Lucky

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” I muttered, my nose buried in my purse as I looked for more money. “I have to have some quarters lying around somewhere…”

“Okay, look, I’m sorry, but if you don’t have the money, you can’t get in.” The guy at the door nervously scratched the back of his neck, probably worried I’d throw a fit or something. Did I look like someone who would throw a fit?

“No, no, no. I have to have some extra money,” I muttered, fingering through a side pocket where my wallet would be. When I asked my mom if I could grab a ten from her purse, I didn’t account for the cost of parking, which – believe it or not – was eight dollars. It was hard enough finding the place in downtown Tampa, but now that I didn’t have any cash on me, I was nervous. I didn’t want Szechuan Beef Guy to think I blew him off or anything; I didn’t want him to get a bad impression. If I had known his name, I maybe could’ve goaded the guy at the door to let me in for free or something.

“Problem, Andrew?” I heard a guy ask behind the Door Guy. I kept my nose in my purse, still sifting through a handful of receipts from the Starbucks next to Yummi’s.

“No, man. It’s cool. She just doesn’t have enough for the cover.”

“Wait.”

When I heard a few footsteps, I looked from my purse to the holey, red Vans on the dirty sidewalk in front of me. I’d recognize those beat-up, dark blue-laced shoes anywhere.

“Hey.”

Of course he would run into me before the show. And of course he’d find me stalled at the door, searching for pennies and dimes and, for the love of God, a crinkled dollar bill in my purse.

“Um… hey,” I said back, my voice strained. I gave him a once-over, noting his theme-appropriate American flag tank top and dark blue jeans, a set of keys dangling from his left hip, as well as his proverbial diamond studs. I briefly smiled before digging my fingers back into my purse, desperate for at least 86 more cents in the folds of my wallet.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, sticking his hands into his pockets – how he could do that, I didn’t know; his jeans looked tighter than mine.

I stepped off to the side of the entrance, very aware of the person behind me impatiently tapping their foot, and stood against the corner of the venue as the setting sun blazed across the empty lot next door. Szechuan Beef Guy followed, his hands still stuck in his pockets.

“Well, as much as that means, I don’t have enough money.” I looked up from my empty wallet, completely broke from coffee the day before with Jenny after work, to Szechuan Beef Guy, a small grin on his hopeful face. “Forgot to calculate for parking. Totally cleaned me out,” I quickly explained, tucking my wallet back into my purse before zipping it closed and swinging it over my shoulder. “I should get going, then.”

I was about to turn around and wave him goodbye, I’m sorry, too bad, see you later, when he reached out and wrapped his fingers around my forearm, gently pulling me back. I slightly stumbled over my own feet, my huge flip-flops slapping nosily on the pavement, as his calloused fingers let go of my arm, quickly returning to his front pocket.

“I could get you in if you want,” he half-asked, his voice hopeful. He reached up and ruffled the short hair at the nape of his neck, clicking his tongue as he peered at the empty lot next to the venue and back at me. “I mean, only if you want me to. If you want to.”

“Oh, um, well, I—I—I just…” I paused, my eyebrow automatically quirking. “You’re sure it’s okay? I mean, I don’t want to impose or—”

“No, it’s cool. One of the perks of being on the bill.” He lightly chuckled, jerking his head back to the entrance of the venue. “Shall we?”

I briefly smiled and nodded, following him as he led me back to the entrance in front of the small line of kids around my age, some older and younger. One girl at the front gave me the stink eye, but I shrugged it off, following Szechuan Beef Guy inside as he whispered something to Door Guy Andrew, who smiled and waved me in.

The inside of the venue was dark and somewhat crowded. A few guys and a girl were at the bar, a pyramid of Monsters behind the bartender at the counter. The stage was lit up, with a few speakers hanging from the ceiling on the sides and a huge subwoofer facedown on the ground at the foot of the stage. I followed Szechuan Beef Guy to the side of the venue, where there was a raised platform with a huge control panel covered with multiple knobs and switches – the mixing board. A few more tables crowded the side of the venue where merchandise from each of the bands was piled, CDs and t-shirts pushed to the edges of the tables.

“These are the merch tables.” He had to yell near my ear since there was some old Top 40 hit blasting through the stage speakers, brushing his fingers against my arm to get my attention. “Not that you can buy anything, huh?” he added, grinning at his own joke. I nodded, an amused smile fighting to expose itself.

