Standing On Top

Chapter 14a

Posted: 13.04.2007, 17:07:41

Jake's urge to panic was very great as he stared at the smoke and flame billowing from the engine on the right wing, as he felt the seemingly uncontrolled yaw to the right, as he felt the nose of the aircraft starting to drop. Panic seemed a perfectly natural response. Based on the screams of the passengers around him, based on the painful way that Helen was clutching his arm and the terrified whine coming from her lips, it seemed like panic was all the rage. He very nearly succumbed to it.

But then the yaw suddenly stopped, returning strictly forward flight to the vehicle. The nose came back up a little, settling them into a gentle climb. The other two engines continued to roar comfortingly, kicking up a little in noise level, but sounding otherwise normal. Jake took another look at the engine on the right wing just in time to see it enveloped by a cloud of white vapor. This cloud went on for ten seconds or so. When it cleared, the engine was still smoking but was no longer aflame. Slowly, he began to realize that catastrophe was not exactly imminent. Though he understood that something had gone terribly wrong with the aircraft he was in, and though he had never wanted so badly to be on the ground as he wanted it right at that moment, he began to think that maybe things were going to be all right.

"We lost an engine," Jake said to Helen, his voice soothing. "That's why we nosed down and turned to the right like that."

"Whu... whu... what?" Helen blabbered.

"C'mon, hon," he said. "You're the flight instructor. Logic it out. You lose your right side engine on a DC-10 during a climb and you've suddenly lost a third of your thrust. Your nose is gonna drop when that happens. And the plane is gonna yaw right because the remaining thrust suddenly becomes uneven. They're under control now. You feel it?"

Helen raised her head up from Jake's shoulder and looked around carefully. There was no smoke in the cabin, no more shuddering of the airframe, and it was obvious they were indeed under controlled flight. "What happened to the engine?" she asked.

"It blew," Jake said. "There was smoke and flame from it but it's out now."

"It is?"

"It is," he confirmed. "I saw them use the extinguisher on it."

"What if that's not all that's wrong?" she asked. "Remember what I'm always telling you. Planes go down because of a chain of events. What if this was just the first link in the chain? What if..."

"Helen," he said, pulling her against him. "I think you..."

The pilot suddenly came on the intercom, interrupting him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice sounding calm, cool, collected, almost cheery, as if this sort of thing happened every day, "I apologize for that little bout of excitement we just had and I'd like to assure everyone that everything is under control up here. We lost the number three engine just as we were climbing through sixty-five hundred feet. That was that whine and that bang you all heard and it was also the reason for that momentary change of attitude and direction we experienced.

"We have shut that engine down and used the built-in extinguisher to smother the flames that were coming from it. Now, we don't know why that engine blew and it's really not important at this particular moment. We do, however, have two other engines and, as you can hear, they are both running just fine. As far as we can tell, no other part of the aircraft suffered any sort of damage.

"Our plan is to return to Logan airport as quickly as possible and get you all back on the ground. Before we can do that, however, we need to get rid of some of our fuel or otherwise the aircraft will be heavier than we really want for an optimum landing. So what we're going to do is level off at twelve thousand feet and go out over the Atlantic Ocean. Once we're sure that all other aircraft are out of our way, we're going to jettison about sixty thousand pounds of jet fuel from the wing tanks. This will take about fifteen minutes or so. Once we're lightened up, we'll turn around and be vectored in for a direct approach to Logan.

"At this particular moment in time, though we have declared an emergency due to the circumstances, I see no reason why we shouldn't have a perfectly safe and normal landing in about thirty-five minutes or so.

"Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience and will remind everyone to please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened."

The captain's soothing words, and, more importantly, the continued smooth and controlled flight of the aircraft, served to calm the passengers considerably. The screams and cries faded away. Jake's heart returned to an almost normal rate. The adrenaline slowly leeched from his bloodstream. Even Helen calmed down. She did not release the grip on his arm, but she did at least loosen it up a little.

"You okay?" Jake asked her.

"I'll be okay when my feet are on the ground again," she said. "Jesus Christ. Thirty-five more minutes in this thing? That's thirty-five more minutes that something can go wrong in."

It actually took forty-three minutes. After the plane leveled out over the Atlantic Ocean, Jake watched out his window at the wing tip and was rewarded with the sight of thousands of gallons of jet fuel streaming off behind them.

"Take a look at this, Helen," he said. "This is definitely something you don't see every day."

Her face was looking a little green. "Pass," she said blandly. "Just tell me when this is over."

