I was standing in front of the entrance to the Invisible Scorpion. Well, it wasn't really the entrance; it's not like there was a concierge and a sign saying Q here or anything. I just went to where all the bikes were parked.
I'd mentioned that the Invisible Scorpion had been converted from a patio. The main building was actually the town's recreational centre. You had a pool-and-snooker hall, music studio, weight room, a Pizza Hut with only takeaway.
As I walked in, the speakers overhead blared "He's a Woman – She's a Man" by 70s-era Scorpions. Talk about on the nose, universe.
But I immediately felt right at home, because everybody had a cigarette in their hand, and ashtrays adorned every table. The near-opaque fog functioned as my security blanket.
I acted like it was my first time here and wandered about slowly, as if trying to locate the bartender. On my way I scanned every table with squinty eyes, partly because of my cover, partly because of the smoke. No sign of Baccha, but there were at least five guys (and one girl) who appeared to be cosplaying him, right down to the white high-top Converse All Stars.
When I got to the counter I saw Vinny, looking exactly how I remembered him looking when I had my first beer at the Invisible Scorpion: skinheaded and wearing a goatee with blonde highlights.
We gazed into each other's eyes for longer than was socially appropriate before I stuttered out my order. It was obvious he had no memory of me at all. I paid him and took my mug to the empty table in the corner, closest to the woods. Maybe Baccha would come sauntering out of it to save the day and send me home when I inevitably drank too much.
Hey, what the fuck. I wasn't supposed to be drinking anymore. I was already picturing Aunt Constance's smug expression when she'd rock up and find me sitting here alone, eyes half shut, singing along to Placebo. I stared at the mug, furious, then I stared at Vinny, who had better things to do. It had all happened so fast. I could've just asked for a coke or something right?
Even before my first sip I was already beginning to get all depressed. It was like I bamboozled myself into coming here, just so I could smoke and drink my ass off. Well, at least I knew for certain Aunt Constance would be here at some point. That, in theory, should keep me from overdoing it. I resolved to dedicate this night to investigating the virtue of temperance. I'd make this mug last as long as possible. They say one drink every hour right?
From age 16 to 20 I had been a regular here, and I don't think I ever once went longer than half an hour without a refill. Everything was exactly the same, except it was more of a musicians' hangout then. More emos, more eyeliner. On Tuesdays I'd sneak out of the house, via that same window in the basement Aunt Constance used to make her exit earlier in the day. I'd meet up with a rotating cast of freaks, Baccha and whoever else happened to be available that night. We'd pull our resources together and get as many jugs of Stella as we could. Tuesdays were "Rock Night," where the playlist was about 85% Iron Maiden. Either they moved it to Monday, or every night was "Rock Night" now, owing to the denim-clad clods who constituted the unsilent majority.
They were a superstitious bunch too. Despite the barrage of Headbanger's Ball hits, I could easily make out what most of them were talking about. Rumours of a hideous black shape, seen prowling about the cemetery. Sightings of a descendent of the original Mothman. And in the bowels of the forest lurked some bastard child of Slenderman and Sasquatch.
At that last bit of salacious gossip I turned my attention to the woods again. Baccha and I had our own supernatural-tinged experience in there. It might have been nothing, just youthful imagination dying for a myth to call our own. All the same, it shook us up badly enough that there was an unspoken agreement never to go in there after dark ever again.
Time was passing slowly, but I relished being outside. I'd chosen to wear a black jacket, baggy enough to insulate me from the cold and from prying eyes. In turn, I also felt that the others were safe from me. I thought back to the woman on the street. The last thing I needed was to switch bodies with any of these folk. With another gulp of Stella I let the tension wash away, almost wishing I'd brought along the Pynchon book.
Just then I heard the sounds of a tolling church bell and thought the grim reaper had come for me at last. No such luck. It was the opening of "Hallowed By Thy Name," and apparently every bastard in the joint knew the lyrics by heart:
I'm waiting in my cold cell
When the bell begins to chime
Reflecting on my past life
And it doesn't have much time
'Cause at five o'clock
They take me to the gallows pole
The sands of time for me are running low
The song had elicited this exact reaction every Tuesday for the four years I was in attendance. This would've been an excellent moment for Aunt Constance to come floating down from the rooftop like a Blessed Virgin Mary apparition. Where was she?
As the guitars came in and Bruce Dickinson dragged that last word for as long as humanly possible, I heard something that made me sit straight up. Someone was aping the twin harmonies, note for note. But not the main part; he was singing the accompanying harmony in thirds.
It had to be him. No normal person ever sang the harmony part.
I followed the sound of the voice to a table full of denim, leather and bandannas. As I approached I read You just fucked with the wrong Mexican on a denimed back, but the word "Mexican" had been crossed out in red and replaced with "Indian." I looked at the back of the guy's head, which was adorned with a mess of dreadlocks. Could it be?
"Baccha?" I said, hyperaware of the high-pitch of my voice.
"Dude!" he said, pushing his seat away to get up and hug me. A pair of black spectacles rested on his nose, the square frames made his eyes seem magnified. Besides the dreads and glasses, he looked the same, but age was visible on his skin.
"I've missed you!" he exclaimed, patting me so hard on my back that I felt the sore mounds on my chest sway from under my tee.
"And what're you doing here?" he continued, looking me up and down. From this I inferred he never stopped his patronage of the Scorpion.
"I was supposed to meet my Aunt Constance for a drink," I said quickly.
"Oh shit, the hot blonde, right? I remember her. She popped by for a few of our shows, came to a few parties after."
"Uh, yeah."
"Where is she," he said, scanning the crowd. "It's been years."
I held my hands up. "I think she ditched me, but I'm sitting over there."
"I'll bring my drink over, we have so much to catch up on." He wrapped me in a hug again.
You don't know the half of it, I thought. But all the same I held just as tight. The relief I felt then was immense. Intuition, magick, maybe they were the same thing, but they'd worked. I'd found exactly the person I needed to find.
Forty-five minutes later I had to revisit this sentiment. I wasn't quite sure if my judgment had been astute.
"Behold this vine," he began, his voice all gravelly and slurring. We were walking back from the bar with our drinks. I'd lost count of the number of beers we'd imbibed. I also didn't care. "I found it a wild tree, whose wanton strength had swollen into irregular twigs."
A goth-adjacent punk brushed between us, his mohawk clearly an attempt to compensate for all that he lacked in height. He snorted loudly up at Baccha, who gave him the kind of look a proud but amused father might give before waving him off.
"But I pruned the plant," he continued, "and it grew temperate in its vain expense of useless leaves, and knotted as you see into these clean full clusters."
"All to repay the hand that wisely wounded it," his expression now one of awe as we reached the edge of the patio, and his hand raised to gesture towards the gaping maw of the lightless forest.
"Uh huh," I said. "Listen, man. This is going to sound weird, but I actually came here tonight with the explicit purpose of talking to you about something important. I really need your opinion, and I just, I knew you'd be here."
This didn't seem to faze him. Another gush of relief flooded my system.
"I'm all ears," he said, already draining the last of his glass. "Let's have it."