Peter McFeely

Marcus squatted at the front of the stage, surveying the bar. Those who had assembled directly in front of the band, from early in the evening, were now sopping wet and raucously drunk. Farther back, towards the booths and stools, backs had gradually become faces throughout the performance, as the quartet demanded attention. Three kids who Marcus had never seen before rushed towards the stage, their excitement contagious and pulling people with them, closer and tighter to the performers. Marcus inched closer to the edge of the platform, absorbing energy and splashes of drinks from bouncing glasses. Small as the platform was, he was essentially at eye-level with the girls who crowded the band, and no more than a foot away from them. He knew many of the rabble by name, most by face. Yet he imagined himself surveying a sea of people alien to him. Hunkering low to observe and understand those who lay before him. He had read of kings and commanders who stood at the forefront of their troops before an engagement, only to retreat to the backfield as they advanced. Unlike them, he would stand tall, the figurehead of an unstoppable wave. As Ben, Jacob and Jonathan built volume behind him, he slowly rose to his feet.

The adulation of the crowd gave Marcus energy. It fed his ego but also his belief that the band could be truly successful. Marcus copped a lot of flak from his friends; accused of being obsessed with his appearance, his popularity, constantly checking his social media accounts to see how many times people had liked his photos. Outwardly, it certainly appeared that Marcus was vain, bordering on selfishly so. It was true that he desired affirmation, but not, as it appeared, from the burgeoning groupies. Marcus, never said it to them, but he loved Ben, Jacob and Jonathan. It was them who he wished to impress. They were the most important people in his life. He dreamt of being a star when he first began to perform, the quest for fame pushing him to develop friendships with other talented children, those most likely to translate his dreams to reality. However, as the band grew together, Marcus came to realise that fame was no longer his primary desire, rather it was to spend his life with the people he loved. Assuming the persona of the cocky, self-assured frontman, he thought, would help establish the band and help them get signed; to pave the way for the four young men to play out their dreams in adulthood. But, as with all young men, he wasn’t willing to divulge such intimate feelings with another group of young men, no matter how close they might be.

Nor had Marcus shared with his bandmates that he had recently submitted demos to several record labels. On one hand, he did not want it to appear that the band were courting labels. Marcus assured the group that it was only a matter of time before agents came knocking on their door. His ego didn’t allow for the band to be going cap in hand to labels. On the other hand, he wished only to discuss an actual deal when it was on the table. He feared failure. His ego, again, would be bruised should the demos receive no favourable response. More-so though, he feared what failure might do to the band. He saw it as his duty to drive them forward, to secure the elusive deal and to realise their dreams. His pride told him, wrongly, that all four shared his dream – their togetherness did not depend on a contract for the others.

Any doubts Marcus had were dispelled as he looked around the cramped stage. His friends performed with precision but also passion. The strokes of their arms were not workmanlike, they were driven from deeper within. Ben and Jonathan’s faces were masks of growling concentration, but their eyes flashed with devilment. Though Marcus could only see Jacob’s back, he could tell by the sway of his shoulders that his eyes would also be alight. Not for the first time that week, Marcus said a silent prayer to a god he wasn’t sure existed, asking that when he check his phone after the show there would be a message from at least one of the label reps to whom he had sent the demo.

While Marcus might not have understood how each of his friends felt about the band and it’s future, he was right in the immediate instance of how they felt performing. Ben felt the energy of the crowd, roaring them on. I will miss this, he thought. As he played and the cheers got louder he began to consider an alternate scenario. What if he didn’t leave the band? What if Marcus was right? That they could make it. Ben loved playing guitar and he loved playing in the band. But deep in his heart, he didn’t believe they were talented enough. If they were lucky they might get to cut a record. Then they’d tour the backends of the country, playing to drunk students and drunker regulars who didn’t know who they were. That would last for a year or two, they’d undoubtedly fall out resulting in their friendships being damaged forever, the label would drop them and they’d wind up back in their hometown, with zero prospects and anyone worth knowing having moved on in life without them. Just take a look at Marcus’ Uncle Jimmy. Ben had probably watched the YouTube videos of him performing more times than Marcus. He was infatuated by his guitar-playing. And yet Jimmy was sitting at the back of the bar, a washed-up rockstar with a bottle of beer and a basket of unfulfilled dreams. As bizarre as it would sound when he eventually tried to explain it to Marcus, Jimmy was one of the reasons he had got into a band but now he was the biggest reason he was getting out. Ben had aspirations – aspirations which involved spreading his wings beyond this town – and he couldn’t achieve them if he didn’t take the opportunity to go to University now. Yeah, he could pursue flippant dreams of rock-stardom, cranking out covers in a pissy bar on a Saturday night, but what good would that do him while everyone else his age was getting a start in their careers? But what a pissy bar. What if they really could be successful?

