Wigwax

This was our first show and Lori and I were nervous as hell. I still wasn't sure about the current band moniker, Wigwax. We couldn't decide on a name for the band and had reluctantly decided on that one a few days before. I guess it was better than our former name, Crackhouse Mistress. I surveyed the packed room with some trepidation. Michael was there holding court with his bevy of fag hags. They smoked and laughed, somehow managing to not spill a drop from their lipstick-smeared martini glasses. Kim was there, looking luminous as ever, her black hair glimmering in the lamplight. She smiled in my direction, increasing my nervousness tenfold.

Jeannie Linguine stood in the doorway by the kitchen. She was sporting her customary blue bandana and denim overalls. I lived with Jeannie in her immaculate duplex in the up-and-coming Paseo Arts District. "Up-and-coming" usually denotes a formerly cracked-out part of town that still hasn't quite shaken the crack out. Just a few days earlier, a scraggly, toothless woman had screamed at me in my driveway when I informed her that I didn't have any cash.

"Well, Fuck you then!" she yelled.

I was surprised by the high-pitched, little girl like timbre of her voice. Beneath her grizzled exterior lurked a woman barely older than me. But these days, drugs and hard living had taken their toll. She looked like a cross between Courtney Love and Iggy Pop.

Luckily, Iggy Courtney wasn't in attendance this evening. Just the usual crowd of people that we hung out with in the dive bars and dance clubs that defined our Oklahoma City existence. These bars, with names like Angles and the Hi Lo, were smoke-shrouded shrines for bored twenty-somethings like ourselves.

I felt itchy. Was it my nerves or my shirt? The shirt I was wearing looked like it had once been part of a big, green seventies shag rug. After all, this was the nineties and retro was in, especially the disco seventies kind. My hair, newly shorn and dyed bright orange, offered a splendid contrast to the green shirt. I bristled as the air from the blasting fan tickled my neck, swirling about my head in little mini dust devils. My guitar felt like Silly Putty in my grasp. What were the chords to that song again? Lori looked over at me and nodded, a cue to start. I swallowed another swig of my beer and took a deep breath.