Some intoxicated kid stood in the middle of the escape split, each leg moving in a different direction. He collapsed to the floor in front of me.
“Don’t let ’em get me,” he said, grabbing my leg and hugging it to him. “I’m already grounded.”
He looked fifteen. Dragging him up by the armpits, I said, “On your feet, man. Through the hole. Run home. Don’t look back.”
The smoke machine and incense haze only added to the madness. I shouted over it all, pointing, directing, escorting stragglers toward exits until the last of them was gone.
And then there was silence. Only me and the band remained. I stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, microphone still clutched in my hand, waiting for the cops to bust us. That was when I noticed the siren had cut out and the lights were gone.
Then a laugh.
I squinted into the dark to see a figure approaching.
“That was some hero shit, right there,” he said, clapping.
“Paul?”
A box I recognized well was tucked under his arm. From Radio Shack, a sound effects machine that he’d used to orchestrate raids in our single-family home. Jim had outlawed the thing after getting caught in the shower during one such prank. He’d slipped and popped his knee out of the socket and was naked when the paramedics arrived.
“You psycho dick,” I said, shoving him back. “Someone could’ve died in here.”
“Please. How many times has Dad survived ‘heart attacks’ because of this thing?” Paul used finger quotes to shame Jim for his overreactions to the special effects box. “Oh, and remind me to be by your side when the commies drop the nuclear bomb.”
“Right. Like I want to survive the day after with you.”
“Wait—where are the cops?” Marco called out, only just now realizing we weren’t under attack.
“False alarm. It’s Paul.”
“Paul!”
The band swarmed him, treating my brother like the mini-celebrity he was. Paul had gained legendary status back in high school when his band got signed by a major label. Everyone in Venice Beach knew of him. Wanted to be him. Hell, that was why I’d taken up music myself. But then the album tanked, the band broke up, and Paul had been skirting fame and fortune ever since in bands that barely made a dent.
I gave the guys time to reminisce with Paul before grabbing his arm and hauling him outside.
“Dude,” he said, ripping his arm out of my grip. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem? You ruined the show.”
“No. I gave them what they came for.”
“A police raid?”
“Scotty, use that brain of yours. Your audience lives for thisshit. Running from the cops? That’s part of the show. Why do you think you draw a crowd? It’s not the music. They come for this.” Paul threw his arms wide.
It made sense. Fear of the unknown and cheap beer—that’s what packed the house. Take that away and we were just another band.
“Well, shit.”
Paul hooked an arm around my neck and dragged me in. “You were good tonight. I didn’t know you had a voice.”
His praise was what I’d always lived for. Still did.
“Get some half-decent songs and you might have something.”
“Hey, I wrote those songs.”
“Yeah, I know.”
