Meeting the Guys

It took me a few minutes to find Claire in the crowded darkness of the club. The air was filled with neon lights, loud music and the smell of alcohol. People were drinking and dancing with abandon, washing off the weight of a long work week and the bitter cold that waited outside. She was near the bar, waiting for a set of shots for her friends.

'Claire!'

She turned, beaming with excitement. Her comfortable hoodie was replaced by a ferocious black biker jacket, complete with a threatening amount of metal clasps and small spikes.

'Matt! Hey, buddy!'

She gave a hug, nearly spilling half a shot of tequila on my shoulder. I felt her warmth through two layers of fabric. It was a good feeling, the like I needed today. Suddenly, I felt electric.

'So what do you think?!'

Claire waved at the band, spilling the rest of her tequila.

I wasn't good with modern music, so it took me a while to find a melody in the disjointed clatter of their song. The style, if there was any, was eclectic at best, although they committed to it with such enthusiasm that I was tempted to believe that this type of musical mess was in high fashion these days.

'It's... interesting.'

Claire laughed.

'It's shit! They're horrible!'

I bought a beer, wincing at the price.

'Then why come?'

'What?!'

'Why come here?!'

She looked at me with a devilish smile:

'I want to steal their drummer! He's too good for these hacks!'

I looked at the stage, where a wiry-looking guy was beating the crap out of his drums. He was enjoying himself, effortlessly carrying a complex rhythm. I guess he was good, but what do I know?

'Come! I'll show you to the guys!'

Just as she told me, her friends were good people. There were three of them, including the wiry drummer, who joined us after his band was done with their performance. They were all university kids, a year or two younger than me. Dylan was sensitive and smart, full of good-natured irony. He had a cautious, gentle smile and talked with a certain ease that only people comfortable with themselves tended to have. Dylan was the vocalist, and although I had yet to hear him sing, I was sure that his voice would at least have personality. He also played the rhythm guitar, while Nelly was on lead guitar. She had very pale blond hair, cut short, and skin so white that in the darkness it looked almost blue. Her figure was lean and athletic, almost amazonian. Nelly didn't speak: she was mute. But she was able to emote so much with just her face and body language that her silent presence was vividly felt in the conversation -- when she wanted to. When it wasn't enough she would make a quick series of gestures at Claire, who, as it turns out, was fluent in sign language, and acted as Nelly's herald to the outside world. Ted, the drummer, was silent and joyful: he was simultaneously tired and high on adrenalin after the performance, and was content to just sit in the corner and sip a beer. There was an unlit cigarette in his hand, which he would sometimes absentmindedly spin between his fingers. Claire herself was the engine of this little group, a central link that had brought everyone together. She played the bass guitar, but only because she needed to do something on stage. Her true value was that of a behind-the-scenes master: she fueled the band with vigor and enthusiasm, wrote the music and worked magic on the computer to make it sound good. Interestingly enough, while Claire created the melody, Nelly was the one who wrote all the lyrics. They were both inexperienced but obviously talented.

And then there was me, a stranger in a strange land amidst these naive, nice and completely oblivious young people.

After the first introductions and some idle chatter, Dylan leaned forward.

'So, Matt. Claire has been telling us that you're a genius keyboardist.'

I gave Claire a surprised look.

'Really? Well... no. I play the piano a little, but it has been a few years since I really practiced.'

Dylan laughed.

'Yeah, I expected that. Claire can be such a wraith!'

Internally, I winced.

It wasn't my first time hearing the word "wraith" used as a derogatory term. Usually, I didn't pay much attention, but sometimes it would pull a nerve. The truth is that good people are the worst. The real assholes, those who walk around filled with hatred, crying for blood on the streets, are easy to ignore. They just aren't worth my time. But nice people, people whom you really like... when they say something like that, it hurts. And the worst part is that they don't even realize that what they're doing is wrong.

When I was younger, I imagined people in stark tones of black and white. Bad people did bad things, and good people were good. But, of course, the truth was much harder to swallow. When I grew older, I realized, with something akin to fear, that good people are not immune to prejudice and bigotry, that no matter how nice, charitable and descent a person might be, they're simultaneously, and illogically, are capable of doing the worst kinds of things. And if so, were they really good? Or were they all just good at masking the ugliness that lay at their core underneath the thin layer of decency?