Marcus saw Ben staring at the same spot in which he cast his gaze throughout the night. Not that Jimmy saw either of them. He looked past his nephew and friends, eyes fixed on the faded poster and framed record which hung among other paraphernalia on the wall. It was, he thought, like being inside a fun house mirror. Where he sat, a mess of thinning and greying hair straggled over the sagging skin around his eyes, giving way to a puffed chin and loose jowls. Looking into the mirror of reality was the bright eyed, taught-skinned man of his youth. Even in the dulled print, scarred with brown tobacco stains from a time smoking in the pub was legal, his hair shone, perfectly straight and unblemished by failure. Jimmy saw the poster come to life, watched himself strut across the stage, wielding his guitar like an axe. He saw himself, impossibly happy. Ready to take on the world. The t-shirt clung to muscle rather than bone and his eyes shone with mischief instead of reflecting the disappointment of those for whom he refused to discuss his years of moderate success. The bar often brought back memories, but rarely did he feel as forlorn as tonight. The conversation with the kid cut him. The reviews were bad when he was playing but the circumspect bestowals of deity were even worse. He didn’t read them and cursed everyone who insisted on quoting them. He longed to pass the baton to Marcus, to become nothing but a footnote in the town’s musical past, but he also wished he could have his time over. He loved his wife but after a dozen years of having nothing to love but her, he asked himself if he had done the right thing in coming home. Staring through the stage, he tapped out the chords of the music on the underside of the table.

Outside, lightning flashed and rain thumped against the two stained glass windows by the entrance. Inside, the thronging mass was becoming a furnace. The three kids leapt up and down in such a close proximity to the band that they were nearly on stage. The crowd followed them, bodies bounced as the break in the music was anticipated. Arm in arm, patrons threw their drinks back, soaked shirts sticking to their bodies, and cheered the band on. Later that evening, Marcus couldn’t explain why he did it, but at that very moment, he felt it was the right thing. He felt this evening’s performance had been special and that it should be remembered as such. He turned to his bandmates, with what some would describe as a demonic smile. Ben held his eye and nodded though, later, he too couldn’t confirm that he understood Marcus’ suggestion. He simply thought, in that moment and time, ‘yes’. Ripping the mic from the stand and dropping off the platform Marcus immersed himself in the sweating tangle of hair and limbs. He emerged, held on his back and moving over the heads of the audience. With no guidance, the crowd instinctively knew where to send Marcus. The individuals in the bar took on the being of one, throbbing with the pulse of the music. As he approached the back of the bar, Marcus saluted the audience, “Ladies and gentlemen!” He was almost drowned out by the yelling sea beneath him. He could have recited a minute by minute account of the immediate aftermath of his father applying a fresh coat of paint to the downstairs bathroom and still the response would have been the same. Still, he teased it out. “We have an incredible surprise for you tonight.” The cheers made their way into the mic and reverberated round the room. “Joining us on stage. Now. The great. Jimmy. Meehan!” Marcus dropped a few feet as those holding him forgot themselves with this announcement but, thankfully, he was caught before colliding with the floor. Jimmy’s head shot up and the fingers stopped skipping. Before he could protest, several of the crowd lifted him from his chair and sent him skywards. He and Marcus floated towards the stage where three men were ratcheting up the tempo.