“You can go get something at the bar or whatever. But I need to go backstage.” He gave me a double thumbs-up before leaning in to tell me, “I’m really glad you came.” He walked off towards the stage and pushed open a swinging door at the back near one of the speakers, his keys jingling from his belt loop as he haphazardly ran his fingers through his hair.

Since I didn’t know anyone and I was never one to suddenly pick up conversation with a total stranger like Jenny, I took a secluded seat at the bar on one of the stools bolted to the ground, a tear in its red vinyl top taped over with mismatched black duct tape.

“Can I get you anything, sweetie?” the bartender asked, shooting me a friendly grin. He looked to be in his late fifties – former hippie turned bartender, I thought – his balding peppered hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Oh, um. How much is a water?”

“Bottle or cup?” he asked, wiping off his hands with a stained white rag and tossing it over his shoulder.

“Whatever’s cheapest, please.”

“That’ll be a dollar,” he said, ducking down under the counter and straightening back up with a clear plastic Dixie cup in his hand. “Refills are on me, though,” he added, winking.

I stuttered a bit more, a bit taken aback by his generosity as he turned his back to me and filled my cup with ice and water from the tap at the stainless steel sink next to the Monster pyramid.

The moment he set the cup on the counter in front of me, the lights dimmed and the small crowd of people started to cheer, slowly inching up to the front of the stage. The lights on the stage shone red on the drum kit and amps on either side, and then suddenly changed to blue. The crowd cheered again, and a voice came from the speakers, announcing the first band: Air Like Oceans.

And so it went.

The crowd got increasingly thicker as the night went on, and a few minutes were taken between bands to switch out instruments and check the sound. By the time Goldfish vs. Toilet left the stage and I had had my fair share of free water refills, I still hadn’t seen Szechuan Beef Guy, which meant he was in the last band – Set something or other.

The lights abruptly dimmed so that just the bar was illuminated, and the drummer of Goldfish vs. Toilet threw his sticks out to the crowd as he exited the stage. The crowd cheered in response as a bassist came onstage in the dark, strumming a few notes as a quick sound check was done. The singer and two guitarists did the same thing, playing a few licks here and there, as a few guys in the back switched out the drum set. The drummer jumped up and sat behind his kit, kicking the biggest drum resting on the floor, then proceeded to play a quick solo for about half a minute.

And then I spotted him. True to his usual habit of twirling chopsticks, Szechuan Beef Guy sat behind the drum kit, one of his sticks spinning as the guitarists played a few teaser chords. The singer – a guy who I’d recognized from coming along with Szechuan Beef Guy a couple of times to Yummi’s – adjusted the mic stand before taking the microphone in his hand.

“Hey, we’re Set It Off!” he yelled, and the crowed mirrored his enthusiasm with a loud, girly scream-infested noise as hands were waved and birds were flipped. “And we hope you’re enjoying this fine night at the Summer Kickoff Show, even though it’s a million degrees in here.” A few girls screamed in agreement, and he continued. “So, we’d like to thank all the awesome bands that played before us,” he said, smiling at the guitarist to his right. The crowd cheered and clapped again, and the singer finally concluded, “And now, we’re gonna start off the end of this evening with a little song called @reply. Here we go!” Szechuan Beef Guy’s cymbals drowned out his last words, and then they played.

I listened to a good chunk of music. I really did. But I’d only been to a few concerts in my nineteen years of life: We The Kings, some local gigs of one of Jenny’s ex-boyfriends, and the last two years of Warped Tour. But out of all the music I’d listened to, I couldn’t pinpoint an exact genre for Szechuan Beef Guy’s band. It wasn’t a bad thing; it was just a confusing thing. They had strings in the background track in the first song, they had a few screams, they were pop, they were punk, they were alternative, they were almost everything. I couldn’t help my toe from tapping on the leg of my stool as I listened to them play. They were good. They were really good.

After they ambled off the stage, the lead singer yelling a goodnight to the buzzing audience, it suddenly hit me that I didn’t know if Szechuan Beef Guy wanted to talk to me afterward, or if I should just hightail it out of there and race back home before career criminals started crawling the streets for the night.

I was still arguing with myself as I sat at the bar, staring at my near-empty drink, my lower lip caught between my teeth as the bartender made last call. If I left and Szechuan Beef Guy came looking for me, I might make him think I was blowing him off. But if I stayed, I risked the chance of having to return to my car by myself in the soon-to-be empty lot it was in. And that did not fly well with me, considering I was in the heart of Tampa where there are as many skyscrapers as kids in my old high school.