Sixteen and a half minutes after the dumping procedure began, it was over. Jake felt the aircraft banking slowly to the left, making a lazy circle back toward Boston and the safety of the airport.

The descent was normal and uneventful. Even so, Helen jumped when the sound of the landing gear deploying reached her ears.

"It's okay," Jake told her soothingly, still holding her against his body. "It's just the gear coming down."

"I know that," she said, a little defensively.

The ground grew closer and closer and, finally, they were over the runway. They thumped down in a perfectly normal fashion except for the applause and the collective sigh of relief that filled the cabin. The pilot did not utilize the reverse thrusters, probably, Jake figured, out of fear that uneven reverse thrust would make the aircraft swerve off the runway. This made their roll out rather long, but at no time did they seem out of control. When they reached the end of the runway, Jake saw out the window that dozens of fire engines, crash trucks, and two ambulances were standing by in a staging area. The plane rolled down the taxiway and came to a stop about two hundred yards from the main terminal.

"And we're down, ladies and gentlemen," the captain told them cheerfully. "Everything seems to remain in order so there will be no emergency evacuation of the aircraft. Unfortunately, do to the fact that there was a small fire in the number three engine, we cannot park at the terminal. They are bringing a set of stairs to the main entrance door and as soon as it is in place we will have all of you exit the aircraft in the normal fashion. Please take your carry-on baggage and all personal belongings with you when you leave. Your luggage will be removed and taken to the terminal. I am told that another DC-10 is already on the way from New York City and we should have all of you back in the air in less than two hours."

"Not bloody fucking likely," Helen muttered. Her sentiment was shared by several other people as well.

"Once again," the captain continued, "I apologize for the excitement and for the inconvenience. As a gesture of goodwill, the airline will be issuing a credit to every passenger onboard that is good for one round trip flight anywhere in the continental United States that we fly."

"That's very big of them," Helen said. "They nearly kill us and now they give us a free flight on another one of their fucked up airplanes."

"Helen," Jake said, "it really wasn't that big of a deal. We lost an engine. We're down and safe now."

"Yeah," she said, her eyes still wide and scared. "This time."

The first thing they did upon entering the terminal building was go to the bar in the first class lounge and order a couple of stiff drinks. They then went and found a table to drink them at. Jake lit a cigarette, drawing deeply, feeling the soothing nicotine rush to his head.

"Give me one of those," Helen demanded, reaching for the pack that sat on the table.

"You don't smoke," Jake reminded her.

"I do now," she said. She lit up, inhaled, coughed violently for a few moments, and then took another drag.

"You're gonna make yourself sick," Jake told her.

"I'm already sick," she said, picking up her drink. It was a double whiskey and coke. She swallowed half of it without moving the glass from her lips.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Jake asked her.

"No," she said. "Jake, that scared me."

"Well... it scared me too," he said. "When that engine first went up and I felt that yaw and the nose drop, I thought it was my ass, but it's over now. We're safe."

"They want us to just jump on another one their planes in two hours, Jake!" she said. "Another fucking DC-10, no less."

Jake shrugged. He had already put the entire incident into perspective. "That's a good thing, Helen," he told her.

"What do you mean it's a good thing?" she demanded.

"We were just in a plane that had a mechanical failure," he said. "What are the odds that it would happen to us twice in the same day? They're astronomical! That plane that's coming to get us is pretty much the safest goddamn flight in the world, statistically speaking."

"That does not comfort me," she said.

"It should," he said. "In fact, if you think about it, we're probably safe on commercial airliners for the rest of our lives now. How many people, no matter how much they fly, ever have anything like that happen to them even once? Very few. I'd be willing to bet that no one has ever had it happen twice."

"That's false logic and you know it," she said. "I am not getting on that plane."

Jake took a long sip of his drink, a deep drag of his smoke, trying to think this through. Helen had the stubborn expression on her face and he knew that changing her mind about this would be difficult. "Are you going to stay in Boston forever?" he finally asked her.

She sighed, taking another drag from her smoke, coughing, and then grinding it out in the ashtray. "No," she said. "That's not really feasible, is it?"

"Not really," he agreed.

"Can we at least stay here today?" she asked. "Can you get us another flight tomorrow on a different airline? On a different kind of airplane?"

He nodded. "Sure, we can do that," he said. "Hell, we'll go private. I'll get us a Lear lined up and we'll..."

She was shaking her head violently. "Not private," she said. "Those little Lear jets are even bigger deathtraps than the airliners. Just get us on a 747 or something — anything but a DC-10."

