Chapter Three

Roger spent the weekend practicing, and on Saturday night, he and Mickey went back to the Nightingale. His roommate was drinking mineral water, claiming that his weight was an issue at work and he needed to lose a few pounds. Roger wasn’t sure where that weight was supposed to come from, but he didn’t really understand dancers, so he let it go. For himself, he had no such compunctions. If he developed a paunch, he could hide it behind his guitar.

He and Mickey settled down at a high-top table not far from the dance floor where they could watch the crowd. Roger leaned toward his roommate. “See anybody you know? Any gossip tonight?”

His friend scanned the room and sighed. “No. Not tonight. Looks like it’s just random people.” He shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m a little tired of other people’s drama, anyway.”

That surprised him. “Since when?”

Mickey gave a shrug that spoke volumes. “I’m just… tired.”

Roger turned his chair. “What’s the matter? Do you want to go home?”

“No.” He brightened, but it was obviously only through an effort of will. “I want to have fun.”

They sipped their respective drinks, watching the floor. Occasionally one of them would comment to the other, but no conversation really started. It was all awkward and felt stilted to Roger. Finally, he turned and faced his roommate.

“Did I do something to upset you?”

The dancer started to speak, but then his eyes went wide. “What’s the po-po doing here?”

He looked at the door, where a police officer in uniform was standing like an action hero making an entrance. He removed his mirrored sunglasses and looked around the room, and Roger tried to hide.

“Oh, Jesus. It’s Dave.”

“What?” Mickey laughed. “Him?”

“Yes!” He turned his back and hunkered down, trying not to be seen. “Why is that funny?”

His roommate put a hand on his arm. “Oh, honey. He’s only the biggest racist dick in the city. He tries to collect all different types of people for one-night stands, and he keeps this little check list.”

It sounded too real. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“When?” he demanded.

He looked embarrassed. “Well, apparently he wanted to collect a ballet dancer, and guess who fit the bill…” He looked at Dave. “It was typewritten, stuck to his refrigerator. You must have seen it when you were at his place.”

Roger shook his head. “No. But I really didn’t see his kitchen. It was front door, bedroom, bathroom, and out again.” He wanted to turn around and watch his one-time partner, but he resisted the urge. “What was on it?”

“Oh, you know… Chinese, Japanese, Indian…” Mickey looked at Roger and gave him a sad smile. “Sorry. All kinds of categories. Ballet dancer, kung fu artist, parkour expert, country singer… Sikh, Mexican, Irishman…A lot of the listings had little checkmarks by them, some red, some black. I guess he was grading the experiences.”

“What an ass.”

“I know, right?” He gasped. “Oh, sweetie. He’s coming this way.”

He felt the man walk right up behind him. “Hey, Mickey,” Dave said. “Long time no see.”

“I know. It’s been about six months, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, give or take.” He pulled a chair out at their table and sat down. “May I? Oh! Roger.”

He dropped his hand, which he had been trying to use as a screen to hide his face. “Hello, Dave.”

“You took off while I was sleeping. I missed you when I woke up.”

Mickey looked shocked, and Roger stammered, “Uh, well… I mean, I… wh – when you…”

Dave’s handsome face crumpled in an expression of sorrow and worry. “Did I do something to upset you?”

His roommate leaned in. “He was having a great time, right up until you said, ‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to have sex with an Indian.’”

Dave looked unrepentant. “Why would that upset you?” he asked, putting a hand on Roger’s forearm. “It was a true comment. I have always wanted to have sex with someone from India.”

“You didn’t say ‘have sex,’” he argued lamely. “You said ‘fuck.’”

The police officer shrugged. “Yes… so? Is it the profanity you don’t like? Because as I recall, I was in fact fucking you at the time.”

Mickey sat back from the table. “Ugh! You’re such a pig.”

“I don’t like being treated….” He took a deep breath. “I’m not ‘an Indian.’ I’m Roger. Do you understand?”

Dave looked honestly confused. “No. I mean, you could have said you’ve always wanted to be fucked by a cop, and I wouldn’t have been offended.”

Mickey stood up. “You just don’t understand, and you’re not going to understand. You might not mind being objectified, but some of us do.”

“You didn’t.”

“Beside the point.” He tugged on Roger’s arm, urging him to get up. He obeyed. “I think you really should put some thought into how you treat other people. You’re not always very nice.”

He stood up. “Look, if I ever upset you, I’m sorry….”

“Too little, too late,” Mickey told him. “Too bad… you’re really cute, too. But I guess pretty faces can hide nasty personalities.”

“What’s nasty about me?” He was starting to get angry. “You’re making assumptions, and that’s not fair.”

Roger stood up and pushed his chair in. “I think I need to go.”

“But… can I call you?”

He was surprised. “You want to?”

“I like you,” Dave answered, seeming a little embarrassed by the admission. “I’d like to see you again.”

“What?” Mickey asked, his voice hard. “Have another category that needs a check mark?”

The policeman scowled. “What is your problem, Mikey?”

“It’s Mickey,” he snapped, putting on his jacket with anger. Grabbing Roger’s hand, he marched toward the door. Roger followed.

“But…”

“No. He’s bad for you.”

He tried to slow their progress, at least enough so he could grab his own coat, but it was only a half-hearted attempt. At the table, Dave was watching them leave, his face a conflicted mass of confusion, annoyance and growing anger. Roger turned away and followed Mickey out of the bar.

His roommate kept dragging him until they were half a block down the street. Roger pulled his arm free. “Hey! Now, wait!”

“What?” Mickey turned to face him, his chin jutting out in defiance, as if he was spoiling for a fight.

He rubbed a hand over the spot on his arm that Mickey had been gripping. “What’s the matter with you?”