Thoughts like that can turn you mad.

Externally, I smiled.

'Yes, she struck me as a person who could.'

Dylan shrugged.

'Listen, I'm sure you're great. And, anyway, a sort of genius key player is better than no key player, right?'

Nelly gave me a thumbs up, and Dylan mirrored her gesture.

'So how did you guys meet, anyway?'

Before I could say something, Claire grinned.

'It was fate, guys! Matt works in a bar, you know. So, one day I decided to get a little wake-me-up, and this dude here pours me the single most horrible, vile, undrinkable cup of coffee I've ever tasted! It was atrocious, I'm not joking. Like a cup of pure, coagulated evil.'

I sighed.

'So, naturally, I started a conversation, because I've never met a sociopath before, and I was interested in what kind of a perverse mind could create something this disgusting. And, like, even how? What could he possibly do to a coffee machine to make it produce liquid antimatter?

She downed a shot.

'Turns out, he wasn't Antichrist after all. I'm ninety percent sure. We talked a little, and I thought, hey, this guy is actually okay. So, then, later that day I was walking the lakeside, and what do you think? Lo and behold! Who's sitting on a bench, looking all glamorously miserable and stoic? My friend Matt the Coffee Bandit! So, we talked a bit more, and then grabbed a bite, and wow, turns out he plays the piano. Just when I needed a key player! Fate, I tell you.'

She smiled triumphantly, obviously pleased with the story she told. I was starting to understand that Claire loved weaving stories. And if reality needed a little nudge to become amusing, why tell -- or maybe see? -- it any other way?

'For the record, my coffee game is perfectly fine. I mean yeah, a couple of customers mysteriously passed away after a sip, but hey, that was probably just a coincidence.'

Ted laughed and choked on his beer.

'Are you sure it was a couple, dude? Not a couple dozen?

I shrugged.

'I mean, I'm pretty sure. Less than ten, anyway.'

Dylan grinned.

'You don't sound sure. Hey! You're a fourth year, Matt? What's your major?'

Here it goes again. People in this country, especially around campus, have a real problem comprehending that someone of my age isn't necessarily a student. It's not that I haven't had opportunities to apply, even though back then being on my own was pretty tough. Actually, with my school record entering a good college or university would have been easy. It's that I wasn't interested. Didn't bother with finishing school, either. Going back there after the PA took away my mom was just... disagreeable.

Young people went to school, and then to the university. They got a good education and then, hopefully, a decent job. I had to skip all that and go straight from a kid to an adult.

'I'm not in the university. What's yours?'

Dylan blushed a little.

'Fine Arts. Lame, I know! Typical self-absorbed millennial crap, right? Guilty as charged.'

Claire laughed.

'Well, at least you have a major. I still can't decide. And at this rate, I'll probably have to stay an extra year. Or, you know, suffer an early midlife crisis and go away to save gorillas in the Amazon or something.'

I tried to imagine Claire in the tropical rainforest, waging war against poachers and corporate lumberjacks. Come to think about it, she would probably feel right at home.

'What about you, Nelly?'

Nelly reached into Claire's pocket and produced a battered paperback, then waved it in the air.

'Literature? English lit?'

A smile, then a short nod.

'Hey, give it back!'

Claire tried to get her book back, leaning on me in the process, and I felt the softness of her breast pressing against my shoulder.

Ted snatched the book away.

'Blackrasor: Volume 3. Hey, isn't it that young adult crap? You know, with that chick from that movie? The blond one.'

'None of your business! Give it back!'

Dylan frowned.

'Which blond one? The one with freckles or the one with short hair?'

'Nah, the other one. You know, with, uh... a lot of talent.'

'Oh, that one! Wait, she was in a movie?'

Claire finally got her book back from Ted and gave Nelly a little shove.

'You should talk, Ted. I saw the weird shit you like to read, remember? Judge much?'

Ted gave her a relaxed, half-drunk smile and shrugged.

'That's for class.'

He finally lit his cigarette and took a long drag.

'I'm going for the master's degree in anthropology. Comparative history of sapient civilizations'.

Seeing that no one understood what he meant, Ted sighed.

'GA studies. I study wraith history.'

I tensed.