Wasted

They say life begins after graduation.

They're full of shit.

Ever since I finished high school, I've been working retail, dealing with wacky customers, most of whom amount to nothing more than an empty skull with a mouth. But I was in a local band for a couple of years, and it gave me life. We were called Sirens & Stardust. We had no idea our last show was going to be our last show until the day after. Our lead guitarist, Matthew, texted everyone to say it was over. Our drummer had a new project he was more interested in, and the general consensus was that the passion within the band had fizzled away.

It was supposed to be my ticket out of hell.

I cried for two weeks.

Our fans cried with me.

The Facebook page is still up and running, and we only lost one "like" in the meantime. Everyone else is still sticking by us, watching eagerly for news about our new projects and what we're doing with the rest of our lives. It's like a memorial site now. Here lie the hopes and dreams of Sirens & Stardust, the best post-hardcore band to ever shred its way into southern Minnesota's heart.

It was supposed to be my ticket out of hell.

My bosses at the store could see that something was wrong with me. One asked if I was doing okay. "You just seem very melancholic lately. Is everything okay?" There was genuine concern in his eyes.

"No," I whispered, tears brimming. I hadn't cried in public since I was a small child. My boss took me into a hallway away from any customers and I told him about losing my band. He gave me a hug and told me I could hide back there until I was all cried out and ready to deal with the public.

The public I deal with is mostly composed of parents and children. Organic, vegan, gluten-free, soy-free, nut-free, cruelty-free modern parents and their hyperactive offspring. It was usually easy. My life is by no means awesome, but I got by with the fact I was in a band. It's okay to be 25, broke, unmarried and childless, because I still felt fulfilled. I had my own special kind of family in my bandmates. Now that they were gone, I was feeling considerably less fulfilled. So yeah, maybe I wasn't super enthusiastic about spending my whole day catering to stupid fucking happy people.

It was supposed to be my ticket out of hell.

~

My very good friend Michelle is married to a political science professor named Kevin. He teaches at MSU Mankato. Very cool couple. On May Day, they invited me over for a barbecue in honor of the holiday's real purpose. We all wore red clothes and denounced bourgeois bullshit and praised the daily laborer. "That's you, Rachel!" Kevin laughed, clinking his glass of unidentified alcohol against my vodka and tonic. I smiled. I had finished my work day less than an hour before the barbecue.

Most of the barbecue guests were close friends of mine. Eiji, also a political science professor at the university, is an awesome Japanese immigrant with a strong affinity for collecting classic guitars. We have a lot of fun talking about gear together. The guy could go on for hours about his '68 Les Paul, his multitude of amps and cabs, and all the guitars he plans on buying in the future.

Dan is a chemist, and another university professor. He once explained to me how those Hot Hands brand hand warmers work. He's the source of many an epic story, usually with a don't-try-this disclaimer attached. Dan was also the source of my vodka and tonic.

Michelle is sweet and wonderful. She owns her own business, serving as a karaoke DJ and wedding officiant. Michelle adopted me as her little sister a few years ago, back when a simple (very simple, incredibly simple, God he was dumb) boy was able to wreck my whole life. She's a pissed off feminist killjoy, just like me. I absolutely adore her.

While drinking at the barbecue, I began really thinking hard about what my next move would be, musically. I needed a new ticket out of hell. My boyfriend and I had talked a little bit in the previous months about starting a band together. He wanted to play guitar, have a friend of his play drums, and have me as lead vocalist and bassist. That's a problem, because I have a terrible time playing bass and singing at the same time. Guitar and singing? Flawless. Ukulele and singing? Exceptional. Bass and singing? Utter shit. Still, I thought maybe I could do it. I didn't know what genre he had in mind. When he first brought it up to me, he said he wanted to play whatever came out, whatever felt good and right. My boyfriend's favorite band is Disturbed. I expected it would be a nu metal project.

"You okay over there?" Dan asked me. "Rachel? Have you gone to space?"

"OLUWAR," I blurted, snapping out of my trance.

"What the fuck is OLUWAR?" he laughed.

"It's what I want to name my next band," I explained. "Over-Leveled Underlings With Assault Rifles. OLUWAR."

And everyone laughed.

I told my boyfriend the name when he arrived to pick my drunk ass up and take me home. He made a contemplative, "Hmm," sound.

I mentioned it again a few days later. "It's not a good band name," he grumbled.

I guess the lesson is, don't try to name your next band when you're drunk?