As I slipped off my stool, I accidentally tripped over my obnoxious surf sandals. I had that gut feeling I always get when I’m about to fall flat on my face or trip over myself, that familiar heavy feeling in my chest, but it disappeared when someone grabbed me by the shoulders as I staggered off the stool and into their chest amidst a few onlookers’ chuckles.

“Leaving so soon?” he muttered in my ear as he helped me straighten back up, my purse still perched at the bar. I bit my lip, an embarrassing hue already coloring my cheeks.

“Well, I, uh—”

“Kidding,” he assured me, grabbing my purse from the bar from behind me and handing it to me as I turned around.

Szechuan Beef Guy was red in the face as well, but it was most likely attributed to the fact that he had just gotten off stage only five minutes ago. The sweat on his shoulders caught the dim ceiling light of the venue, a terrycloth towel swung around his neck. He was grinning, his hands on his hips, and I could see drum sticks sticking out from his back pocket next to the keys clipped to his belt loop. He’d changed his American flag tank to another white one, a Sharpie sticking out from its pocket.

“Great show,” I finally said, attempting to strike up conversation.

“You think so?” a black guy with a faux hawk asked, his arms crossed over his chest. It was only then that I just noticed him—noticed them, the rest of Szechuan Beef Guy’s band.

“Uh… Yeah. It was great. Not to say that my concert experience is very extensive, because it’s not, but it was pretty great,” I rambled, nervously tucking some hair behind my ear.

The lead singer laughed as he took a few steps closer. “Glad to hear,” he said, flipping his lip ring. “I’m Cody, by the way,” he added as the rest of the band members followed suit, surrounding Szechuan Beef Guy and me.

“Name’s Dan,” the faux-hawked guitarist chuckled, giving me a friendly wave.

“Zach.” The other guitarist smiled, running a hand through his stringy black hair.

“I’m Austin,” the bassist added, offering me a wide grin.

They each raised their hands in greeting after their short introductions, all smiling at me. It was a little nerve-racking.

“So,” Cody started, “how do you know—”

“Cody,” Szechuan Beef Guy teasingly warned, turning his head and giving the singer a pointed look.

“Never mind.” Cody chuckled, brushing his dark bangs from his eyes. “We’ll be at the merch table, so if you’re done with our drummer here, we’ll be around to entertain you.” He cleared his throat obnoxiously and leaned towards me, blocking off the side of his mouth with his hand. “We know how boring he gets.” He winked, then turned on his heel and walked to the other end of the venue. The rest of the band trailed after him, the faux-hawked guitarist Dan waving to me over his shoulder.

“So…” Szechuan Beef Guy stretched out, walking over and taking the seat next to my empty cup of water. “Was it really as good as you said? C’mon,” he nudged my shoulder with his elbow as I took the seat next to his, “I can take a hit.”

“N-n-no, no,” I stuttered out, twisting my cup between my fingers. “It was really good, seriously.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“No, I’m not,” I said, shooting him an honest smile.

“Good.”

“So… Szechuan Beef Guy.”

“What?” He glanced at me after asking the bartender for a bottle of water, an amused smirk on his lips.

I turned to fully face him, a sheepish look splashed across my face. “Uh, that’s what Jenny and I call you. Szechuan Beef Guy.” I awkwardly smiled, derisorily nodding my head.

“Szechuan Beef Guy,” he tried out, chuckling a bit. “Sweet.”

I tried not to smile at his enthusiasm for the silly nickname, but I couldn’t help myself. But the smile was soon wiped off my face once I realized that I still didn’t know his real name.

“So, um… What’s your actual name?” I asked, sipping the bit of melted ice from my cup, hoping that suddenly I might be able to hide the blush rapidly dancing over my cheeks with my drink.

“Maxx.”

“Oh,” I said as the bartender plopped Maxx’s water bottle onto the counter, taking a five-dollar bill in exchange.

“With two Xs,” he added, smiling and unscrewing the cap.

“Two Xs?” He nodded. “Aren’t you cool.”

He chuckled and took a generous sip of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And what’s your name?” he asked, twisting in his stool to face me better. “I mean, when I talk about you, I call you ‘The Non-Asian Yummi’s Girl.’ So much for creativity.”

“When you talk about me?”

