Page 6 of When the Lights Come On
“I’m, uh...”
Too preoccupied with how terrifyingly disconnected I feel from my own life to enjoy the comforts of alcohol?
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Anything for you?”
I follow her gaze to Nabil and realize he’s even more far gone than I thought. Nabil hasn’t so much as talked about women since his ex left him six months ago, never mind stare at a girl the way he’s watching the waitress.
He sits up straighter and runs a hand through his hair again, which just leaves it even more messed up than before. “I am...cood.”
“Cood?” I repeat as the waitress stifles a laugh.
“I mean good!” He goes for a third hair tousle as he lets out a chuckle that I think is supposed to sound suave. “I was trying to say cool and good at the same time. Ha.”
I swivel my head to see the waitress nod at him and smiles. “Cood.”
We both watch her leave, long braids swishing against her back as she steps through the thick curtains that separates the party room from the rest of the bistro.
I turn back to Nabil. “Smooth.”
He jumps up out of his chair without answering.
“Where are you going, man?” I call after him.
“Wherever she’s going.”
I don’t have time to persuade him otherwise before he’s disappearing through the curtains too.
“That is not going to end well,” I say to the final remaining ice cube in my glass.
It’s still nice to see him happy, or at least drunk and having fun. This is exactly the kind of night we talked about back when we’d pull twelve hour shifts together at The Cube Room: bottomless champagne, clinking glasses with the most powerful people in the Montreal music scene. This is the kind of stuff we’d imagine whenever someone spilt beer on the CDJs, or an artist lost their shit and refused to play, or a fuse blew in the middle of somebody’s set. This was always the moment we’d joke about reaching someday.
Somehow, it felt so much more real when it was a vision on the horizon and not something I held in my hands, something that seems to seep through the gaps between my fingers whenever I squeeze it tight.
I shake my head at the thought.
Maybe the rum really is working.
Mohammad pulls me out of my trance by sliding into Nabil’s seat and tapping a Champagne flute against my empty glass. “I’ll say it again:fe sahatek, my rising star. My prodigy. The brightest light of my career. Tell me, how does it feel to have all your dreams come true?”
“It’s uh...”
I look away from his grinning face and scan the room for what feels like the millionth time tonight. I might as well be floating above my chair. That’s how unreal this whole evening has felt. I spent all day today working my day job as a mastering engineer at a hole in the wall recording studio. Now I’m shaking hands with people important enough to make or break a whole career in minutes.
Mohammad pats me on the shoulder. “I think you’re in shock. That’s what I’ve been telling everyone. It happens when artists get big news.”
“Mmm.”
Mohammad chuckles. “Just try to talk to some people before the party’s over. I don’t think we want to go with the whole brooding artist thing for you. You’re too new to pull it off. They’ll think you’re temperamental. So shake some hands, okay?” He gives me another shoulder pat. “Big smiles, shining star!”
He gets up to talk to some suits again, and I’m once more left to my thoughts. He’s probably right; it’s probably just shock. I don’t know if shock is supposed to make you feel like the walls are closing in around you and you’re being squeezed out of your own body, but who’s to say?
I do know I have to get out of this room. Even the air is starting to feel wrong in my lungs, and every second that passes makes it worse.
I need to move. I need to breathe. I need to feel something instead of just sitting here digging my hands into the leather seat of this chair like it’s a life raft in a huge, bottomless ocean.
The thought intensifies until it’s the loudest thing in my head: I need to get out of this room fast.