He reached over and took her hand. "Okay," he told her. "I'll start working on it."

It turned out that Helen wasn't the only one unwilling to just jump on another flight as if nothing had happened. Almost half of the passengers elected to stay overnight in Boston instead of continuing on. The airline was very sympathetic. The ticket agents were apologetic and helpful as they refunded the cost of the flight and they even helped Jake book two seats on another airline for mid-morning the next day.

"If you'd like," the smiling agent offered when Jake finished his transaction, "we can book you in one of the rooms at the hotel airport. It'll be on us."

"Thanks," Jake said graciously, "but I'll get my own room."

He did. He called the Boston Hilton and, after a few minutes of conversation and the recitation of his Visa number, secured the Presidential Suite for them. He then asked that they arrange for an immediate limousine pick-up from the airport.

"Of course, sir," the reservation clerk told him. "I'll have one on the way in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," Jake said. He told her what terminal they would be at and hung up.

Helen, meanwhile, fueled by three more stiff drinks, had pulled herself together enough to collect their luggage and get it to a skycap.

One hour later, they were sitting in their hotel room, looking out at Boston Harbor. They drank the bottle of complimentary wine that had been left in the room and then, overcome by a horniness that was only possible after experiencing a near-death episode, spent the next two hours lustily fucking, sucking, and otherwise pleasuring each other in as many different ways as they could think of. Both agreed afterward — before dropping off into a deep and contented sleep — that it was the best sex they'd ever shared with each other.

Jake woke up around four o'clock that afternoon, feeling out of sorts but otherwise refreshed. He went to the bathroom and urinated and then, still naked, walked into the main sitting room and grabbed a seat on the couch. He turned on the television, flipping through it for a few minutes and finding nothing he wanted to watch. With nothing else to do, he started wondering what they were going to do tonight. He had been to Boston before — every tour he'd ever been a part of had passed through Boston — but he'd never really had time to explore it. Surely there was something to do here, wasn't there?

He started exploring some of the drawers in the room's various furnishings and, inside the desk, found a book entitled: Things To Do in Boston. He opened it up and began flipping through it, checking out the restaurants and the clubs.

An entry for a place called The Firelight Lounge caught his eye. It was touted as Boston's best live music venue, featuring all the up and coming bands from the New England region. It was claimed that the legendary Boston themselves had played there many times prior to making it big. The advertisement promised that the club featured live music every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday night.

"And it's Friday night," Jake said with a smile, finding the idea of going out and catching a live band more appealing by the minute. Sure, they'd probably be a bunch of hackers, but music was still music. And going out and getting tanked in a downtown bar would be just the thing to get Helen's mind off their impending flight tomorrow.

Helen woke up thirty minutes later and was initially resistant to his plans. She didn't want to go out in public. She just wanted to stay in the room, order dinner from room service, and stew in her irrational fear. But finally, after working on her for half an hour or so, she agreed to go out with him.

They got dressed in casual clothes and took a cab to a seafood restaurant downtown. There, they enjoyed live Maine lobster and two bottles of a decent chardonnay. The wine helped mellow Helen out a little bit. She stopped fretting about how they'd almost died and even managed to laugh a few times.

From there, they took another cab to the Fireside Lounge. Upon arrival, they found that the lounge was crowded, so crowded, in fact, that about a hundred people were waiting outside, unable to get in until someone inside decided to leave. Jake saw this and started to climb back into the cab, his intent to ask the cabbie to take them to another night club — surely there had to other places to go in Boston on a Friday night — but before they could make good their escape, the crowd spotted them. Within seconds, the two of them were surrounded by college age men and women asking the typical questions and demanding autographs.

When things quieted down a little, a young, long-haired stoner type asked Jake if he had come to see Brainwash.

Jake had noted the name Brainwash on the club's marquee when they'd pulled up. Other than that, however, he had never heard of them. He told the young stoner as much.

"Oh, dude," the young stoner proclaimed. "You fuckin' gotta check 'em out. They're gnarly."

"Gnarly, huh?" Jake said. "I do kind of like their name."

"Yeah, ain't it bitchin', man?" the young stoner said. "It's even more bitchin' when you know they're all teachers."

"Teachers?" Jake asked.

"Hell yeah, dude," the young stoner said. "You get it? Teachers... Brainwash. They're acknowledging that they're agents of the fuckin' state whose job it is to indoctrinate the youth of America into corporate whores, dude! Isn't that fuckin' tight?"

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "That is pretty fuckin' tight. Do you mean they're actual teachers?"

