A month after the bitch drummer, Blue, gave me her pathetic response to my generous collection of portraits, I went to another Junky concert. I'd been going to all of their shows the whole month of silence from them. I always stood in the front, I always took Lincoln's picture most. It wasn't enough. Radio silence was all I'd gotten.
I tried to intercept Lincoln several times, but Blue or Omar always whisked him away from me. Blue had seemingly become fond of flipping me off behind his back as they piled him into the green rooms of all the venues. I had grown fond of imagining walking off on Lincoln's arm and returning the favor, someday. But how I was going at it wasn't working.
In some pathetic attempt at "starting over" this time, I wore the same leather coat and now-ripped tights, from the night I first saw them play.
I also, against my better judgment, stole one of Jay's skimpy tank tops while she was out doing whatever-the-fuck. I piled my tits up high in my high-school-era push-up bra, fished out of a closet where I hid clothes from when I was a real slut. I didn't like to think about that time, but I needed the misplaced confidence the bra used to give me. Don't look at my eyes; just look down. Tits for sale, girl for grabs. I didn't know why I wanted to wear this today. I did it anyway, avoiding the "why" thought.
Tonight, I went alone, like I'd wanted to a month ago. It wasn't really a choice this time, though.
Andie and Jay hadn't talked to me much since I got home so late after the last show. I'd checked my phone after getting home and plugging it in, and seen texts from Jay:
yo we wanna leave soon wya
lola helloooo
lola are u alive
lola
lolaaaaa
yo where r u, did u leave already ?? we cant find u
lola seriously
were going home
A few from Andie, too:
lola where are u jay is pissed asf
why is ur location off (FYI: my phone battery was so low that the signal stopped sending out, but they of course didn't know that.)
ok were leaving hope ur at home
:/
Then one final message from Jay, sent in our "roomies <3" groupchat:
hey lola. tonight was very uncool. like love u but we literally looked everywhere and couldnt find u so we left, and ur not home. i really hope ur okay but like theres nothing we can do to help u rn, im going to sleep and andie is too. get home safe but dont fucking talk to me tomorrow
Andie and I had exchanged a few words during the month ("Lola can you please do your dishes?" asked of me several days in a row, which I kept forgetting to actually do), but Jay had avoided me with great success. The whole fucking month of June. So I came here on my own. And, for the record, fuck them. I'd been right outside all night, and they would've found me if they'd just come out the front before going home. So, whatever.
This concert was at House of J, and the bands were hiding out in the building between sets, so I killed a bit of time sitting on the raggedy couches in the yard. A single speaker played a Smiths cover by ... Deftones? I think? It's hard to tell the difference between all the 90s-2000s "we're so chill, we're so cool" rock bands. Please, please, please let me get what I want. My camera bag weighed heavily down on me.
I drank a warm Lone Star, quick gulps in rapid succession. I tried to fool myself into "sipping" it, but failed. I needed amber insides. As I thought this, too, I realized I'd stolen two shooters from the convenience store across from the apartment. Not caring who was watching, I shot them (brutally, one after the other) and felt as the fuzzing liquor reached my bloodstream.
While I was sitting feeling the alcohol loosening my system, they called for Junky to head to the stage. I watched them exit the house, bumbling and stoned, and saw Lincoln scan the outdoor crowd. He waved to someone a few feet from me, and my heart jumped, but he didn't see me. I quickly flushed that observation out of my mind and went to the garage.
I'd debated with myself, before coming tonight, a few things. Q1: Do I bring my camera, cementing myself as a photographer groupie? A1: Yeah, fuck it, it's the only thing they know me as. Q2: Do I take pictures of the whole band, or just focus on Lincoln? This was the tricky one.
I guess if I wanted to feign casual interest in Junky as a whole, I could take pictures of the entire band. Casual me, minorly interested in their music, their vibe, their clique. It could be that easy. But it isn't, and I mean to be honest with myself. I'm here for Lincoln, now. I don't know how this happened, but it did, and I'm not a quitter. Tonight, I decided, was different. I'm here for Lincoln -- enough bullshitting.
A camera is a good vessel for this. Some concert photographers fling their camera body around, taking haphazard shots of mosh pits or swinging guitars. I don't work like that; I keep my eye sewn to the viewfinder, my lens an extension of myself. My own self. I am what I see.
It's not ideal for flashy pictures of wild crowds, or super punk-coded shots. Everything I take looks effortful. My pictures of Lincoln show this; the only problem is their lack of intimacy. I think, worriedly, that maybe if he doesn't see me, my pictures of him will never be perfect. I need one shot. One good shot where he's all him. Charisma and exertion and reservation and allure. All of it, all of it. I can do this. I can do this.
