Chapter Four
"Yeah, yeah I understand," said Lance, in the tone of voice that indicated he pointedly didn't understand something, and Ash braced herself. "I understand that you're ashamed of me," he continued, a little more indignant, and Ash shook her head. They were standing by the front door, getting ready to go out. Lance had his arms crossed, waiting while Ash was knelt down and tying his red chucks' laces. "You're just like my dad."
Ash sighed. There was no point trying to talk to him when he got like this. Despite his immaturity, Lance was intelligent and could usually be spoken to candidly and without much trouble; unless he was the subject. In which case, he either treated it as a personal attack or one big joke. When Ash made the decision to sit him down and try to tell him why she didn't want her friends to know she'd gotten back together with him, she had higher hopes for how he'd react.
"When are you gonna walk out on me, Ash?" said Lance, looking down at his increasingly irritated girlfriend.
"That's enough , Lance," Ash tugged on the second shoelace, finishing tying it, and stood up. "I'm not ashamed of you, I just don't think showing up together at a party–a very important fundraiser for the Theater, by the way–and making a scene is the best way of telling everyone about us ." She wrapped her arms around Lance's neck and huddled up to him, smiling in an attempt to appease. Lance just looked at her quietly for a couple seconds.
"So you're not ashamed of me?" he asked, almost sincere.
"Nope," replied Ash, pecking him on the cheek.
"So you're ashamed of yourself for being with me," Lance continued, snickering on the inside as Ash groaned and let go of him. He loved annoying her like that.
"Lance, this is my only day off before the party, could we please just have a nice time?" Ash asked earnestly, opening the door and looking at her boyfriend.
Lance strode up to the door and paused. Then he smiled and kissed Ash on the cheek before walking out the door. She smirked and followed, locking the door behind them.
First, they were going to see a movie at The Landmark, then swing down to Melrose Avenue; but before any of that, they'd have to catch the metro. Outside of music, Lance had no sense of time, and would usually get distracted whenever they had somewhere to be–so Ash always made sure leave earlier than was really required. And so, they were casually meandering up the sidewalk, holding hands. Ash, for a moment, was afraid someone might see them and then, ironically, was ashamed of herself for feeling that way.
It was a beautiful morning. The rising sun shone down on the streets of LA, glistening with morning dew. The sounds of birds singing collided with engines rumbling and humming, tires gliding down the street and metal grinding against metal in the distance; and it all came together in a melody ringing down the alleys and small places of the city. The early rays of sunshine glinted off of vibrant facades, assaulting the sense with a unique and urbane display of city living.
Lance was being quieter than usual. It had been a week or so and things had generally gotten back to normal between the two of them. Whenever they'd walk together he'd usually goof around and whisper little jokes in Ash's ear about people passing by, or just spout off little bits of trivia tangentially related to their conversations; but he was just looking ahead now, sometimes peering in store windows, silently.
She'd known him for years, and intimately, but it was still hard for Ash to read Lance's emotions, sometimes. The way he walked, looked, spoke–what he did with his hands, it all told her a little about how he felt. And she could tell he was hurting. Lance never brought up his father, even in a joke like that morning, unless he was in real emotional pain; and Lance's pain was Ash's.
Ash loved Lance more than anyone in the world, and she never intended to hurt him; but she had to be careful. She'd already lost one family over Lance, and didn't want to lose another.
Then it occurred to Ash that Lance never had a family to lose.
The next day...
The Capra Lounge was pulsing with life, with soft pink light crashing down on the multitude of talking, laughing patrons. Walking in, one might assume it to be a higher class place than it was, with most of the crowd opting to dress in brightly colored semi-formal attire idiosyncratically accented with floral patterns and fur fringes, among other peculiarities. Upon closer inspection of the Lounge-goers, one would discover a subculture of freaks and misfits, each with their own quirks (and more severe abnormalities), gathering in the Capra Lounge for want of anywhere else to go. This (in addition to the steady supply of paying work) was why Lance loved the place.
The music being played was just as idiosyncratic and far out as the clientele. Lance and his ragtag assemblage of musicians, who called themselves The Ambulance , would play jazz fusion that he composed and transposed for the band. Rhythm and melody would crash together and split apart, with brass screaming along. Bozzio would perform astounding abuses on his drumset, at various points sounding as if he had three arms. Lance, who had one of the fastest picking hands on the west coast, sang and played a wailing, distorted lead guitar–launching off into otherworldly solos seemingly on a whim. And all of this occurred at a fantastic pace. The patrons of the Capra Lounge, the only collection of people around outlandish enough to enjoy this en masse, would enthusiastically bob their heads and jerk their bodies to the noise.
