It’s bordering on dusk when Rob and Julie finally pull into my driveway. The car is Julie’s—a red Jeep her parents had bought her for her sixteenth birthday—but Rob is behind the wheel. Julie spots me leaning against the side of the house, limbs crossed in a pose of prolonged boredom, and the apology is tumbling out of her mouth before she opens her door. As a result, I miss the first part of her explanation, but it doesn’t make much difference.


“—had to be clean before we left, plus my dad was all but interrogating us on where we were going and what time we’d be back and by that point it was nearly 5 and we hadn’t even left yet!”

She pauses to suck in breath, realizes she forgot an “I’m sorry, Jen”, and throws one in. As she leans against the Jeep and looks at me imploringly, Rob exits his side in such a lethargic way that I want to scream. He ambles to Julie and wraps a thick arm around her, shielding her from the daggers my arms are shooting.

My own arms tighten across my chest and I say coldly, “What time is it now?” I make a point of not getting my phone to check.

Rob speaks up. “About 5:30.” He moves to scratch his back, the shifting gravel under him matching the gravelly tone of his voice.

“If we hurry, we probably won’t even miss the opening act,” Julie says. She and Rob break apart and reenter the car, the incident already forgotten. I hesitate. I want to retaliate by making us later than we already are, but I also don’t want to miss the concert. After waiting for another second, I give up and get in the backseat.

I’m still thinking of ways to show my annoyance as we start down the road that’ll soon bring us to Route 10. “Why’s he driving?” I finally say, pointing at the back of Rob’s head. “I missed that part of the explanation.” I don’t really care who drives, but Rob’s nonchalance about the whole thing makes me want to attack him more than Julie.

Julie twists around in her seat to respond. “My dad wouldn’t let me drive! It’s only legal if Rob does.”

Right, I think. One of Julie’s many perks of dating a college student. “It’s not like your dad’s with us now. He wouldn’t know if you drove.”

Rob’s voice again, fainter because he doesn’t move. “I like driving this car.”

“It’s just more convenient,” Julie says. “I can talk to you guys this way—you know I can’t focus when I drive.”

This is fair enough, but I don’t like being grouped in with Rob as “you guys”. It suggests camaraderie that is felt by neither of us.

I make a face at Julie, realizing as I do how childish I must look, then settle back in my seat and cross my arms again. Once it’s clear that I have no intention of talking to her, Julie faces front and begins to chat animatedly with Rob about the band we’re going to see, and his connections with it. I don’t bother listening. Instead, I don headphones to drown out the couple’s chatter. I’ve heard this story plenty of times and can recite it at will (albeit with some sarcasm): Rob has been friends with the bassist of No Signal (tonight’s band) since sophomore year, before he and the rest of the band achieved town-wide fame. Julie’s told the story more than once, Rob’s next-to-nonexistent role increasing heroically with each retelling (“He was asked to be vocalist, but he turned it down!”), and then a few times from the man himself. Not directly to me, of course—Rob avoided talking to me if at all possible, and vice versa. Whenever I third-wheeled on one of Rob and Julie’s dates, at some point Rob would relay the history to his eternally adoring girlfriend. As if he has any real claim to fame, I think bitterly. He probably can’t sing for s***.

I’m blasting No Signal’s hit Monkeyshines, staring out the Jeep’s window, when I realize we’re no longer moving. I remove an earbud. “Are we here?”

“Yes, for the third time,” Julie replies, sounding pissed.

“Sorry!” I unbuckle hastily, and the three of us exit into the chilly evening. As we approach the Canal Club, I see a line of people disappearing through its door.

“See?” Julie says. “They’re just now opening!” The two of us half-jog to join the line, but Julie stops when she sees Rob hanging back. “Rob, c’mon!”

Rob slouches against a lamppost and points to a freshly lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Lemme finish this first.”

Julie hesitates, then joins Rob at the post and takes the cigarette he offers her. “We’ll be in soon, Jen. Get a spot close to the stage!”

“Julie—you don’t smoke!”

“You don’t know that.” Julie breaks eye contact that she had never really held as Rob drapes an arm around her shoulders, the smoldering tip of his cigarette almost touching her collarbone. “Go—before it fills up!” She sucks her own cigarette tentatively.

I’m torn between wanting to get a good spot inside and a strange desire to be offered to join them, though I’ve never smoked in my life. Rob makes a little gesture that both flicks ash from his cigarette and shoos me away, so I turn reluctantly and join the line.

Inside the club, the chilly air from the street is replaced by a rank heat from all the tightly packed bodies. Sparsely strung fluorescent lights give it the look of a place just starting to decorate for Christmas or one in the final stages of packing up. The ceiling is low, with exposed wooden beams that for some reason look unstable; I immediately start to feel panicky and claustrophobic. I want to go outside for more fresh air, but then I remember Rob and Julie.

It’s easy to make my way to the stage. Most people are either at the bar or browsing No Signal’s overpriced merch, so the crowd is loose is easily parted even by a skinny, 16-year-old girl. The scuffed, tiny stage is empty except for a bearded sound guy fiddling with the equipment. It looks like some spotlights have been added since the last time I came here, including red and green ones that strengthen the feeble Christmasy vibe.

I’m considering waiting at a table—it’ll be awhile before even the opening act starts—when Rob and Julie appear next to me. Both reek of smoke, and Rob holds a beer that makes me wonder if he has connections with the club’s employees too—the line at the bar is huge, and there’s no way they had waited in it.

“Good spot, Jen!” Julie says, seeming overly bubbly.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“Leo!” Rob shouts, lifting the hand with the beer to the guy onstage. “Hey, Leo!”