And now I'm here, a pseudo-row or two back from the barricade, trying to pin him down. A living butterfly for a frozen shadow box isn't a great fit. And he loves to fly, no? That's why he's up there, all magnificence and sex appeal. I realize, suddenly, that I'm frowning and my eyes are blurry. Still, I click click click the little "capture" button, and try to grab something living, flaming, and elusive in Lincoln.
---
After their set, I'm struck with a bizarre idea. This is like the end of my EDM days. I became fanatic there, too. It always ends up like this; me on the floor, staring up at a callous god (a DJ, a singer, whoever around is most beautiful and important, which I have a knack for discerning). I am never seen in return.
But I have to be humble and honest. I am, here, partly to blame. I haven't taken the picture of Lincoln I see in my head. I haven't seen him as I intend to. As I know I can. Like he deserves: like a deity seen through mortal eyes. I am lacking, I know, but I am determined to right my wrongs. I will find him, I will take the perfect shot. I know I can. I see him, I know it. I just don't have the proof to show for it. Yet.
In my mind, his hair is lit from behind with red light; yellow breaks in from the sides -- LEDs of faux sunlight, his mouth agape in a scream. Jaw slack, relaxed; without the sound of the concert, he could be mid-orgasm. I feel my insides warm and pulsing at the thought, and quickly sweep it away. Mental glassware shatters, the tablecloth ripped from the table. Goodbye crystal, goodbye china; you are much too dangerous to me.
All this to say: I haven't found him yet. My lack of decent pictures is undead proof. Zombified, I shoot every angle I can think of. I can't fucking get it yet.
The emptiness of a show spent gazing up at someone, whose mind operates lightyears away from me, is harrowing. I can't go on like this. So what then? I can't just go home. I would find myself, another week from now, pining pathetically in the front row while I shot Lincoln, over and over. A second eye is a wicked thing; a camera is a soul snatcher. And I want his. I want it.
And so I think to myself, what else can I do, but force my way in? Nothing. So, that leaves me no other option. Not if I want Lincoln, not if I want him to see me. Like I want him to let me see him.
I'll just ... walk into the house. Like a regular groupie, although that thought makes me shudder a little. I'm not some whore, I'm just trying to ... I don't know. Do something raw. Third eye, open wide. See Lincoln. Fuck, it's hard to explain (and harder to think about), so I give up and settle my thoughts. I'll make myself known, bold and visible. I'm not either of those things, but I can lie. I am a good liar.
Not that I'll need to lie, really. I don't know why I even thought that. I am honest. I am a seer. And Lincoln should want me to see him. He should need me. Some fucked up reciprocal relationship. What's that term they made you learn in earth sciences? About that one animal-animal relationship. That one mutually beneficial parasite-predator relationship. Whatever. I don't need the exact word.
I'm at the door now.
I'm opening the door now.
It's open now.
It smells like shit, and it's hot. Goddamn summer. July, now. I didn't realize the month had changed, but I guess it has. It's July, isn't it? 07/04, said the show flyer. So, yeah, July. I haven't been thinking much I guess.
The room is cramped, rain-worn Persian rugs hanging from all the walls. I remember seeing them outside earlier this summer -- I guess the venue owner realized they were getting beat to hell from the flash flood prone Summer weather. Expensive taste for someone who doesn't know how to take care of their shit. Or doesn't care to. Probably the latter.
Amps and mic stands and guitars and basses line the walls. There's a stray keyboard, and I scrunch my nose at the thought of a punk keyboardist. Embarrassing. There are doors to my right and left, two on each wall. The front two are open, and clouds of marijuana smoke tumble out.
Looking right, I see what looks like the start of a 70s-inspired musician-groupie orgy. A girl with a horrible mullet straddles some lean (verging on scrawny) guy. I can't see his face. As I'm turning away, annoyed and vaguely nauseous, there's a flash of copper.
Lincoln.
There's no music playing, but my head is looping Black Box Recorder, "Child Psychology." Life is unfair, kill yourself or get over it. This reels in my mind; I don't know why. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about anything. I just want to see Lincoln.
So, god damn it, in I go. Blue sees me first.
"What the fuck?" she scowls, extracting her hand from up a buzzcutted person of indiscernible gender. I have a flashing, ugly thought, that that makes it that much harder to tell if she's really a lesbian or not. Why I think of that at this moment, I'm not sure. Judge anything, I guess. Don't think of myself, ugly duckling in the wolves' den, think along the lines of basic elementary school bigotry, lean into it. Pure desperation turns to prickly judgment.