Today, one particularly small visitor to the lounge seemed especially enthralled by the music. A white mouse, grinning in a confused and enthused nirvana of head shaking and toe tapping.
The band finished up the last song of the set, and Lance glanced around the stage to see his bandmates sweaty and huffing–but at the same time overjoyed, and for a moment felt a sense of camaraderie. They loved music as much as he did. Lance waved his hand in a quick circular motion and they all relaxed, stretching before adjusting their instruments and beginning the migration backstage. Lance turned back to the audience, thanked them, and walked away himself; joining the rest of the band in the cramped back room behind the lounge's stage. All that furnished it was a set of folding chairs around a table.
'Well, uh, I'd love to stick around, guys–but my shift starts in thirty minutes," said Benson, the band's electric bassist as he quickly opened his guitar case and packed the bass inside. Everyone else sat around, watching him. "Not everyone can have a sugar mama like Lance!" he joked, picking up the case and grinning.
Lance resented that, but didn't let it show. "Alright, Benny, we'll see ya," he said, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up on the table, but showing no emotion.
"Yeah, bye Benny!" Bozzio added, tinkering with a desktop vaporizer he kept in the back room. Then Benny said goodbye once more and left, while Lance's attention shifted to the vaporizer in Bozzio's lap. It had a long whip of tube that the ibex would puff on, and could vaporize dry herbs (in the more base of which, Bozzio was known to indulge). Lance saw him pop a green clump in the thing and set it on the table.
"That what I think it is, Bozzio?" he asked.
Around ten minutes after the band had stopped playing, Mike saw the front man emerge from a door next to the stage and walk to the vacant table nearest the bar. Mike's interest was piqued for two reasons, the first being that someone so young was not only interested in jazz (or whatever bizarre, experimental permutation of it he was playing on stage) but could play it so expertly; and secondly, that he was allowed to perform in a bar while clearly being underage. So he navigated his way over to the table and climbed up to see if he could figure these things out in the most direct way.
The kid couldn't have been more than nineteen, and was quite obviously high. Mike would never let it show, but it always disturbed him to see kids like this stoned off their asses in public–and it particularly struck a chord in him to see a guy so talented getting high in the middle of the day.
"Hey there, bud," said Mike, like nothing was askew. "I heard you on stage. That was some pretty wild stuff, you were playin' up there," Mike crossed his arms, nodding his head. "I'm Mike, by the way."
"Hey, Mike," said Lance, sitting languid in the chair and his red eyes staring passed the mouse. "Thanks, by the- uh, about the music. It's jazz fusion. I composed it all myself."
Unbelievable , Mike thought, Kid's a composer and he's in here frying his brain . Mike just stood there for awhile with a false grin, eyeing the porcupine up and down. He could've sworn he'd seen this kid before, somewhere.
"Y'know, performing's one thing, but hangin' around a place like this is, uh… How old are you, bud?" Mike asked, after a long pause.
"I know the owner–the… proprietor of this fine establishment, bud , so don't worry about it," said Lance, lazily sitting up (he had never actually met Bozzio's father, who still lived in New York). Mike just shook his head.
"Don't you have a… family, or somethin'?" Mike asked, letting just the slightest hint of concern leak through. Lance noticed.
"I have a girlfriend," said Lance.
"Does she know you're stoned out of your gourd, hanging around a freakshow of a bar?" Mike asked, with more emotion.
"Hell no," Lance began, again leaning back. "She only just took me back a few days ago."
"Oh, really?" asked Mike, starting to assume a stance of superiority. "Why'd she leave you in the first place?"
"I, uh… fooled around with another girl," Lance explained, with just a hint of remorse in his voice.
Mike's opinion of the kid was rapidly deteriorating. He thought about launching off on a tirade, teaching the boy a lesson on how to treat a woman and act like a man–but he figured it was too much effort to expend on some punk he'd never see again. However, the guy did seem genuinely interesting, and Mike wasn't averse to continuing the conversation. He thought for awhile, and eventually asked, "So, are you from around here, or…?"
"You mean Los Angeles? Well, I grew up in, uh… Do you know where Sun Village is?" asked Lance, and Mike nodded. "You do? Yeah, Sun village–it's, uh, it's out back of Palmdale, alright? And, uh… Well, see, Ash and I went to high school in Lancaster, which is-"
"What did you say?" asked Mike, stepping forward as if he couldn't believe his ears.
Lance looked a little confused, then answered, "Ash, my girlfriend Ash and I went to highschool in-"
"Ash? Ash? A porcupine, plays guitar too loud?" Mike seemed to get more incredulous with every word. "What did you say your name was?"
"Lance," he answered. Mike was quiet for a little while, staring a hole through Lance like he couldn't believe it.
