When we watched and listened to King Tuff shred, I acknowledged him as just another punk to push. Floors bathed in cheap beer and hair ratted into matted, messy hives have always had a way of attracting the same type of Rock ‘n Roll G0d. so his presence didn’t spark me as unique at the time. “Bad Thing” rattled the speakers, our grime anthem, and we danced, we pushed, and we shoved until my stockings were ripped, and his hair was drenched in well-earned sweat. It was only in the yellow-orange lit subway that I first noticed how his shoulders could fill a leather jacket with a perfect curve and that small scar above his eyebrow. Or his eyes, drowned deep with the hazel swirl of life.
In dream-like sequences, we crawled into every brick-walled coffee shop and scattered to every basement show in Brooklyn until we were returning to the same address at dawn. After I plucked the first gray hair from the top of his forehead, he lightly traced the scar on my arm.
“I never noticed this.”
The scar glared back at us. I remembered the yelling and the breaking down doors. I remembered jumping out the window. I remembered the blades of grass that I pulled out while I was waiting for a ride on the curb of a suburban street. And the kicking into my torso. I wanted my brain to split open and for all these memories to spill out into his.
“My oldest brother chased me with a knife once.” I knew this explanation sounded absurd on its own.
“So… it was an accident?”
He knew the answer.
It didn’t matter how attractive we were, or how unbelievably awesome our tastes in music were; we just had to prove our sanity. I had never told him how sad I was or how pathetic I could get. I was always searching for someone else’s soul to be sucked into. I couldn’t find a way just to BE in front of him. The sound of police car sirens created enough static for a well-needed distraction from the conversation.
“Are you sure that’s the only one?” he asked, as he combed his hair back with his hand.
“I’ll let you know when more starts to show.”