Page 87 of Your Rhythm
21Everlong || Foo Fighters
KAY
I dropmy copy ofLa Gareon my desk after reading my article for the fifth time today. If everything went according to plan, Matt will have seen it already. Every time I go over the words I wrote in my head, I imagine him having a different reaction, and most of them aren’t good. I don’t know if this is the kind of story he was hoping for.
Marie-France has been marching around the office with even more gusto than usual today. The actual numbers haven’t come in yet, but according to updates from our street team, the paper is having off-the-charts level success today. I think that might have more to with a photo of Ace we bought from an Ottawa photographer than with my story itself, but I’ve still gotten more congratulations from my coworkers than I can count.
“Sacrement,Kay. Who died?”
“Hmm?” I murmur, as Pierre claps me on the shoulder before swinging into his desk chair.
“You’re the hero of the day, and you look like you just got back from a funeral.”
“Huh.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “All right, I get it. You don’t want to talk.Le silence de Kay Fischer, je le sait trop bien.”
He’s right; hedoesknow ‘The Silence of Kay Fischer’ all too well.
“No, it’s not that. Sorry.” I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Just tired.”
“Too tired to go out and celebrate tonight? I bet we could even get some ofles anciensto go with us after something this big.”
He nods towards all our silent, grey-haired colleagues where they’re bent over their keyboards.
“Not tonight,” I answer, attempting an apologetic smile.
It’s not that I expected Matt to come bursting through the door ofLa Gareto sweep me into a reconciliatory make-out session. As the minutes without any word from him tick by, I’ve been trying to convince myself that I did the best I could to fix things. I’ll just have to live with what happens next—even if what happens next is nothing. Still, I feel more like burrowing under my blankets at home than toasting to my success all night with Pierre.
The hours crawl by as I work on finishing up a few stories. I’m almost ready to pack up and head out when an email pops up on the screen.
It’s a copy of a message from Metropolis, forwarded to me with a few quick lines from Matt:
Sorry it took so long. Had to do some manoeuvring to get you on the list. I wish I could say more now but we’re booked up with stuff all day. See you tonight?
I open up the attachments and find a ticket to tonight’s show, along with directions on how to pick up a backstage pass. My phone pings with a text before I’ve even gotten through all the information. It’s from Matt again, reminding me to check for the email.
There’s no hint of emotion, no bitterness or enthusiasm, nothing to betray how he feels. I hold my thumb over his name on my phone before sending the only reply that seems safe:
See you tonight.
* * *
I don’t get anywherenear the front. My article wasn’t exaggerating; people started lining up for the show before noon. If this were the dead of winter the diehards might have been more deterred, but in the warmth of a June day, there was nothing to stop hundreds of people from settling in on the sidewalk, holding umbrellas up to block out the sun and taking turns to go scavenge for food.
I stare over the churning mass of bodies in front of me to take in the full effect of the venue. It’s been over a year since I caught a show here, and I’m awed all over again by the gilded framework that outlines the stage, towering larger than life and stretching all the way up to the ceiling. The stale taste of dry ice clogs the air, and the crowd buzzes and bobs along to the Modest Mouse song that’s booming out of all the speakers.
Maybe it’s just the research I did about the place for an article once, but it’s like I can feel the building’s history seeping up through the floor, the echoes of all the screams and songs that have reverberated around this room still bouncing between the walls. Existing in some form or another since 1884, Metropolis is a staple of Montreal. It’s opened its doors as a skating rink, cinema, porn theatre, and dance club, but for the past few decades it’s mostly been serving as a concert hall.
Bowie walked across that stage. Jack White played here. A chill runs through me when I think that one day people might say the same thing about Sherbrooke Station with that same tone of reverence in their voices.
Things get loud during the opening act. There are already people trying to crowd surf their way to the front, and I roll my eyes as three girls a few rows ahead of me attempt to climb onto their boyfriends’ shoulders.
The audience grows antsy in the interim between the opener and the main act. I wrap my arms around myself and chew on my lip, trying to keep my rising nerves at bay. This show has all the signs of getting messy. There’s too much energy in the room and nowhere for it to go. I watch security barrel their way through the masses to drag someone with a bloody nose away and flinch when a guy passing by knocks into me, twisting around to mouth an apology as he holds two plastic cups of beer above his head.
Everything changes when the lights dim and the Sherbrooke Station sign flickers to life. People drop their flailing arms and crane their necks towards the stage, like some strange frequency has claimed command over their brains. The hair on my arms stands up like it always does in this moment, thelub-dub, lub-dubof my heartbeat swelling in my ears as a cry I can’t control breaks from my mouth when I see the dark shapes shifting their way onstage.
The sound is echoed by everyone around me. The stage lights sweep their way over the audience in a searing flash of white before fixing on the band.
