Lennon's Jinx by Chris Myers

bad boy good looks. The
guy is tall, not Lennon tall, about six feet and reminds me of Adam Levine. He
looks older and has a tat on his neck. He’s in jeans and a leather jacket. One
ear is pierced multiple times. He plugs into his tunes, sitting across from us.
    I
like body piercings. Without my mother knowing, I did my bellybutton. Unfortunately,
it became infected, so I had to let the hole grow back.
    Zach’s
lip is pierced. He wears this Marxist hammer and sickle in it. It means the
unity of the working classes. His music reflects his intellectual and emotional
depth. I really love that.
    Iz
and Gabby wink at the guy standing opposite us. It’s so like them to hit on
every available guy, especially the ones I take notice of. He pops a mint into
his mouth. Amazingly enough, he’s watching me and not the blonde dynamic duo.
    Rena
nudges me. “How does Lennon’s band sound?”
    “Awesome,”
I say. “They know how to jam and are completely relaxed with each other.” Hope
I can reach that level of competency, then maybe Zach’s band will want me.
    “We’ll
come see you on Friday,” Rena says, “Where’re you playing?”
    “Kichee’s
Joint.”
    “Oh.”
Rena wrinkles her nose. “That’s in a rough section of town. Isn’t it a biker
bar?”
    “I
think so. They pay more than the other clubs,” I lie, feeling slightly
embarrassed performing at a scumbag joint.
    “We’ll
come,” Iz says, scooting closer to me and bumping my hip. “They’re some really
hot guys there, and girls get in free on Friday night.”
    Rena
bites her lip. “There aren’t any girls like me at that club.”
    “From
what I hear, it’s pretty white,” Gabby says. “Lots of bad boys and some pretty
rough girls.”
    Lennon’s
type, I think.
    “I’m
out,” Rena says.
    I
don’t blame her. I wouldn’t go there if we weren’t playing, and Lennon better drive
me, so I don’t have to walk alone to the train station.
    Iz
and I hear a great rap song with Pit Bull on her iPod. We play our air guitars
in our seats. Pretty soon we’re dancing with each other. I haven’t even had a
drink yet, but the medicinal weed earlier helps. The commuters give us wary
looks.
    The
bad boy grins at Iz and me tossing our hair around. Gabby laughs so hard she
falls out of her seat.
    “I
wonder what they’re on,” a middle-aged woman says, sitting down from us.
    Life,
I want to say to her, but she wouldn’t understand. She’s past all that.
    Before
we get off downtown Chicago, the guy says to me, “Where will you be later?”
    “I
don’t know,” I say.
    “Lancelot,”
Izzie screams. To my knowledge, I don’t think she’s had a drink yet either,
though it sure seems that way. She’s fizzing over like Mentos and Coke.
    “Lancelot
sounds good,” Gabby says.
    “I’ll
be at Sammy’s later tonight,” he says—Zach’s primary social outlet.
    “Maybe,
we’ll see you there,” Gabby yells at him. “What’s your name?”
    “Ran.”
He salutes us as he departs.
    “Well,
don’t run away,” Iz says, giggling hard.
    “I
won’t,” he says.
    “Hot
name,” Iz whispers into my ear. “Raaaan, not run but Rannnnnnn.”
    “Lancelot,
it is,” Iz says.
    “Okay,”
Rena adds, not too happily. Her ex used to hang out there. It’s popular with
the professional athletes.
    “Yuck,”
I say. I’m not fond of that place either, but I’ve been outvoted.
    We
loop our arms and huddle together. The wind Chicago is famous for whips around
us. I button up my suede coat. The icy air cuts right through it as we hurry to
Lancelot. Its stone building has two turrets out front. Drinks here are like
taking out a loan for a Lexus.
    The
bouncers card us. We each pull out IDs we bought from some Chinese website. The
licenses are so real they can fool TSA. According to the IDs, we’re just over
twenty-one.
    After
a hefty cover charge, he waves us through. Gabby is the only one of us who
doesn’t have a part-time job because she doesn’t need to. I