I took my place and settled down on a shoddy, wobbly stool by the sticker coated bar, lying in wait. I watched skinny little punks in tight pants and scribbled on shoes, with swooping hair and Sharpie tattoos, posing in corners for pictures and tweeting to each other. Barely 23 and I felt like the old Babushka watching over the kids in the neighborhood or like Willy Wonka keeping check on the Oompa Loompas.
“Need a drink?”
I turned around to face the bartender, his face hidden under an old worn out fedora, but his boredom evident by his posture and tone of voice. I dug a few bucks out of my jeans and he handed over a Blue Moon.
“Not much business tonight. Or any night really. Damn kids are all that show up nowadays. All the veterans saw the scene dying, and bowed out gracefully along with all the decent talent. Left me bored as hell behind this bar. Might as well start booking shows at Chuck E. Cheese, or some shit like it,” he mumbled as he cracked open a PBR for himself.
“I know the feeling. I’m just on the hunt.” I winked at him and leaned back against the bar, nursing the bottle in my hand.
“Dangerous game, young lady…you’re in for a world of hurt with this sorta prey.”
“Thanks, Obi Wan, for the advice and all, but I’m more than aware of the situation. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.” I played with the silver chain around my neck, the teeth charms chattering together as if they were in a frightened mouth. “Trust me. I am more aware than you think.”
He chuckled and pointed towards the band leaving the backstage entrance on the other side of the room. “Better get your guns. The prey is on the move.”
···
I was that girl that longed for the boy to sing to her. I was that girl that desired to be the muse. Screw the muse. She’ll still become some wrinkly old woman, saggy and dried up, that’ll probably die from emphysema or some other self-inflicted disease. That’s the part that all of these other girls don’t see. They see the one night stands, the romantic flings with someone clinging on to a tiny shred of what could be mistaken as fame, without the bank account to prove it.
That’s where I differ. I stopped tricking myself into believing that I would be lead into a life of sweet serenades and Sunday afternoons in bed with my troubadour. I figured the game out and knew exactly what I was messing with. I knowingly stepped into that gigantic pile of shit, and didn’t think twice about it. I had tripped and fell into these relationships before, so many times that I’d come to treat it as my destiny. It actually became quite a blessing in disguise, proving to be a lucrative shortcoming in my rational. Without knowing, these assholes that I had become so tragically and chronically attracted to had become my muse. They fueled my work, provided me with an endless supply of emotion to put into each piece. Each and every single work had a little bit of bastard embedded inside the metal.
© 2009