“He’s just bad news, and we’re both better off if we don’t have anything to do with him.” He crossed his arms. “Roger. I am so sure…”

Roger hesitated. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m just angry, that’s all,” he said. “He … Yes, he hurt me. I’ll admit it.”

“Physically?”

Mickey looked surprised, then waved a hand. “No, of course not. But he made me think he liked me for more than his checklist. It took me four dates to finally agree to go to bed with him, and I’d started to think we might have something, you know? But, no, he just was looking for a ballet dancer. It’s stupid and it’s sick, and that was the last time I let myself feel for a guy…. Well, almost the last. But anyway. Yes, he hurt me, and I’m not going to stand idly by and watch him do the same to you.”

Roger hugged him abruptly, and Mickey hesitated for a moment before returning his embrace. The dancer felt so thin and small in his arms that he felt an immediate rush of protectiveness. He held him tight.

“I’m sorry he hurt you. I hope nobody ever hurts you again.”

Mickey pulled back and cupped his cheek with his small pale hand. “You’re so sweet. Thank you.”

“Sweet as in simple-minded?”

“A little.”

“Well… I’m not as naïve as all that, am I?” His roommate gave him a wry look, then turned. “Really?”

Mickey chuckled. “Let’s go check out what’s on MovieStream…”

***

They spent the rest of the weekend at home, sitting on the couch and watching hilariously bad space alien movies from the 1950s and 1960s, eating a ton of popcorn and Chinese takeout. With the bad food, bad movies, good laughs and excellent friendship, it was one of the best weekends Roger could remember spending since he came to America.

The cellphone videos of his accident made it onto YouTube by Sunday night, and he watched it in horror. The comments section was full of horrible people saying horrible things, and he watched the video until Mickey made him turn it off.

Monday was a blur of practice and regular daily chores, but Tuesday was the day of his rescheduled audition. He took some time to try to make himself look a little more rock and roll than normal, and he even wore leather trousers with a concert T-shirt from Heavy Handed, one of his favorite late-90s grunge bands. He topped it with a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, grabbed his bass and was good to go.

Mickey called a cab and walked him out to it, since he was heading out to another rehearsal. “Break a leg,” he told Roger, holding the door for him as he got inside.

“Thanks. See you at dinner?”

“Only if you’re treating,” was the puckish answer. Roger laughed, and the car rolled away.

***

The audition was for a band called Valhalla, and it was being held in a meeting room in the basement of an office building, which seemed like an odd place to him. He found a pair of men waiting in line to get into the room, both of them carrying bass guitars and full of tattoos and piercings. They looked very edgy and very metal, and he wondered if he’d even stand a chance.

He could hear the other guitarists when they played, and the second of the two was really rather good. He wrote off the gig but resolved to go through with the audition anyway. When it was his turn, the band’s manager called him into the room. He walked in with as much confidence as he could muster.

The manager said, “Roger Singh.”

“Hi,” he said.

There was a long folding table set up on one side of the room, and an amplifier on the other side. He plugged his guitar into the amp and turned to face the people sitting at the table.

There were three men and a woman sitting there, and his breath caught in his throat when he looked at them. In the middle of the table, sitting with his broken leg propped up on a chair and crutches on the floor beside him, was the man he’d run over with Mickey’s car. His mouth dropped open and he felt all of the blood drain out of his face, and he knew that the man recognized him, too. 

“I…” He swallowed. “I am so, so sorry. I had no idea you were… that this was… I mean…”

The blond man interrupted, “I hope you play better than you drive.” The other men at the table snickered. “Let’s hear it.”

He took a deep breath and tried to focus. He played his prepared audition piece, and when he was finished, he was surprised and pleased to see expressions of approval on the faces at the table.

“Okay,” the blond man said. “That was pretty good. I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t expecting that. What bands have you played with before?”

“I played with Warhammer for three years, and before that I was with White Horse.”

One of the other men said, “Never heard of ‘em.”

“I’m not surprised.” He smiled. “We mostly played in pubs in England.”

“What kind of music?” the third man asked.

“Heavy metal, hard rock. That sort of thing.” He was beginning to sweat, and the way the blond man kept glaring at him made him wish he could just sink into the ground and disappear.

“I’m Erik Torsen,” the blond finally said. “These are Kyle Andrews and Rich Howell. We’re the remaining members of Valhalla.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Roger said, smiling. He wondered why the woman hadn’t been introduced, then decided she must have been a groupie or Erik’s girlfriend.

Kyle, a dark-haired man who obviously enjoyed his gym time and never, ever missed shoulder day, leaned forward. “The guy who left used to co-write all of our songs with Erik. Do you write?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve gotten a few songs published and recorded by other people, and I have my own songwriting business name.”

Erik looked skeptical. “What’s the name of the business?”

“Singh Songs.” He smiled. “It’s a bit of a pun, you see.”

“Yeah. I see.” The blond wrote something down on a legal pad in front of him. “What songs, what bands?”

“Uh…  ‘Read ‘Em and Weep,’ which was recorded by Tin Train. ‘Sunset,’ which was recorded by Samantha Hartt. ‘Better Off’… that one was recorded by Switz Hitters.”

Rich, a handsome and muscular black man with immaculate twists in his hair, looked surprised. “I know all of those songs. Those are pretty damned good.”

He grinned. “Thank you.”

“They’re okay,” Erik grunted. “We’ll think about it and call you with our decision.”

Kyle smiled at him. “Nice meeting you, man.”

“Thank you.” Roger unplugged his guitar from the amp, then looked at Erik. “I truly am very sorry for what happened, and I hope you’re healing quickly.”

The woman glowered at him fiercely. “Just go.”

He nodded, feeling profoundly awkward, and left the room.