Leo looks up, shouts, “It’s my boy Rob!” and hops from the stage to join us. The two are immediately in an animated conversation. Those near us stare and start whispering, as if it’s some big deal that Rob knows the sound guy.

I think Julie notices that I’ve been pretty much endlessly glaring at Rob, because she grabs my arm and leads me to a table, saying “I need to talk to you.”

We sit across from each other, and Julie looks me dead in the eye for the first time that night. “What the hell is your problem? You’ve been acting like a b**** recently.”

“Sorry not everyone is as in love with Mr. College Student as you.”

She starts to reply, eyes lighting up with anger, but a cheer from the crowd drowns her out. The opening act has just taken the stage. As the guitarist screeches into the first song, Julie jumps from her seat and hurries back to the crowd, not waiting to see if I follow. I do after a moment, swallowing my pride; I care too much about the concert to worry about Julie right now.

The crowd has thickened considerably since we left it. We stare at the flailing tangle of limbs, not knowing how to push through, when Rob’s thick arm appears and sucks Julie in. I’m left to force my own way through the crowd, getting jostled and shoved from all sides. With the help of my bony elbows, I’m able to reach a spot close to Rob and Julie. They either don’t notice or choose not to acknowledge me.

The opening act, whose name I miss in the unintelligible screams of the vocalist, is terrible; there’s more feedback than actual music, and the vocalist seems to be speaking in tongues. The crowd apparently loves it, though. I’m caught up in a sea of gyrating and headbanging, letting myself be pushed from side to side rather than join in. I notice that Rob too seems unimpressed. He stands as a stoic pillar in the midst of the swaying, only moving to take swigs from his beer.

After only 3 songs, the opening act leaves the stage, presumably due to lung damage of the vocalist. The crowd stops swaying and resumes chattering. Rob takes this opportunity to fiercely lock lips with Julie, who clutches his back in an almost desperate way. I pretend to gag, unnoticed by all, and wish that No Signal would hurry up and start.

It’s another 20 minutes before my wish is fulfilled. When No Signal finally comes onstage, waving like they’re much bigger celebrities than they really are, the place goes nuts. The crowd’s energy builds up again, dancing and swaying long before any music is played. Rob’s abandoned his cool guy routine and is waving frantically at his bassist buddy, who apparently doesn’t see him. My own shouts are lost in the overall roar of the crowd. The spotlights flash chaotically, adding to the club’s pulsing energy.

The guitarist plays the first deceivingly mellow chords of Monkeyshines, and it’s all but drowned out by another huge cheer. I’m hooting like an idiot now, just as excited as the rest of the crowd.


As their fantastic vocalist starts singing, microphone pressed to his lips, I look over at Rob and Julie. She’s dancing as if glued to him. Rob has an arm around her waist, pinning her to him like you’d hold a sack of groceries. The other arm holds his beer high, and as I watch them dance, the bottle tilts and spills on Julie. It soaks into her hair and the front of her shirt. I watch her grimace and shudder, her face lit a ghastly green by a spotlight, but she keeps dancing.

Suddenly I can’t be there anymore. I spin and fight my way through the crowd, Monkeyshines now seeming nightmarish. I wonder in a detached way if I’ll ever be able to enjoy the song again. Air suddenly seems in short supply as I realize just how crowded the club is, and I shove more frantically for the exit. I reach the door and push through it into the night, staggering, gasping, almost sobbing. I collapse on the concrete steps and start to breathe more deeply.

“Hey, you OK?”

My first impression is that an oversized, smoking rat is talking to me. Slouching against the lamppost where Rob and Julie had stood, the yellow pool of light gives his narrow face an unhealthy tint. He wears an overlarge leather jacket and his hair is greasy, but his eyes hold concern that may be genuine. He steps out of the light towards me, and his face forms pools of shadows that obscure his features.

“You seem upset.” Another step and now he’s sitting next to me, almost touching legs, smoke and the smell of it coming off him in waves. I blink and realize that my eyes are filled with tears. From the smoke?

“I’m fine,” I finally say, hearing how small and unconvincing it sounds.

“You sure? Don’t seem fine to me.” Suddenly the hand not holding his cigarette is on my knee, pale and with huge knuckles. I sit there dumbly, not knowing how to react. Behind us, the music of No Signal throbs through the door. The steps vibrate slightly.

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve said this—the nonchalance in my voice is alien.

“Sure,” is the immediate reply. We stand together, and he wraps a thin but comforting arm around my waist.

We’re close to the end of the block when the door bursts open again and 2 people come out. I can tell by the white lettering on his shirt that one is a Canal Club employee, but it’s not until they move under the lamplight that I realize the person he’s escorting is Julie. She holds an ice bag against one eye, but both are swollen with tears. I wonder vaguely if she was the victim of a flailing crowd surfer or just an overenthusiastic dancer—maybe even Rob. She looks our way, and I turn, hoping it’s dark enough so that she can’t see my face.

“Do you know that girl?” my companion asks. His voice has the same concern it had for me just moments ago.

“No, I’m sure she’s fine,” I reply, putting my arm around him to guide him away, but he shrugs me off. The employee had left Julie outside alone. She stands huddled against the lamppost, one arm supporting the elbow of the other, the ice pressed to her face.

“She looks like she needs help,” he said, leaving me on the sidewalk as he said it.

“She-she has a boyfriend,” I say weakly, but if he hears me he doesn’t let on. I watch as he reaches Julie, his face wrought with concern and hers with desperation. He spreads his arms and she collapses, weeping, into the hug. As they move out of the light, I lean against the wall for support, real tears coming now, feeling the distant vibrations of No Signal as total darkness begins to fall.