Chapter 1: The First Practice

August 30, 2007

Secaucus, New Jersey

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the roll of duct tape flying in my direction, and flinched just enough to avoid getting clocked upside the head. "Hey!" I barked in Dave's direction. "Are you trying to knock me out cold?"

"You asked for it, didn't you?" he replied, feigning nonchalance.

"You sneaky ingrate lowlife," I shot back. "Never trust a drummer. Now I know why they always put the drummer in the back."

"Well, I can assure you it's not because I want to check out your ass." I just grinned and shook my head.

Such repartee was the norm between Dave Mancuso and myself. We'd been friends since childhood, growing up in the same suburban South Jersey neighborhood. We were both raised by traditional Catholic parents, his Italian, mine Irish. Although we were the same age, we'd gone to different high schools, but attended college together. Since graduating more than twenty years ago, I'd done well for myself, at least professionally. I'd landed a job with a manufacturing firm right across the Hudson River from Manhattan. I'd put in the requisite 80-hour work weeks and pushed my way up to a middle management position. I'd invested well, and was able to afford a nice home, on two acres of land, in an upper-middle class neighborhood out in Morris County. This was in spite of the insanely high property costs in North Jersey, and the fact that I was paying alimony to two women.

Ah, yes, my personal life. At 44, I was a two-time loser in the marriage department, and had been single by choice for the past nine years. My first wife, after two years of marriage, up and left me for another man. Well, there was more to the story than that. This "other man" claimed to be a "cured" homosexual; he unceremoniously dumped his male lover in much the same way that Melissa had dumped me. Melissa fell for his story hook, line, and sinker, and declared it true love. Of course, the predictable happened. Mr. "Cured" turned out to be not cured at all, and eight months after our divorce, Melissa begged for me to take her back. But the soap opera ended there, for I was already engaged to Michelle. I never believed in pining away after lost loves.

Michelle and I made it to our sixth anniversary, and no further. The problem, in a word, was children. She wanted 'em, I didn't. Of course, I told her that going in, but she figured she could change me. Silly girl. Since then, I'd had my share of female companions, but I allowed none of those companionships to get too serious. Shannon, my current interest, seemed bent on tying me down; I was trying to find ways to discourage her without chasing her away. Hey, the sex was pretty damn good.

Dave, meanwhile, had had his share of ups and downs. He was a second shift supervisor at a chemical plant in Linden, a short hop down the turnpike from where I worked. He had never married, although he went through women like an office laser printer goes through paper. His close friendship with the liquor bottle was a constant source of concern for me. He'd done two stints in rehab, seemed to be doing better nowadays, but because of his past, I was determined to do all I could to see that he didn't get carried away with the booze.

I walked over to the other side of the room and picked up the errant roll of tape. Ripping off a long piece of the ubiquitous shiny gray stuff, I used it to secure the cords springing forth from my keyboard and sprawling all over the floor. Years of working in an industrial setting had taught me all about tripping hazards, to the point where I'd become paranoid. Of course, Dave saw fit to point this out.

"Well, look at Mr. Safety Conscious. A bit anal, aren't we? Isn't this just a practice?"

I didn't favor him with a verbal response, instead hurling the tape back in his direction. As he went into a pitcher's windup to re-deliver the tape roll directly at my person, a voice yelled at us, "Boys! Boys! No horseplay on the job!" followed up with a hearty laugh. It was another long-time friend of mine, Paul Li, and three-fifths of our somewhat makeshift rock and roll band was in the house. He was accompanied by his wife, Jasmine, who was the brains behind putting this whole gig together.

Paul and I had gone to high school together. Our paths remained joined through college, and the duration of our professional lives up till now. He was an engineer who was employed by the same company as I. He'd been married to Jasmine for seven years; they had a five-year-old son. In many ways, he was your stereotypical Chinese-American nerd; brainy, somewhat introverted, mathematical, with old-style values. But not entirely ... he could play a mean bass, and if our company ever gave a best-dressed award, he'd win it, hands down. Right now, he was sporting a starched and well-ironed tan shirt, a sharp pair of dark brown slacks, and perfectly polished dress shoes. His hair was slicked back and meticulously groomed. All for a band practice.

Jasmine, meanwhile, was a small wisp of a woman who was the embodiment of "perky". She'd caught the tail end of my facetious exchange with Dave about safety, which provided a perfect segue into what was on her mind.

"Hey, guys," she said to Dave and I, "speaking of workplace safety. Since my employer is sponsoring this event, I need you to sign off on this liability waiver." She worked at a nearby accounting firm.

"A liability waiver?" crowed Dave. "For a freakin' talent show?" Nonetheless, he took the paperwork from Jasmine and scrawled his name on the dotted line.

"Yup, and you, too, Pat," she replied, pushing the papers in my direction. Grabbing the pen from Dave, I signed "Patrick O'Malley", or rather, its equivalent in chicken scratch. I noted that Paul's signature was already there, and there was space for two more.

"Two more signatures?" I muttered.

"That's right. Evie and our mystery performer."

"Christ," I commented, "All of us have to sign this? Bureaucracy at its finest. Since this a work related event, why don't we just bring OSHA in here to run a full inspection?"

