’s looking at the barman who is staring at Roar with cold, cold eyes. Roar is visibly fearful of the old barman and leads the pack out the door.

The dark city street is cold, all humidity from earlier has disappeared. The few people around look like a mix of nocturnal drug addicts, and drunk college students on route to Bourbon Street. There’s not much life around save a glowing light coming from an English-looking tavern up the street.

The newly formed gang is standing in a circle on the sidewalk apologizing to each other. It looks like the beginnings of very unhealthy friendships.

Meanwhile, Roar is ignoring the chitchat and is focused on me. My heart sinks. I am weak and fear another whack from him will be the end of me. He does not blink and takes three heavy steps toward me. I close my eyes and I prepare to meet my maker.

“I will forgive you, snake man,” he says into my ear as he gives me a bear hug, lifting me off the ground. “You owe me some money first, then I forgive you,” he adds.

I can imagine there were a few repairs and a tow truck that ran him a few bucks.

“I can start by buying you a beer,” I answer, looking up to Roar towering over me.

I can’t tell if this is the entertainment district or a warehouse district but we all start heading toward the light of the tavern like a moth into a flame. We walk in the middle of the broken concrete road, limping, strutting, gliding along in the afterglow of adrenaline. I’m floating along, still not feeling myself but the high energy of this crew of misfits is giving me a lift.

B.S.R are indie darlings who have kept their dark mystique as they have aged. They are the complete opposite of And Then. We are considered mainstream, basically created by the record company. We’re in celebrity magazines with our starlet girlfriends. People don’t go to vinyl shops and ask for our records, but they certainly would buy B.S.R. records with pride.

Jack Willow is wearing a loose fitting brown blazer that smells strong of cigars, wiseguy leather boots, and the collar of his dated shirt is half sticking out. He walks next to me and I wait for him to talk.

“You know kid, I don’t know how you do it,” Jack says as he lights a half-smoked cigar.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Work for Ronald Ramsey. Can’t be easy.”

“I don’t work for Ronald Ramsey.” I know what I sound like and immediately regret it. Jack laughs out a cloud of smoke.

“Right, he works for you? Look, you are deep in the machine and it hasn’t seemed to break you, you’re a smooth kid.”

“Thanks?” I say as I run my hand through my hair. I can’t tell if he’s sincere or not. Jack is zeroed in on me and senses my defensiveness.

“You write your own shit, right?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“I like that limousine song,” Jack says as if the compliment was some kind of offering.

“Thanks.”

Jack wraps his arm around me as we approach the entrance of the pub. The place is called Moby’s as stated by the flickering neon light in the window. There is a chalk board next to the entrance with the words Open Mic Tonight scratched in large letters. The distinctive shaky vocals of an open mic performer are pouring out of the entrance. The bouncer is looking at me in disbelief, I can tell this will not be an evening that I can go unnoticed.

“Here you go brother, for me and my son here.” Jack still has me under his arm and pulls me in closer as he talks to the bouncer. He gives the speechless bouncer a twenty and struts into the bar, finally releasing me from his hold. He makes a direct route to the bartender, lit cigar in one hand and a fistfull of cash in the other. He hands the barkeep the cash and leans over the bar to exchange a few words.

Our crew pours into the room almost drowning out the nervous performer on stage. The lady was strumming a Ukulele and singing sweetly, her song ended and we gave her a roaring applause.

A heavy empty glass is put in my hand – the barkeep and Jack are handing glasses out to everyone in the joint.

The host of the open mic thanks the lady and asks if there is anyone else who would like to play.

“Brad wants to play!” Jack shouts as he pours what looks like whisky into my glass. He continues around the room filling glasses, it was as if his feet never touched the ground.

“No, no, thanks, I’m good,” I respond waving my hand dismissively.

I back away to the edge of the room. I consider joining Calvi and Switch but they’re sitting at a table with a couple of gals and I don’t see my place.

“Alright, well, I’m the host of open stage tonight, so if anyone wants to come up and play let me know. My name is Vince Stark and this song is called Would, by Alice in Chains.”

The host begins playing a very quiet, stripped down version of the famous song. We all shout and cheer in support, our cheer softened with his gentle playing. The energy in the room is electric, I don’t know if it’s just the whisky but I’m truly having a good time. My headache is long gone and I take in the positive energy that’s swirling around the room.

I wish Lael was here.

The bassist and drummer from B.S.R hop on stage. All the equipment was there waiting, asking to be played. Mr. Stark looks very pleased to have the famous rhythm section joining him. I’m surrounded by people who are trying to buddy up to me, or have their picture taken with me. I point to the stage indicating that that’s where their attention should be.

The bassist, Gregg, gives the signal to keep the same riff going so they can get into it. The sound gets bigger, the room cheers as the drums and bass fill out the sound. Switch, Calvi and their new lady friends began to dance.

“So, where is the girl?” Jack asks as he tops up my glass.

“The girl?” I question.

“Your new bass player, who I assume is your new girlfriend,” Jack adds.

“She’s Ramsey’s daughter, you know,” I say.

“I know,” Jack says through a smile. A silence lingers, Jack takes a drink from the bottle and presses on. “The boss’s young daughter and your mates think she’s gong to ruin the band… just make sure it’s worth it.”

“Worth what?”

“Everything?”

“Without question,” I answer. The words fall from my lips and I hold eye contact without blinking.

Jack matches my intensity and says, “Life is too short, man, trust me it goes fast. You will be just fine starting over without Ronald Ramsey. If you’re in love with this young lady, jump in, take her and never look back.”

I looked at Jack very suspiciously, he seems to know more details than he should. Just intuition, perhaps.

“Come on.” Jack again takes me under his arm and walks me to the stage. The room begins to explode as we step up. Jack hands me a mic but I wave it away and motion for him to begin the verse.

He complies. The host and Jack both sing the verse while I size up the guitar and amp in the corner. I sling the guitar around my neck and test it out to see if it’s in tune.

Close enough for this kind of night, I think.

Jack places the mic stand in front of me and puts the mic to my lips for the chorus. I strum along and belt out the words. Jack lip-syncs and works the crowd with the bottle of whisky still in hand.

At the end of the tune, the entire room shouts the final words so loud it rivals a stadium crowd.

“IF I WOULD COULD YOU”