"Hey, what's up?" A line perfumed with false confidence which, for some unknown reason, crashes out of me like purple lightning. My eyes burn, and I realize I'm holding them open insanely wide. Unblinking. I smile, trying to shake my eyelids back to a reasonable half-lidded level; if psychotic, at least sultry at the same time.
Lincoln hasn't looked at me. He's busy cupping the barely-covered breasts of his groupie bitch. He pushes himself up with one hand (I see his abs tense up under his mesh -- ridiculous -- shirt, and it makes all the muscles in my neck go taut) and whispers to her. I see his tongue flick out and slip into her ear cavity. Kill yourself or get over it.
Nobody responds, so I turn to Lincoln.
"Lincoln."
The girl straddling him laughs, and turns back to me. She might as well have fangs bared at me. Well, bitch, a standoff it is. I smile more. Lincoln watches his slut respond to me first, then stretches his neck (I see his collarbone poke out a little further, and the warmth that started in my neck curves down into my stomach) to face me.
"Who are you?" Of course he forgot. He was drunk, anyways, when we first really spoke. I hold my camera up and smile, cheeks flaming from the muscle tenseness and the blush I know is there.
"Lola. I've been trying to photograph you guys for a few weeks." The words fly out like a shot going down. Burningly easy. Go Lola, crazy bitch that I am. I think in my head, I've got him. I know I've got him. I have balls. I have on a skimpy shirt and my tits are high, this girl is up for grabs! One and only! Come and get me. God damn it, come and get me, you asshole!
"Oh. You." This isn't something I expected. This -- what happens next.
What happens is Lincoln stands up, nearly throwing his girl-thing to the floor. He paces the room, headed towards me in great lunges, and grabs the collar of my jacket, squishing my tits together. I don't move. I know this will end badly, but I've never seen him up this close before.
After he's grabbed me, Blue and Omar follow quickly. Lincoln pushes me back, hard, until my back slams into the wall with a pinch and a crunch. I don't think I cried, but I don't remember. I remember being scared and aroused. How pathetic is that? Being attacked by the object of my fascination, and I'm turned on. Whatever. Anyways.
When I hit the wall, I thought that was the worst it would get. But Lincoln pulled me back from it, and slammed me into it again. He did this twice. Blue and Omar were yelling I think. Maybe at him, maybe at me? I mean, he is a guy and he was physically assaulting me (girl). It was around that point, my head slamming into the thin wooden walls (I thought, briefly, that maybe the thudding was making the rugs on the opposite wall fly up, up, up -- like a magic carpet, beautifully floating at odds with the bashing of my skull) that I realized I must have made him think I was a stalker.
One conversation and I try to pin him down for a month after. Wild-eyed, grimy, lonely Lola follows the handsome lead singer of Junky, despite his lack of reciprocation! I am the Parasite of this town. Nick Drake in my head now. Poor me, poor me.
Lincoln is yelling at me. I realize I should listen, if just for a second.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Following me? What the hell! What the hell!" I guess I will respond here.
"I wanted to get a good shot of you. One good shot. One perfect - perfect shot."
And at that, Lincoln grabs my camera, not taking the strap off my neck, and slams it into the wall right next to my head. I watch, a bit sadly, as the lens shatters and flecks of glass puncture his face. He bleeds a little. Arms now free (as his are busy destroying my greatest, grandest possession), I reach up and touch a drop. Then he screams.
So Blue and Omar grab me, and I scream "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and they haul me out of the house, out of the yard, and drag me several blocks away (crying but not resisting). FInally they throw me onto the ground. Blue gets in a single kick, and I of course do not retaliate, then they leave.
---
It's been a year. I am driving home listening to "Sober to Death" by Car Seat Headrest. Good stories are bad lives; good stories are bad lives. I live alone, now, in another city. Of course Jay and Andie and every person on the "third coast" (stupid nickname, I always thought) heard about me. Psycho Lola. I was eviscerated then, and now I'm alone.
I wish I could say I started going to therapy, got on meds. Picked up the camera after I dealt with everything. I didn't do any of that. I just stay alone, and everything goes okay.
Don't worry, you and me won't be alone no more.
Don't worry, you and me won't be alone no more.
Don't worry, you and me won't be alone no more.
I listen to this song a lot. Ode to someone I thought I was. Not palatable, but not evil, either. Unlikable but lovable. I don't think that about myself anymore. Usually I get through about half of the refrain before I can't take it. I will be alone from now on.
It's not that I even was a good seer. I had eyes muddied with delusion and self-interest. I really thought I was someone really good. Really perceptive, really real. I was right, what I said. I'm a great liar. Even to myself, as it turns out.
Lincoln never pursued criminal charges, if that says anything decent about me. I am pathetic enough not to pose a real threat. What does that say? I laugh. I laugh and laugh.
Then I turn the speakers off.