"Hey now," Jasmine responded dryly, "I don't make the rules, I just follow 'em."

Shortly thereafter, Paul was helping Dave set up, while Jasmine was nearby, still fumbling with paperwork. I was in my own little world, fiddling around with my keyboard, making sure it still worked the way it was supposed to. After all, it had been in mothballs for at least a decade. There was an entrance to the room not far from where Dave and Paul were setting up, and all of a sudden, I heard a loud scream emanating from that direction. Startled, I looked up from my keyboard. The person doing the screaming threw her arms around Dave, then Paul.

"It's Evie!" Dave proclaimed. "The gang's all here."

I raced over to join the hugfest. Damn, I was happy to see Evie. What had it been ... ten, eleven, twelve years? When she approached me, I told her, "Uh uh hon ... a hug isn't gonna cut it." I squeezed both sides of her face and planted a big wet kiss right on her mouth. By now, Dave had hooked up a microphone, and he bellowed into it, "TESTING-HEY-YOU-TWO-GET-A-ROOM."

I stepped back while Paul introduced Evie to Jasmine. Once that little formality was taken care of, Dave piped in, "So, Evie ... how'd you talk hubby into springing you loose for a few days?"

"Actually," she replied, "Vince wanted to come. But he had to fly out to Seattle yesterday on short notice. You know the life of a salesperson."

"And the kids?"

"Staying with the in-laws."

Evie (rhymes with Chevy) Haines was a peach of a person; she hadn't an enemy on the planet. A self-professed "black rock chick", she could play one hell of a mean saxophone, and was a pretty fair vocalist as well. This was in spite of her being scarcely five feet tall. The intervening years had treated her well physically; she still had the same rich cocoa complexion and the same compact yet slender figure I remembered from our college years. She had on a form-fitting pair of jeans, a white T-shirt that was cut low enough to show a hint of cleavage, and two-inch heels. Her dark brown hair fell loosely down around her shoulders, highlighted with caramel and honey hues.

Back in college, Evie had pretty much been my closest friend. She'd gone to high school with Dave, and only knew him casually at the time; I didn't know her at all till college. When we were in the process of putting together our band during freshman year, Dave recalled watching Evie wail away on the sax at some high school variety show. He had heard she'd gone to Rutgers as well, and had hunted her down. She'd been ecstatic to join us, and as I got to know her, she became my sounding board, even after the demise of our band. Although neither she nor I had any long-lasting romantic involvements while in college, our friendship remained platonic, and I always felt like it was for the best. I didn't want anything to jeopardize that friendship, because it meant too much to me. But as often happens with platonic male-female friendships, when one party finds a significant other, the closeness quickly evaporates. In this case, it was Evie who struck gold; shortly after graduation, she met the man she would marry, and moved out to Illinois to be with him. She managed to parlay a bachelor's degree in communications into a high-profile job as an on-air reporter for one of the Chicago TV stations. We talked often over the phone at first, but as the years went by, our contact slacked off until our only means of keeping in touch was the annual Christmas card.

As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I pulled Evie aside. "You're looking great," I told her sincerely. "While you're here, we need to get together and catch up."

"Hmm," she demurred; she was a humble woman and didn't take compliments well. Scanning me over appraisingly, she replied, "You're looking good, too, but where did that come from?" She playfully gave my middle-age paunch a backhanded swat.

"Not enough sex, I guess."

"Yeah, right. Who's this Shannon I keep hearing about?" she grinned.

Well, with my fair complexion, it doesn't take much for me to blush noticeably. "Ah. I see Dave has already opened his big trap."

"You'll have to fill me in later," she winked, "and yes, we do have to get together for lunch or something. But tell me something else. Who's this mystery guest who's allegedly joining us for this little show?"

"Now that," I snorted, "is the sixty-four dollar question. I really have no idea. Jasmine knows, but she isn't saying a word. Paul knows, too, but if he gives away the secret, Jaz will cut off his balls. Basically, you, me and Dave are in the dark. I've deduced that she's probably female, but beyond that, I haven't the foggiest."

"Hmm ... I guess we'll find out soon enough."

"One thing, though ... this person insisted on choosing our material. That's part of the deal. I've been made privy to one of the songs we'll be doing. I'm not at liberty to disclose it yet, but I'll tell you this much ... I do not care for this song choice, not at all."

"It could be worse," Evie pointed out. "It could be worse. At least there's no Bud McMillan this time around."

"True," I replied, my thoughts turning back briefly to an earlier point in time. Bud McMillan. A first-class asshole. There was little doubt that he'd been responsible for the ruination of our band back at college. In fact, in my opinion, he'd doomed us to failure as soon as we got started.

Dave, Paul and I had started jamming together, strictly for fun, in the garage of Dave's house, during our last year of high school. After Evie started playing with us early in our college lives, we realized we were one competent lead guitarist away from being able to put together a pretty decent band. And so, I posted a notice on the bulletin board in the student center: LEAD GUITARIST WANTED.

