McGee had put Holmes in charge of building the bathroom. But Holmes didn’t know anything more about plumbing than the rest of them. His main qualification was that he owned tools and had at least a vague idea what to do with them. Holmes had stuck the bathroom where he could, in the middle of the sidewall, where it was easy to access the pipes crisscrossing nakedly overhead. A shower stall and toilet, side by side. Around them Holmes built a Sheetrock cubicle with a curtain for a door.
On the other side of the bathroom was the kitchen. A single sheet of drywall was all that separated the toilet from the two-burner stove. The plastic, paint-splattered utility sink was the only fixture the place had come with.
The day she’d given him that first tour, Myles had willed a convincing grin, saying, “It’s perfect.” And she’d taken him by the arm then, smiling her pixie smile, making his lie worthwhile.
But that had been more than five years ago. Tonight, as soon as they came inside, McGee began to pace, walking back and forth in front of the windows. She didn’t take off her jacket, didn’t even turn on the lights.
If Myles tried to talk to her when she felt like this, he’d only piss her off more. He’d say the wrong thing or in the wrong way. When she was upset, the best thing was to let her be, to pretend he didn’t notice anything was wrong.
He sat down in front of the computer. But before he could switch it on, McGee was standing behind him.
“Are you going to work on that now?”
He was silent for a moment, trying to decide what was the right answer. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I thought you were done.”
“I’m going to finish tonight,” he said. “There’s just a few small things—”
She turned back toward the windows. At this hour, the only thing to see outside was the electrical substation on the other side of the old railway bed. At night, lit up from below, it looked like an enormous loom.
“Do whatever you want.”
He pressed a button on the keyboard, and the computer awoke with a click and a hum.
For the last two months, in his spare time, Myles had been working on a project of his own, assembling a video from footage of the protests they’d organized over the years. The idea had come to him one night in the basement of the bookstore. They’d been having a meeting, but really they’d just been arguing, and it had struck him that they’d all forgotten why they were there. They’d started out wanting to fix the world. Now they were just bickering and trying to keep each other from falling asleep.
Myles had tried to explain his idea to McGee. “It’s about inspiring people,” he’d said. “Reminding them why we do this.”
Reminding ourselves, he’d nearly added.
“We don’t need nostalgia,” she’d said. “We need to move forward.” And ever since then she’d been rolling her eyes every time he tried to work on it.
But he knew once the video was done, once she saw it, she’d understand.
He didn’t know what time she went to bed that night. At some point he looked over, and she was no longer in front of the windows. There was a new lump on the futon.
When he crawled into bed, hours later, his video footage at last burned onto a disk, daylight was creeping around the corner.
“It’s done,” he whispered into McGee’s ear. He traced a finger around her shoulder, hoping she might wake.
§
The cinderblock walls bore patches of blue and green and brown, some of which looked suspiciously like mold. The floors were sealed with a shellac of beer and sweat and the gunk that traveled in the treads of shoes. Myles had never been to the club during daylight hours. He’d only ever seen the place in the dark. And now he thought he maybe understood why they usually kept it that way.
He’d spent the walk over from the loft trying to remember when he’d been here last. Years, but how many? Back when Fitch and Holmes had started playing together, Myles and McGee had come here all the time. April, too. She’d just started seeing Inez. Holmes had just come out. It felt like forever ago.
Walking past the bar now, Myles could tell a lot had changed. But what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. It was just a feeling, an unsettling sense of things being out of place.
Fitch and Holmes were setting up onstage.
“Is it done?” Holmes said when he saw Myles coming.
Myles handed over the disk. “I was up all night.”
Holmes tossed the plastic case onto the floor behind him and resumed rooting through a jumble of cables and equipment.
“Have you seen McGee?” Myles said.
Holmes tugged on a knotted cord. “It’s early.”
“I told her seven,” Myles said.
“It’s ten of.”
“I know,” Myles said. “It’s just—”
Holmes looked up impatiently, an effects pedal dangling from his fist like a rat trap. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”
When Myles woke up that afternoon, McGee had been gone. She was at the bookstore, he’d assumed, but he hadn’t wanted to call. He didn’t want to bother her, didn’t want to give her reason to remember she was mad at him.
The place wasn’t open yet. The bartender was talking on his cell phone. The sound guy was playing Pac-Man in the alcove by the bathrooms. Fitch sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the stage, tuning his guitar. And then there was April. At the last minute, Fitch and Holmes had asked her to fill in for Chad, their usual drummer. Last week, without any warning, Chad had decided to move to L.A., leaving town in such a hurry he’d left his whole kit behind. When they’d told Myles, three days before, he’d thought they were joking. April had never played drums in her life. Or anything else. But here she was, hunched on her stool, looking tense and shivery, as if she were perched above a dunk tank. They could’ve found an actual musician, but Myles could tell Fitch liked the novelty of it. Sweet, pretty April, flailing away with a pair of sticks.
When the bartender finally got off the phone, Myles went over and asked for a glass of water.
“What?” the kid said.
“Water.”
The kid had a shaved head and a scepter tattooed on his neck. “We don’t have water.”
“Tap,” Myles said. “Just tap water in a glass.”
The kid slid the water across the bar, sloshing all the way to the end. The glass arrived half empty.
“Was that really necessary?” Myles said.
The kid had already turned away, punching a button and bringing the phone back up to his ear.
Myles wondered what had happened to the old bartender. He’d played bass in a band of his own, and he’d known them all by name, even though Fitch was the only one among them who drank.
In a few minutes, the overhead lights dimmed. The bouncer went over to unlock the door, propping it open with a hubcap and then sitting down on a folding chair, leaning his head against the wall. Nobody came in.
Myles took out his notes. He’d written down some ideas, things he should say. The video would speak for itself. But not everyone understood the history, the context. All their old friends would know, people who’d been involved. But there’d also be kids here tonight too young to have seen any of it for themselves. High school kids. College kids. They’d need to be told what it all meant.
Up on stage, the gear was set up. Amps, mics, guitars, drums. Fitch and Holmes and April must have gone backstage to wait. Myles thought about joining them, but he kept watching the door, wondering why the place was still so empty.
Over in the corner, two guys and a girl were playing pool. The girl was learning. She was pretty, with long dark hair that got in her way every time she leaned over the table. One of the guys — her boyfriend, presumably — took every chance he could to help her, guiding her hands and arms, positioning her legs and hips. The other boy watched and waited, forced smiles on his face. He was in love with her, too.