Jimmy lifted himself from the floor of the stage, easing his joints upright, careful their elastic tension should not be exceeded. He stood face-to-face with Marcus, well chest-to-face given he was over a foot taller. To an observer, Jimmy looked like a stretched out version of Marcus, a piece of dough rolled and pulled, shapeshifting from a squat square to a long noodle. Jimmy glanced down, realising the absurdity of their near identical attire. He was unsure if he was more embarrassed for Marcus apparently modelling himself on a washed-up never-was, or himself for thinking skinny jeans and converse where still an appropriate fashion choice. Lifting his head, he was greeted by Marcus’ maniacal smile. Eyes wide, he prodded his head forward one or twice like a chicken, encouraging Jimmy. For several of the longest seconds in his life, he watched his uncle stand ramrod straight, sucking his cheeks tight in a way which made his lips pinch. Over the increasing decibels, Marcus could hear the squeaking of air pulled through the lips. His heart raced as it appeared Jimmy might attack him or worse, simply hop down from the stage. Marcus felt the music fall away as the stage became unsteady under his feet. The manic grin was receding, when Ben stepped into view, holding out Marcus’ guitar in front of Jimmy. Marcus realised Jonathan and Jacob were patting out a light beat, keeping the momentum but building the tension as Ben waited to be relieved of one of the guitars he was wielding. The crowd had descended to a hush of whispers and cameraphone clicks. Jimmy looked first at Ben and then straight in Marcus’ eye. He didn’t so much as smile, but his cheeks expanded, like a vacuum suddenly filled with air, and his eyes leapt with excitement as he stretched out his arm and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the insturment. Teenagers screamed delight at a man about whom they knew nothing, grown men stood on tables and leapt up and down, banging any surface available to them, booths were emptied as people forced their way into view of the stage and, behind the bar, Mike shed a tear as he shook his head back and forth in disbelief.

Jimmy’s fingers tore across the strings. Years since they had pressed the spun wires in anger, the skin began to cut quickly. Oblivious to the pain, he threw his head back, face contorted in a curious grimace which may have been the amalgamation of those which he would make under extreme suffering and on the brink of ejaculation. The throbbing bar grew louder as it became noticeable that blood was running down the guitar and dripping from the curved body. Throwing himself around the stage, Jimmy painted the floor with sprays and splats which Mike nor the owners would ever remove, fondly referring to them as their ‘Jimmy Pollock’. As he opened his eyes, he caught sight of the faded poster and could have sworn it smiled back at him. He saw Ben, awestruck, clattering along his frets, trying to keep pace with the runaway train that was Jimmy’s playing. As musicians seem innately able to do, Jimmy, with just a nod of his head and mouthing of a couple of numbers in time with the tempo, passed the lead to Ben. For a moment he was unsure, sharing the stage with Jimmy was preposterous as it was, but for him to pass lead was unfathomable. Luckily for Ben, and indeed all of those careering towards climax, his instincts kicked in. It was the turn of Jimmy’s mouth to drop open as Ben extracted sounds previously unheard from the hunk of ash, metal and electromagnets. The pair continued to duel, continuously raising the bar, before segueing into a thunderous duet that could only just be heard above the cacophony – not of the thumping drums and bass, or the ecstatic onlookers – but of their own hearts as they simultaneously rediscovered their utopia.

Marcus, possessed of even more energy than usual, leapt around the stage and down into the bar. He climbed atop speakers and swung from one of the mouldy rafters which would likely have given way under the weight of a larger man. He jumped into the arms of his followers, sinking drinks thrust upon him. He kissed a girl called Ciara and winked at her friends as they squealed in delight and stamped their feet on the spot. Turning to his expanded band, Marcus exchanged looks of pure pleasure with each. Even with Jacob, who had turned to face the crowd. Marcus felt the connecting fabric that wove them together pull tighter than any of the strings or skins they played. Indeed, at that moment, a unique feeling washed over the bar, locked from within by Vin who had shuttered the doors and stood by the bar, intent on feeling the massive reverberations through more than concrete. Fears were forgotten and dreams delayed. Nobody in the bar was angry, nobody afraid. Nobody was alone. All that mattered was that exact moment in time, in which everything was perfect. Nobody wanted to leave and those who had done so earlier, and later learnt about the night through social media, cursed themselves, their frustration so great they couldn’t even bring themselves to be among the hundreds who fictitiously claimed to have seen the performance. As the music crescendoed, Marcus stood on the edge of the stage. Backlit by their finale lighting, he planted his feet firmly together and stretched his arms out to his sides, embracing all who heard the music.

The rain lashed the cobbles and thunder shook the sky. And yet, people hurrying home, hoods scrunched tight around their faces, paused outside the bar, halted in their tracks by the echo of instruments and unbridled joy. And they wondered, each of them, what lay behind the doors bolted shut for the night.