His cheeks instantly got redder, and he averted his gaze to his water, twisting the cap open and closed with one hand, tapping his fingers on his knee with the other. “I-I don’t…” He sighed. “I mean, not, uh, not… Just.” He grimaced, squinting his eyes as he momentarily looked at the lights hanging over the bottles of alcohol at the back. “Ugh. Never mind. God, that’s just weird. Not like… like that,” he finally got out, gesturing with his hands. I could see a few blisters peeking out under his fingers at the joints, red and shiny from just playing.

“Not like that,” I quietly repeated, taking a final sip of the melted ice in my cup.

Maxx hesitantly smiled, ruffling the short hair at the nape of his neck, making it stick on end.

“Okay, I know this is gonna sound weird or whatever, but do you want to hang out with me and the guys once we pack up all our instruments?”

I screwed my mouth to the side, replaying his question in my head. “What do you mean by hanging out?”

“Oh—um, the guys and I go to the 7-Eleven across the street after shows here and we get those huge Double Gulps?” Maxx half-asked. “It’s not exactly entertaining, and it’s just soda, but you can tag along.” He tapped his fingers on his knee again, biting his lip. “If you want,” he belatedly added.

I opened my mouth, about to accept his invite, but my phone buzzed in my back pocket, the first few familiar notes from the Kim Possible theme song beeping. I hastily pulled it out, a text from my mom shining in the dim light.

Curfew is 12 b home soon!!!

I glanced at the time at the corner of my phone – it was already 11:36.

“So, you in or out?” he asked, taking another sip of his water. He was smiling as a drop of sweat cascaded down his temple.

“Uh…” I cleared my throat and pocketed my phone. “Do you think I can take a rain check on the soda? My mom just texted me, said that curfew’s midnight.”

The smile was soon wiped from Maxx’s face, a more serious expression replacing his usual child-like enthusiasm. “Wait, you’re… You’re not, like…” He trailed off, his hand waving in circles.

I chuckled nervously, tucking a strand of hair from my face. “No, I just turned nineteen. But I still live at home, hence the curfew rule still being intact.”

“So you’re a…?”

“Going to be a freshman,” I clarified, reaching for my purse as the background music started up again from the speakers at the stage.

“Ahh,” he murmured.

“So… rain check.” I hopped off the stool, this time making a stable landing. “Do you want my number?”

“Definitely!” he eagerly agreed, hopping off as well and tucking his water bottle under his armpit. “Here…” He struggled a bit to get his phone from his front pocket, but pulled it out with a flourish. “Just punch it in. I’ll do the rest.”

When he handed me his phone, I got a better look at his calluses. A few were red, but one was busted open, a stain on his skin from where the blood was wiped off. Instead of flinching, I reacted in a way that I didn’t even expect myself to.

“Does that hurt?” I asked, gesturing towards his hand.

“What? Oh.” He shrugged and tossed his phone to his other hand, still offering it to me while examining his red index finger with the burst blister. “Those happen sometimes,” he said, offering me a smile as I took his phone. “You just play through them.”

I handed back the phone after typing in my number, a bit more aware of the time. I didn’t want to be late for curfew – I was never late for curfew; not even when Jenny made me come with her to all those lame parties our last two years at All Saints’. It was midnight or I wouldn’t be dragged along again.

“So, I guess you have to go now,” Maxx confirmed, slipping his phone into his front pocket. I nodded, hitching my purse onto my shoulder.

“Maxx!”

Maxx and I both turned at the sound of his name: Door Guy Andrew was waving his arm over his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Dan and Cody folded the last of the band’s shirts and stuffed them into a duffle bag.

“I guess you have to go, too.”

Maxx chuckled, shuffling his feet as he cracked a few of his knuckles. “Yeah.” He took his water bottle from under his armpit and unscrewed the cap, lifting it up to his lips. But before taking a sip, he lowered it and smiled at me again. “I’ll call you, okay? And instead of just getting soda, I promise it’ll be something a little more fun,” he added, taking a quick swig of water.

I nodded in agreement, and brushed past him toward the exit, the dim florescent light above the doorway flickering.

“Goodnight, Non-Asian Yummi’s Girl!” Maxx called out as he leaned against the bar, smirking at my new, unofficial nickname. “You have to say it, too!” he added, still grinning.

I sighed, but turned around and saluted, smiling despite myself. “Goodnight, Szechuan Beef Guy.”