"Yep," he said. "All five of them. They work for the Providence school district teaching in high schools."

"Marcie teaches in a junior high school," the young stoner's girlfriend interjected. "Remember?"

"Oh yeah," the young stoner said. "That's right. Anyway, they teach school during the school year and practice their fuckin' tunes on the weekends. And then, during the summer, they play the clubs all over New England. People fuckin' love 'em, dude. I've seen 'em four times now and they're bad-ass."

There was general agreement from the crowd at this statement.

"They sound pretty interesting," Jake admitted. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we're going to be able to get in."

"Oh fuck that shit, dude," the young stoner said. "You're fuckin' Jake Kingsley! They'll let you in. They gotta!"

Jake expressed the opinion that cutting to the front of the line wasn't fair to everyone who had arrived beforehand. The young stoner scoffed at this idea. So did the majority of the crowd. They obviously wanted Jake to see Brainwash. They practically dragged Jake and Helen up the steps of the club to the two bouncers guarding the entrance and, as speculated, the two bouncers let them in without hesitation and without collecting the eight dollar cover charge.

"We can always make room for you and your guest, Mr. Kingsley," one of them said. "Especially if you came to see Brainwash."

They followed one of the bouncers inside. The nightclub was as crowded as D Street West had always been during the height of Intemperance's club days. The bar was packed with people three deep, every table was full, and most of the standing room was occupied by men and women between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Rock music played through the overhead sound system and a small stage was set up on the far side of the room. The sights, sounds, and smells triggered a powerful sense of nostalgia in Jake, bringing him back to his own club days, when they had played for peanuts just for the sheer joy of it, back before the realities of the life of a professional musician had been forced home to them.

"Let me introduce you to Mr. Meyer," the bouncer said, leading them through the crowd and through a small door near the bathrooms. They went down a short hallway and stopped at an office door. The bouncer knocked, was allowed entry, and he led them inside a small office where a stuffy looking man with a bad comb-over sat behind a desk with a computer terminal on it. The man's eyes looked up at their entry and then widened as he recognized Jake.

"Mr. Meyer," the bouncer said. "Jake Kingsley and his girlfriend decided to pay us a visit tonight to check out Brainwash. I thought you'd like to know."

"Yes, yes indeed," Meyer said, standing so fast he bashed his knees on his desk. "Thank you for bringing them in, John."

"No problem, Mr. Meyer," John said. "Anything else I can do?"

"You can grab a small table out of storage and set it up near center stage for Mr. Kingsley and his guest," Meyer said. "Guard it and don't let anyone sit there."

"You got it," John said.

"Really, Mr. Meyer," Jake said. "That's not necessary. We can find out own place to hang out."

"I won't hear of it," Meyer said. He turned to John again. "Go."

"Right," John said, leaving the room in a hurry.

"I'm very pleased to meet both of you," Meyer said, coming around the desk and holding out his hand. "I'm Brian Meyer, manager and part-owner of this place."

Jake and Helen both shook hands with him. He then spent the better part of fifteen minutes interrogating them about what they were doing in Boston (he hadn't heard about the Celia Valdez/Greg Oldfellow wedding) and how they had come to find their way to his club. He then asked if Jake would pose for a picture with him. Jake agreed and Helen took the shot. He then asked if they had ever heard of Brainwash before.

"Never," Jake said. "Some of the people outside filled me in on them. Is it true they're all teachers?"

"Very true," Meyer said. "They all work for the Providence Regional School District as educators. They got together a few years ago just for fun and realized they were pretty good together. Only one of them was ever a performing musician before. Do you remember the band Courage? From the early 1980's, I think it was?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar," Jake said.

"They were a one hit wonder band that only put out a single album. You probably remember the one hit in question. It was Going My Way?"

"Oh yeah," Jake said, remembering it now that it was mentioned. It had been a heavily aired song that had come out about two years before Intemperance had put out their first album. It was still played on hard rock stations on occasion, although the actual band was rarely mentioned by the DJs. It had been a good, solid tune, with decent guitar work and respectable vocals. Jake remembered turning up the tune a few times when it came on his radio in the car.

"Jim Scanlon," Meyer said, "was the vocalist for Courage. When their second album sold less than one hundred thousand copies, Aristocrat Records did not pick them up for any more option periods. Since Jim was not allowed to perform until the expiration of the contract, and since he had a bachelor's degree in World History, he picked up his teaching credential and went to work for the Providence School District. It was there that he met his wife, Marcie, who is the keyboard player and one of the other singers for the group. She teaches junior high English these days but has always been a pianist and a keyboardist."