"What?!" yelled Mike, and Lance was taken aback. Mike opened his mouth to yell again, but was silent, and stared a little while longer in disbelief. Then he closed his mouth and straightened up, stepping closer to Lance. "You listen to me, boy. I don't know how or why she could ever take you back, but if you ever make that little girl cry again, I'm going to-"
"Boy?!" interrupted Lance, sitting back up. "Who the fuckdo you think you are-"
"I'm the guy who's gonna kick your ass up and down the street if you don't straighten up, you little pissant," yelled Mike, with surprising intensity from such a small creature.
Lance stood up in a flash, knocking his chair down in the process and screaming, "I don't have to take this!" before turning to go. Fuming, he marched toward the back room's door to grab his guitar and slip out the back. "Excuse me for bein' fucking born!" he yelled, with most people in the crowd stepping aside for him and shoving the rest. Mike took off his trilby and ran his fingers through his hair before putting the hat back on. Then he turned to go, himself. He didn't know much about the Lounge, but he assumed they'd stick up for Lance before they'd try and see things his way.
Later, that night…
"Yeah… Yeah… I know … Okay…" Ash would say intermittently into her phone and glare at Lance, who was sitting nervously on the couch pretending to watch the muted television. Mike's girlfriend was on the other end. The cat was out of the bag, and she had picked up Mike's phone when Ash called for the third time to beg him not to tell the rest of the Theater group, so she could do it on her own terms. She had gotten his number from Buster, who she'd called just minutes before and didn't seem to have heard anything, yet. Now Mike's girlfriend was taking the opportunity to pass down some womanly advice to the teenager, talking about second chances and having patience, along with some anecdotal generalizations about men and their antics.
"Yeah… Yeah ..." Ash stepped out from the kitchen doorway and toward Lance on the couch when some different sounding buzzes came through the phone. "Has he told anyone yet?" Ash asked, much more animated than she had been. More vacillating buzzes came through, and Ash looked relieved–but only for a moment. "Okay?" She paused. "Okay… Alright… Thanks. Yeah, I'll see you there. Okay. Thanks. Bye," Ash ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table, sitting on the couch and putting her head in her hands.
"Everything alright, babe?" asked Lance, nervously. He couldn't take the suspense; he wasn't sure, but he was afraid Ash might've found out that he got high.
"I hope you're happy," said Ash, looking over at Lance. "You're coming to the party with me," she put her head back in her hands.
"What?" asked Lance, and Ash sat up and glared at him.
"Mike says that if I don't tell everyone about us, he's going to," she said coolly.
"Who's Mike, again?" asked Lance, and Ash rolled her eyes.
"The guy you screamed at in the bar today! Y'know? The place where you were getting high? " she replied, more intensely.
Lance was horrified. "Oh God -"
"Hold on, Lance," Ash interrupted. "Before we get to you getting stoned maybe you want to tell me what you were doing in a bar-"
Lance stood up. "My friends were there, they made–That's, that's why I was high! They made me do it, babe! It was peer pressure, I swear! I just wanted to be cool-"
"Oh , don't even, Lance!" Ash stood up herself, crossing her arms and turning away. Even this, he wouldn't take seriously. "It's bad enough that everyone's going hear about this, and now you're lying to my face about what even happened-" her voice broke at the end of the sentence, and Lance got concerned.
"I just know that they won't understand," Ash shook her head. They won't understand us or… you… They won't… A-and, Lance, I love you, but-"
"Babe …" Lance lightly put a hand on Ash's shoulder, but she jerked away. It usually took a couple hours of fighting for her to get this emotional, so this must've been pretty important to her.
"Stop…" she said, and turned back to Lance but didn't look at him. "I… I just…" she put one hand over her eyes. "I don't want to have to pick between you and my family, again… Because… I love you, Lance, more than anything , b-but…"
"Ashley… " Lance slowly took Ash's hands in his own and pulled them down, looking in her dewy blue eyes and pulling her into an embrace. " I'm sorry. I know what I did was wrong, and I promise I'm going to make it up to you. Okay? And you aren't going to have to choose between me and anybody, because all I want is for you to be happy ," Ash put her arms around Lance and rested her head against him, surrendering to the embrace, and they started to sway back and forth. " So don't worry about anything, baby; because I'm going to make your friends love me as much as you do ," said Lance, sincerely, his voice getting softer. Ash closed her eyes, and they were quiet for a while, slow dancing in the middle of the living room.
"I love you, Lance," whispered Ash.
"I love you too, Ash," Lance whispered back, and they kept swaying. Then, he began to quietly sing, " Hey, hey, hey-"
"It's gonna be okay," Ash sang in turn, and smiled.