The Day I Met AL

My band needed a drummer, and drummers were in high demand. Subtle Q was a band that needed a drummer who could spice up a simple rock ensemble, so we recruited a friend of a friend from the local gnome community in Polish Ohio.

I arrived for band practice at our bass player’s space, set up my guitar rig, and introduced myself to our new prospect. We jammed a bit and showed him some of our repertoire.

His name was AL.

He didn’t look like a life-changer, but within hours of our meeting, I was being inundated with new cultures and lingos. He introduced me to gnomish, the uniquely angular method of insults and gibes. He played a rap song that was so bad it was good for laughs, “You’ll Cowards Don’t Even Smoke Crack”. When I laughed and responded that it was good, he responded, “No, it’s not good music, Aidan.” I detected a sideward glance and a wink, as if he was nonverbally adding, “That’s how bad Subtle Q sounds to me.”

Seeing AL was like seeing myself in a mirror—many similarities, with some subtle differences. I played guitar right-handed, and he played left-handed. I had a mole on my right chin, he had one on his left cheek. I wore sideburns, and he wore a coiffed goatee. With his knack for saying cryptically wise things at pivotal moments, I liked to imagine that he was a version of me from the future, returning to guide our little tribe into a glorious dawn.

We shared a love of old military jackets and conspiracy theories, which became relevant soon after, when the government announced the threat of a new coronavirus.

The abrupt change following the report of this menacing plague shocked me, and destroyed the life I had built.

Months after meeting AL, the federal government was shutting down live music venues and hinting at martial law.

One week, the stores would be out of toilet paper, scavenged by people who intended to keep pooping for the imminent year of quarantine.

The next week, the local governments were imposing curfews and arresting shop owners for attempting to run their businesses.

We went from being a buzz band, quitting our jobs and playing two shows a week, to being stranded, dazed performers with no stage. That was when we became friends.

As we watched the people around us sequester and hide from the sun, it seemed to me that AL and I were the only two sane people left on Earth. He was fond of calling me and other people “cretins” when we made mistakes, and he now explained to me that the word Cretan comes from the isle of Crete, where the ancient population believed they were led by a fake colonial government made of actors.

Our music was improving rapidly, so we scrambled to find unorthodox shows to keep building our audience. A birthday party here, a house show there, but the damage to our trajectory was already complete. We were a new product without a marketplace, a strangely twisted fate, like being a warped slinky on the Island of Misfit Toys.

I decided, in typically cavalier, defiant fashion, to explore my mind, since the outside world was blockaded. AL procured some high-powered LSD, and we passed the time playing psychonaut and mocking the "pandemic" that seemed strangely unable to afflict any of the people around us.

With each hit of acid, our paranoia and heightened perceptions grew more contagious. The fiat lockdowns grew more aggressive. Soon there were backlash movements of people resisting the government’s attempt to shut down public spaces. I participated in a few protests, eager to reopen society and return our band to its true course.

AL, a man with more degrees from the University of Cynicism, declined to participate.

“There’s no point in protesting people who don’t care what you think.”

But I, a man who jumped out of a stable career to pursue a romance with rock and roll, refused to accept the lockdowns. I continued to rebuke anyone who dared to suggest that forced quarantines were acceptable for a “pandemic” with no evident deaths in our community.

My bandmates and some of my ostensible friends then staged an intervention at a local restaurant, to discuss the fact that my political discussions were unacceptable. I was told in clear terms that we would not be cordial or make music together if I continued to criticize the lockdown of live music.

They could not dissuade me from my passionate opposition. I continued to voice my opinion to anyone who would listen. At a band practice seven months into the lockdown, AL and our bassist announced that they were quitting the band, right before our next recording. They both glared at me as if I was the one hurting them, and their eyes glowed red with simmering hate.

I pleaded with them to reconsider, to no effect. They agreed to play a final show, a birthday party at our friend’s house, for some unknown purpose. I agreed to play, still being eager to develop an audience.

We played our set, to some complimentary reviews, and then proceeded to party with our peers.

Later in the night, I was sitting on a couch in the living room, when I heard some boys having a trite political conversation about Donald Trump. I made a feeble attempt to enter the talk and inject some sense into it, which was met with blank stares.

The boys walked away, and I surveyed the room. On the couch across the room from mine, AL sat straight-backed, gazing intently at me. He wore a sardonic smirk, and his eyes were large black abyssal orbs. I was temporarily lost in the black chasms of his eyes.

Those dark pools reflected my momentary despair. He did not speak, but my mind’s eye heard the words, “What did I tell you? Don’t ever waste our time talking politics with brainless animals.”

I stood up and walked away.