"One of the other singers?" Jake said. "There are two of them?"

"Three actually," Meyer said. "Stephanie Zool is the third. She's the lead guitarist as well."

"A female lead guitarist?" Jake said, surprised.

"She knows her way around a guitar," Meyer said. "Wait until you hear her wail. She's not as good as Matt Tisdale, of course — nobody's that good — but she's certainly no hacker." He lowered his voice and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "She is a lesbian, you know. That's probably why she's so good at guitar playing."

"Because she's a lesbian?" Jake asked, failing to see the logic behind this particular statement.

"Well... we try to keep that quiet," Meyer said. "They are from Providence after all."

"I see," Jake said, trying to puzzle that one out as well.

"Anyway," Meyer continued, "Jim, Marcie, and Stephanie are the heart and soul of the group. They are the primary songwriters. Jim is the main composer. They each sing whatever songs they have written. In a way they're like a modern-day Fleetwood Mac. They do everything from heavy metal tunes — those are usually Jim's — to ballads with nothing but piano accompaniment. They do a lot of three part harmony as well. I honestly think you'll be impressed by them."

"I can't wait to see them," Jake said with sincerity. After everything Meyer and the young stoner outside had told him, he really was interested in hearing this group.

"Why don't you let me introduce you to them?" Meyer offered. "They're backstage now, getting ready for the show. They'd love to know you're here and watching them."

"Any chance we can wait until after the show for that?" Jake asked. "I don't want them to be intimidated by my presence or anything. In fact, I'd prefer you not even tell them I'm here until then."

Meyer nodded at the wisdom of this. "I think that's a good idea, Jake. We'll do that. After the show, just come back to my office. I'll take you backstage to meet them."

"Sounds good," Jake said.

"In the meantime, let's get you to your table. I'm sure you're itching for a drink about now."

"I'm sure you're right," Jake agreed.

Meyer led them back out into the club, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd until they reached a small table with two chairs that had been squeezed in near the front of the stage. John the bouncer was standing next to it, turning away anyone who tried to sit there.

"This table is reserved for a special guest," he would tell them.

Of course it didn't take long for those around the table to see who the special guest in question was. As Meyer pulled out their chair so they could be seated, Jake could hear the excited murmurs from all around them. "It's Jake Kingsley!" "Oh my god, is it really him?" "What's he doing here?"

"Enjoy the show, Jake, Helen," Meyer told them. He waved at one of the cocktail waitresses, a young, bleach blonde woman in a half-shirt and a tight pair of form-fitting jeans. Her eyes widened when she saw who was sitting at the recently installed table.

"Yes, Mr. Meyer?" she asked brightly, nearly drooling with excitement.

"As you can see," Meyer told her, "Jake Kingsley has decided to pay us a visit. Make sure that he and his guest never have an empty glass before them."

"No problem," she said.

"And, of course, their drinks will be on the house."

"Uh... that's not really necessary, Mr. Meyer," Jake said. "I appreciate the offer, but I can pay for our drinks."

"I wouldn't hear of it," Meyer said. "Just tell Cindy here what you want and she'll keep you supplied."

"In that case, we thank you," Jake said.

"Yes... thank you," Helen agreed.

"What can I get you two?" Cindy asked.

Jake ordered a rum and coke. Helen ordered a whiskey sour. Cindy promised they would be in front of them in less than two minutes. She disappeared, pushing her way back toward the bar. Meyer told them once again that if there was anything they needed, just say the word. After they thanked him again, he too disappeared.

The opening band for the night was something called The Low Road. They were slated to begin their show at eight o'clock. From the time Jake and Helen were seated until eight o'clock, when Meyer turned down the house lights and introduced the opening band, they were subjected to an endless stream of young fans who pushed and shoved their way into talking distance in order to score autographs or to just talk to Jake for a few minutes. One young lady, obviously three or four drinks past therapeutic alcohol level, actually propositioned Jake, inviting him to step outside to her car for "a little backseat welcome to Beantown".

Helen, who had been consuming whiskey sours as fast as Cindy the waitress could bring them to her, decided to express her disapproval at the young lady's suggestion. She stood up and stepped directly in front of the drunken youngster, her head towering nearly eight inches higher, her eyes glaring murderously. "Hello, McFly!" she said menacingly, knocking on the young woman's head with her knuckles. "Can't you see that I'm sitting right next to him? Are you really that dumb, or are you such a skanky slut that you just don't care?"