Enter Bud McMillan. He was the only one to reply. He was an arrogant freshman who'd just been accepted into a fraternity, although he didn't live in the frat house; he stayed in a dorm his freshman year. Despite his obnoxious and thoroughly unlikable personality, we found him to be a pretty good guitarist and a passable vocalist. But he couldn't sing as well as he thought he could, and here was where the first problem came in. Up till then, Evie and I had handled the vocals. I felt strongly – and Dave, Paul and Evie had privately agreed with me – that I was at least his equal as a vocalist, if not superior. But Bud wouldn't hear of it. He was a rock god, and you know why? Because he said so. And he was never wrong. Before too long, Bud was calling all the shots. And we were dumb enough to allow it.

Another thing about Bud ... he was physically imposing. He stood six-foot-four, had played football in high school, and worked out like a demon. He was one large, well-sculpted, muscular dude. Height-wise, he had six inches on me, and back then, I was all skin and bones. Being at a physical disadvantage isn't the problem in college that it is in high school, but even so, I didn't want to push him too far. Dave, a first-class wise-cracker even back then, nevertheless was a non-confrontational follower at heart. Paul was terminally reserved. Evie, in her quiet dignified manner, often got her point across, but when muscle was needed, there was a silent understanding among us all that I would have to provide it. And where Bud was concerned, it didn't seem as though I was up to the task.

Personality issues aside, our band lineup was set. We had Bud as lead guitarist and male vocalist, Paul on the bass, Evie alternately handling the sax and female vocals, Dave on the drums, and yours truly on the keyboard. We would have liked to have had one more guitarist, but we made do pretty well with what we had. Before too long, we were playing at dorm parties and the like. Bud managed to wrest even more control from us by using his fraternity connections to secure us a place to practice. One of his frat brothers had a close relative who managed a warehouse; this business had recently been "downsized" (to use a word that was not in vogue at the time), and as a result, over half of the building was empty. We were offered unlimited use of a vacant store room in the unused part of the warehouse. The quarters were a bit tight, but it was functional, and above all, it was free. At least in the monetary sense. It was Bud's doing, and as distasteful as it was, we all owed him one.

And then, there was the matter of a name for our band. One Saturday afternoon, we all were sitting around, trying to come up with one we could agree on, and getting nowhere. We were starting to get frustrated and pissy with each other, when Paul, our resident intellectual, tossed out an innocuous remark that sounded like it was paraphrased from a chemistry textbook. "Come on, people. We need to muster up the activation energy to get over this barrier."

"I do believe we have a winner," I exclaimed.

"Huh?" the others all chimed in, confused.

"Activation Energy. That's perfect!"

Everyone, Bud included, concurred. And thus was Activation Energy christened.

To start with, we built our song list up to about thirty or forty songs. This was 1982, and we stuck with what was popular at the time ... stuff from artists like The Police, Journey, The Go-Go's, Billy Idol and the like. Personally, I always considered the music of the early eighties to be rather lightweight, and in the beginning, I lobbied to include older stuff from the sixties and seventies. But I was outvoted on that point, four to one, and we would remain a contemporary cover band.

But we were decent, and as we practiced, we got better. Our reputation spread, mostly through word of mouth, and by the end of the spring semester we were doing a party somewhere almost every weekend. That summer, all of us stayed in the area, and we ended up doing some off-campus gigs, and even a couple down the shore. Paul and I handled matters on the business end. Things were looking up for us.

But the end came swiftly, in the early part of sophomore year. Bud moved into his fraternity house. This event, as insignificant as it seemed, had a far-reaching effect. His frat brothers began to give him crap about the amount of time he was spending with us scrubs. But more importantly, his frat-related connections, which had come to our rescue the year before, turned out to be toxic this time around. The culprit: alcohol.

You see, Bud began to use said connections to tap into a practically limitless supply of booze. The drinking age in New Jersey had been raised from 18 to 21 a few years previously, so we were all technically underage. And don't get me wrong, we didn't all turn into a bunch of party-animal alcoholics. Bud, however, made sure to bring along a couple of six-packs of beer to each practice, and often brought harder stuff too. Evie and Paul rarely touched it. I might have had one beer per practice, but that would be it for me. The three of us did take our music seriously. But Bud would typically be shitfaced by the end of each practice. And Dave, whose affinity for booze would haunt him in later years, generally was not far behind. Our practices became less and less productive, and the quality of our music began to suffer.

And so, one day, I'd had enough, and I called Bud out. On the spur of the moment, without talking to the others, I laid into him verbally, telling him to keep the booze away from our practices. He fired back at me, calling me an ungrateful little prick, and accused me of trying to undermine his position as front man.

I have a temper. I always have, although I've learned to control it much better. And nothing pisses me off more than having my integrity unjustly brought into question. I took a swing at him, and before we knew it, the punches were flying. And did I mention that Bud was much bigger than I was? Before Dave and Paul were able to break us apart, I'd suffered a nasty cut on the inside of my mouth which required stitches. I also needed some expensive dental work (which didn't sit too well with Mom and Dad), and sported a nice shiner for a few days. Bud pretty much emerged from the fistfight unscathed.

Chapter 2 »