Brandy's on Route 16
“Stick to 80’s music before 11. Top 40 after. And the drinks are free–but don’t overdo it.”
Deandra gives me a knowing look from above the cash register as she finishes her speech. Tattered remains of a Superbowl party banner ripple in front of an AC unit. It’s July. She counts out five 20’s and slides them across the bar.
“Thanks,” I take the cash and stuff it into my pocket. “But I don’t drink anymore.”
“The PA input is in the back,” She continues, ignoring me. “And we put a few tables together for you to set up on.”
“So, why are you all of a sudden hiring a DJ?” I ask, hoisting the crate of vinyl onto the bar top and glancing at the jukebox in the corner.
“You said you needed the money, right?” Deandra leans forward, an eyebrow raised. “Claire said you were basically begging her to put in a good word to me. Said you would have mopped the floors.” She lets out a snort that stirs a slumping figure at the end of the bar.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” I hesitate. “Deandra, can we talk?” She turns away brusquely and marches off, leaving me staring at a photo of a smiling motorcyclist straddling a BMW-R 1200. Her boyfriend, Shaun. Ex-boyfriend, I remind myself. He died in a crash at the beginning of the year.
Deandra stopped talking to me after the accident. I was shocked when she broke her silence to offer me the gig. I knew that after Shaun’s death I was just a reminder of how shitty she’d been to him. I never considered myself capable of homewrecking, but I guess no one ever does. In the wake of his passing I made a few unrequited attempts to rekindle things, but she closed me out.
I shuffle past a few lonely patrons as I make my way towards the back. The bar is a mix of truck stop and local haunt. Tiles every shade of smoke-stained yellow checkerboard the drooping ceiling. It’s the kind of place that collects people who can’t seem to reach exit velocity out of bum-fuck Idaho. People like me and Deandra.
Djing was never my passion, but it’s an easy way to make money without a car. I thumb through the box of vinyls, looking for something to break the silence. Phil Collins. Weather Girls. Diana Ross. I pull out Around the World in A Day by Prince, and drop the needle onto the record. My neck is tight and the stench of stale beer is heavy. The six month coin from AA weighs a metric ton in my pocket. This is going to be a long night.
By 9:30, the Friday night crowd had taken their places. Sheila from the gas station, a few union guys from the water district nodding off to Oingo Biongo, and a group of bikers that I swear keep looking in my direction. I’m searching for another record when I look up and see Deandra approaching me with two cocktails.
“Just wanted to check on you.” She places a drink on the table between us. “Thirsty?”
I hesitate. She raises her cocktail and waits expectantly. I instinctively reach for the coin in my pocket.
“Don’t be a prude.” She furrows her brow, challenging me.
“Deandra,” I change the subject. “Why haven’t you texted me back?”
“I told you.” She says in her fake baby voice. “I’ve been mourning.” Before I can respond she leans forward and kisses me. I reach out to steady myself and my hand hits the mixer. Psychokiller start to play.
My willpower dissolves. When we break apart I can see the events that follow in slow motion–painfully aware of the consequences. I pick up the cocktail and bring it to my lips. Six months of work undone in a single swallow. Deandra pulls me onto the dance floor.
Two hours later, Kate Bush underscores the blood pounding beneath my ears. I’m still at the makeshift DJ booth but Deandra has been bringing me drink after drink and I know I can’t drive home. I look around for her but she seems to have vanished. My head is swimming and I take another sip to quiet the mounting anxiety in my head. Murder on the Dancefloor starts to play and the vocals join the cacophony of spinning chaos.
If you think you’re getting away, I will prove you wrong.
The back of the bar is stifling. I feel like getting some air. Would anyone notice if I stepped outside?
I’ll take you all away, boy just come along.
Deandra appears in the dark haze. She grabs my hand and pulls me into a long kiss. I grope for her and she pushes me away. My mind careens down a tree-lined highway. White knuckling.
It’s murder on the dance floor!
Through the haze of nameless bodies and flashing lights the memory comes flooding back. The rumble strip vibrating the cab of the ‘94 Taurus. Dark pines stretching into the black sky. The throw of headlights and the unforgettable breakneck thud of a body hitting the guard rail. The engine screaming into that black abyss. Pulling the canvas cover over the rusted Ford as the cruiser lights scan the trees that line the road to my house.
As I break down, Deandra appears.
“Sweetie.” She coos against my uncontrollable sobs.
“Stop!” I push her hand away roughly, voice cracking through the tears. “You convinced me to do the unthinkable. Then you just cut me off?”
Over the roar of the music no one notices my heightening anger.
“I fucking killed him! For you!” shaking her by the shoulders as I scream it.
“Relax.” She consoles me, searching my anger for a point of weakness. “It can be just you and me now.”
I collapse into tears, head buried in her shoulder, as the image of the motorcycle veering off the road replays on the inside of my burning eyelids.