The crowd grew silent for a moment. Jake — who had politely but firmly turned down her offer — said nothing. The drunken young lady seemed to sober up in a hurry. She muttered something inaudible under her breath and retreated as quickly as possible. As soon as she was gone, laughter and even some applause erupted from the crowd. Helen was patted on the shoulder by dozens of women and even a few of the men.

"You go, girl!" she was told.

"About time someone put that bitch in her place," several others chimed in.

When The Low Road took the stage, everyone moved respectfully away from Jake and Helen, finding their way back to their own seats or standing positions. Jake watched the performance impassively, not particularly impressed. The Low Road consisted of four young men in their early twenties. It was obvious that they were heavily influenced by Motley Crue since they wore tight leather pants and open chest leather shirts. The lead singer had a mop of dyed blonde hair that was almost uniformly white. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer all had long hair that had been dyed jet black. They all had pentagram medallions on their chests. If only their music was in the same category as that of Motley Crue — a band that Jake actually liked and had seen live a few times — but they weren't even close. The singer might have had a good voice but it was impossible to tell for sure since the guitar and the drum levels had been cranked to almost ear-shattering range. Throughout the entire set, Jake didn't understand a single lyric that was put forth. And as for the guitar player, he was fond of repetitive, palm-muted chords that sounded suspiciously like poor imitations of Metallica riffs. His solos were simplistic, slow, and usually completely disassociated with the underlying rhythm of the song they were supposed to be enhancing.

All in all, Jake didn't think Intemperance was going to be in competition with The Low Road for album sales any time soon. Nor did the crowd seem particularly awed by them either. The applause they offered between songs was listless at best, a polite clapping of hands that would have seemed more appropriate at a golf tournament instead of a rock concert.

When The Low Road wrapped up their set and began disassembling their equipment from the stage, another surge of fans made their way to Jake and Helen's table. By this point, Helen was roaring drunk and in a foul mood. The very expression on her face kept most of the women from offering Jake anything but polite praise for his music.

At 9:30 PM, the lights went down once again and Meyer introduced Brainwash. This time, the crowd cheered wildly, all of them standing on their feet as the three men and two women of the band took the stage.

Jake had always believed in his heart that the way a band looked had absolutely nothing to do with the quality of their music. His first impression of Brainwash, however, as they settled into their places on the stage, was not a good one. They didn't look like a rock and roll band at all. They looked like exactly what they were: a group of ordinary, everyday teachers — a basic cross-section of the education profession — wearing jeans and pull-over t-shirts instead of teaching clothes. The lead singer was tall, with a little touch of beer belly, his dirty blonde hair a little longer than a professional cut, but not by much. Only the red and white Fender Stratocaster in his hands led any credence to his identity as a musician. The lead guitarist was a plain looking woman with short brown hair and just a hint of a masculine persona. She packed a black and white Hamer Standard guitar — an instrument that Jake knew was very high-end and had probably not come cheaply to her. The keyboardist — who Jake remembered was married to the male lead singer — was a tall, buxom blonde of farm girl proportions, slightly thick around the hips, with moderately large breasts. She had thick glasses perched on her nose and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The bass player and the drummer were both short-haired, accountant-looking types with glasses of their own.

"They look like the geek squad," Helen whispered to Jake, her breath heavily scented with whiskey.

"They do, don't they?" he agreed. "But did you hear the way this crowd cheered for them?"

Jake's initial impression of the band was squashed with the very first song they did. They did not introduce themselves or say anything to the crowd at all. They didn't even have the drummer give a four count with his sticks. They simply began to play. The keyboardist started first, playing a moderate tempo piece on the classic piano setting that came through the sound system crystal clear. She began to sing, her voice a nice, soothing contralto. After her first verse, the guitars kicked in, the lead playing a mildly distorted electric five-chord riff, the rhythm playing a strict acoustic sound. During the choruses of the song — it was apparently called Night Is Falling and Jake interpreted the lyrics to be about a mutual attraction between two people that only occurred in dangerous places after dark — the three singers belted it out in unison utilizing three part harmony. When the solo came, the slightly masculine looking lead guitarist played it to perfection, her fingers dancing knowingly over her fret board, her shoulders swaying easily to the rhythm. As Meyer had said, it was not quite up there with a Matt Tisdale solo, but it was pretty damn good nonetheless.

