Double Helix
BETTER TO DWELL IN THE WILDERNESS
THAN WITH A CONTENTIOUS WOMAN
Melinda M. Snodgrass
THE CONCRETE WALLS OF the locker room at Invesco Field at Mile High seem to exhale the scent of old sweat, gym socks, and cheap aftershave. This, I think as I lift the champagne bottle out of the ice and survey the label, is the downside of being so famous and popular that you have to play in stadiums rather than theaters. Thank God my performances are played in more intimate venues. I would so hate to make a 747 disappear.
Even here, far beneath the stadium, I can faintly hear the beat of the bass and the roar of the crowd as Joker Plague performs their final number. I find myself thinking about a Roman holiday when I was in high school and how we had toured the cells beneath the Colosseum. Places for enslaved gladiators and wild beasts brought across oceans solely for sport and blood. Not so very different from modern football.
An unexpected yawn cracks the hinges of my jaw. My shoulders feel like they’re slumping beneath invisible weights. I toss back my head and press my shoulder blades together. Lilith’s breasts thrust aggressively against the silk of my halter top, and I bite back a hiss. My nipples are sore from Lohengrin’s teeth.
There is the thunder of footfalls approaching the locker room. The door bursts open and Joker Plague has arrived. Michael, aka Drummer Boy, leads them into the room. Sweat is running down his chest and four of his six hands are still tapping at the tympanic plates on his torso. Trailing after him are the other four members of Joker Plague. The Voice’s presence can only be guessed at by a towel floating in the air. Occasionally it moves as if wiping a face. Bottom and Shivers are just standard jokers—one with the head of an ass, and the other looking like a Disney vision of a demon complete with blood red skin. The worst for me is S’Live, a floating balloon of a face, and a multitude of tongues like flicking snakes thrusting from between the lips of the unnaturally wide mouth.
Flanking the boys is their manager, who reminds me a lot of my manager. BlackBerry in hand, headphone in his ear, a too-sharp suit and a too-sharp face, and a phalanx of security guards. Female arms thrust through the closing door, and hysterical soprano voices call out to the various band members. A broad, tall guard gets the door closed and turns with a look like a contented bull. There’s not enough Plague for every groupie. Some of them will doubtless fuck the guards in hope of getting closer to a band member next time.
I work the cork out of the champagne just as they enter, and the explosive pop stops them all. Most of the men gawk. Black leather pants, silver halter top, and spiked heels will work every time. One rent-a-cop reaches for his hip as if expecting to find a pistol.
“Hello, Michael.” I pour champagne into a glass. “Thirsty?” He’s incredibly tall, so I have to throw my head back to see his face. He ignores the glass, takes the bottle in one of his six hands, and drains it. I rescue the glass and take a sip. It’s not bad.
“Committee business?” he asks and the unseen Voice makes himself heard with an audible snort followed by—
“Oh, shit, not now. We’re in the middle of the tour.”
“Fuck off,” he says to the room at large. “You knew this was the deal when you booked the tour.”
There is grumbling between Shivers and S’Live, but they move away to gather up their street clothes. The manager continues to hover.
“The girls are gonna want to see you,” he whines.
“Tell them he’s got a girl,” I say. An odd range of emotions cross Drummer Boy’s face. For an instant there is naked lust (good), followed by grim resolve and a subtle physical retreat (not good).
The peanut gallery gives us some space. I take another sip of champagne. “Why are you here?” The tone is challenging, not encouraging.
I move in on him again. “I’ve always wanted to see Denver. Rocky Mountain high and all that. And . . .” I drop my lashes to veil my eyes, and allow my hair to fall over my shoulder and brush across one of his hands. “I wanted to see you and tell you . . .”
“Tell me what?”
I inch closer. This time he doesn’t retreat. “That you did a good job in India.” His breath increases in tempo and flutters across the top of my head. I drift away and pick up another of the twenty champagne bottles. “Why don’t we take this to a nicer venue?”
“Are you trying to pick me up?”
I decide to match directness with bluntness. “No, I’m trying to fuck you.”
“You’re sleeping with Lohengrin.”
“Does that mean I belong to him? How very antiquated of you. And you a rock and roll star. I thought you’d be more broad-minded.”
He looks over toward the row of sinks and the mirrors set above them. He is frowning at his image. “That kind of thing can tear a group apart.” Three of his hands are drumming nervously at the tympanic plates that cover his immensely long torso. It’s like a strange syncopated heartbeat echoing off the concrete walls.
“And you care. How sweet.” I move up next to him and lean against his side.
“I think the Committee is important. We do good work.”
“You do good work. In fact, you seem to do more than anyone else. Except for me, of course. Taxi Girl.”
One side of his mouth twists up in a reluctant smile. I run a hand up his shoulder, noting the elaborate colors and designs of the tattoos, and cup the nape of his neck. A gentle tug and his head drops. I match it by going on tiptoes and press my lips on his. I can’t risk tongue, but I keep my lips soft and parted, inviting him in. For an instant I can taste and feel the mounting passion, then he pulls back, coughs, and asks in a too-casual tone. “What about our Fearless Leader?”
“Oh, Fortune’s very good at photo ops and press conferences.” DB gives a bark of laughter. “So, do you want to sleep together or not?”
He cocks his head to one side. The light glints off his multiple piercings. “You always use the crudest, most distancing phrases—fuck, sleep together. You never say ‘make love.’ Why do you do that?”
It’s strange, but the question takes me aback, and leaves me feeling naked. I fall back on flippancy. “I don’t believe in love?”
“I do.”
I point toward the door. “You have an army of groupies waiting out there.”
“Yeah, but they’re different from an ace.”
The champagne bottle hits the ice with a crash as I drop it back into the bucket. “Curveball is sleeping with John Fortune. Why reject what I’m offering?”
“I love her.”
“My God, you’re a hopeless romantic. What? You think you’re going to win her by limiting your fucking to nats?” His expression darkens and I realize I’ve allowed my disdain to show. How to recover? My mind flits over the past year and the things DB has done, and I see it. Dad was right, there’s something to the Bible. “Though I doubt you’ll live long enough.”
One of his hands closes around my upper arm and turns me around to face him. I’ll have bruises tomorrow. “What do you mean by that?”
“You seem to draw all the most dangerous assignments. You never just hand out food aid or deliver medical supplies.”
“Yeah? So? I’ve got a lot of power. As I showed in Egypt.”
“Do you read the Bible, Michael?”
“What? What the fuck?”
“Of course it’s mostly fairy tales, but those old prophets were pretty perceptive about human nature. It hasn’t changed much in three thousand years. Take the story of David and Bathsheba. Such a romantic story. What people forget is that she had a husband. ‘Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, that he may be smitten, and die.’ ”