The next two songs in the set were sung by the male rhythm guitarist. He possessed a strong tenor voice and knew how to use it well. The first piece was a hard-rock tune called All The Way Down that seemed to be about the spiral of mistakes that led to utter failure. The second was called Going Out Tonight, which the singer introduced to the crowd by asking "Are there any single girls out there tonight?", which, of course, led to hundreds of squeals as the single girls chimed in. "This is one I wrote for you," he told them. He then sang a slow, mesmerizing piece, backed up by strong bass and repetitive drum beats, which spoke of the dangers and futility of looking for love in clubs and bars, describing the lengths men would go to and the lies they would tell in order to score with a single woman. It was a poignant and harshly realistic tune that seemed to Jake to be utterly weird coming from the mouth of such a nerdy looking man.

"These guys are pretty good," Jake told Helen while the audience cheered wildly after Going Out Tonight.

"Yeah," Helen agreed, smoking one of Jake's cigarettes again. "They're much better than I thought they'd be."

The slightly masculine looking lead guitarist sang the next song. It was a moderate tempo, three chord piece that was apparently called I'm Gone. Despite her masculine looks, the guitarist possessed a sweet mezzo-soprano voice with impressive range that was capable of dipping into both the full soprano and the contralto ranges. The lyrics of the tune concerned themselves with leaving a bad relationship, just walking away without a glance backward or even explanation.

After the opening set, the band settled in for a five song stretch in which they did nothing but slow ballad pieces. The keyboardist sang two of them, the lead guitarist one, and the male rhythm guitarist one — a deeply touching love song that he dedicated to "that one special woman in my life" as he glanced toward his wife on the keyboards. As the last note faded from the love song, the band launched into a hard-driving heavy metal piece called The Streets Are Calling about the degeneracy and hopelessness that could be found in your typical inner city environment.

The most poignant and straightforward tune of the night, at least in Jake's opinion, was the one that closed out the set. The male singer introduced it as a new song, written in response to "certain hypocrites who sit on certain school boards and think that certain teachers are not fit to do their jobs because they sing about the realities of life on certain stages in the New England region". The song, he told them, was called Accusations. It was another heavy metal based tune with lots of tempo changes. The lyrics were sung with a projection of disgust and hatred toward these "certain hypocrites" that was brilliant and almost chilling in its execution. The crowd agreed with this assessment of the tune. They cheered wildly and offered a standing ovation when the song concluded.

Brainwash came back out on the stage and performed a three-song encore, with each of the singers chiming in for one song apiece. The lead guitarist sang the last tune of the night that seemed to deal with the inequality that women faced in modern society. When it was finished, they received another standing ovation, another loud call for encore, but they adhered to the cardinal rule of performing. They left with their audience wanting more.

Meyer stood up on the stage as soon as the band departed it and thanked the audience for coming. He also reminded them that the members of Brainwash would be circulating throughout the club as soon as they had a chance to cool down and change their clothes. The crowd gave one last cheer and then quieted down. A significant number of them started heading for the exits but the majority elected to stay.

"Can we go now, Jake?" Helen asked, slurring her words quite badly. "I'm getting really sleepy."

Really drunk is more like it, Jake thought but did not say. Through the course of the show, Helen had put away approximately twelve whisky sours and six beers. She had also smoked more than half of Jake's cigarettes. "In a few minutes, hon," he told her. "I'd really like to go and meet the band, if you don't mind."

"You'll make it short?" she asked.

"As short as possible," Jake said. "Come on. Here comes that Meyer character."

"I'll just stay here if it's cool," she said, signaling to Cindy for another drink.

"Suit yourself," Jake told her. He stood and met Meyer near the backstage door.

The sight, smell, and general atmosphere of the band's dressing room brought on another wave of pleasant nostalgia for Jake. Just like the accommodations at D Street West, it was cramped, poorly ventilated, and smelled of sweat and alcohol. The furniture was old and threadbare, the lighting poor. A doorway on the backside was closed but Jake knew it led to a small, cramped bathroom with a dual showerhead with pathetic water pressure and a rusty toilet. The band itself was sitting around on the furniture, still dressed in their stage clothes, drinking bottles of beer from an ice chest that had been set up on a table. Their eyes widened comically when they saw who Meyer was leading into their midst.

"Hey, guys," Meyer greeted them. "Great show tonight. You absolutely rocked. And guess what? We had a very special guest out in the audience tonight."

"Holy shit," exclaimed the male lead singer. The other members of the band all gave their own variations of this statement.

"I'm sure you all know this is Jake Kingsley of Intemperance," Meyer said. "He's in town here for the night and thought he'd come check you out."

Meyer then introduced each member of the band. The male singer and rhythm guitarist was Jim Scanlon. His wife, keyboardist and female lead singer number one, was Marcie Scanlon. Stephanie Zool was the slightly masculine looking lead guitarist and singer number three (and a lesbian, Jake remembered, at least according to Meyer). The bassist was Jeremy White. And the drummer, who seemed almost religiously awed by Jake's presence, was Rick Jackson.

Jake shook hands with each of them and then took a seat on the edge of one of the couches. When he was offered a beer, he did not turn it down. "I have to agree with Mr. Meyer," he told the band. "You guys put on a hell of a show. I was very impressed with you."

"Thank you," they all mumbled in various forms.

It was clear that they were all somewhat intimidated by his presence. They were tongue-tied and fidgety, the two women actually blushing when he praised them. But as they worked their way through the first beer and moved onto the second, and as Jake began to ask them more and more questions about the origins of their songs and the evolution of their band, they started to lighten up a little.

"Jim's the one who convinced us to start playing music together," Stephanie said as she puffed on a cigarette and sipped from her beer. "He used to be with Courage, you know."

"Yeah," Jake said. "Mr. Meyer told me that."

"So anyway, he and Marcie had already been together for almost four years at that point," Stephanie continued.

"We met in college," Marcie added, "when we were in the same classes together working on our teaching credentials."

"That was right after Aristocrat told us they weren't going to pick us up for the rest of the option periods," Jim said. "I was at about the lowest point in my life and then... well... I started dating Marcie and... things just kind of fell into place."

"That love song you wrote for her was very touching," Jake said. "It made Helen get a little weepy at the table."

"I love that song," Marcie said. "He got sooooo laid the first time he played it for me."

Everyone had a laugh over that.

"It's the power of music," Jake said. "I learned about it for the first time when I was sixteen years old and it's served me well ever since."

They took turns narrating the rest of the band's history. Since Jim was still bound by his Aristocrat Records recording contract, he was unable to perform any song in public until it expired, nor would he be allowed to perform any Courage song until 2001. This did not stop him from composing and singing for his own pleasure and for the pleasure of his friends. A big part of his attraction to Marcie was the fact that she held a deep love of music as well and she loved to compose and sing on the piano. It was truly a match made in heaven.

The two of them married shortly after securing jobs with the Providence School District — Jim as a high school History teacher, Marcie as a junior high English teacher. As the years went on, they became friends with Stephanie, who taught Physical Education at Jim's school. The friendship was just casual at first until they discovered that Stephanie was a whiz with an electric guitar.

"My singing and composition have always been my strong points musically," Jim said, "but I was always pretty good with my guitar as well. But when I heard Steph play for the first time..."

"We had to get her drunk and double dare her before she would play for us," Marcie said with a giggle.

"Shut up, whore," Steph said, not unkindly.

"Dyke," Marcie shot right back, causing laughter to erupt from the entire band, Steph included.

"Anyway," Jim went on, "when I found out how good Steph could play, and when I found out that she could sing as well... that's when the idea of getting a band together started to hit me. By this time, my Courage contract had expired and I was free to perform again, so we asked around a little and eventually found Jeremy and Rick. We started out just doing covers of existing songs at weddings and special events and the annual PTA carnival — we even did a few Intemperance tunes, Living By The Law, Descent Into Nothing, and Point Of Futility."

"The school board sure as shit didn't like it when we sang anything by Intemperance at a school function," Stephanie put in.

"No," Jake said, "I don't imagine they did."

"Those tight-assed prudes didn't even know what the songs were about," Jim said. "They just told us that 'satanic death metal' was not the sort of family friendly music they were looking for."

"They wanted us to do fucking John Denver and Barry Manilow shit," Jeremy said with a shake of his head. "They wouldn't even let us do any Elton John because he's gay and they were afraid people would be offended."

"Providence is starting to sound a lot like Cincinnati," Jake observed.

"It's worse," Marcie said. "Much worse. Providence is about the most tight-assed, conservative, bible-thumping city outside of the Deep South. Worse than Salt Lake City even."

"That's saying a lot," said Jake. Salt Lake City, after all, was the only municipality in the nation that had actually succeeded in getting one of Intemperance's concert permits cancelled on grounds of violating local community standards of decency. That had been during the It's In The Book tour and, of course, it had only taken one appeal by National Records' lawyers to get the ruling reversed.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "There are asses so tight in Providence that it's a wonder the shit can flow as efficiently as it does."

Jake laughed. He was finding that he liked this band on a personal level as well as a musical level.