April 18, 1898 –France

An entire human lifetime is not enough. How could it be? With only eighty, possibly ninety years, how can one be expected to find love, get a half decent job, and raise a family? Something as unpredictable and rare as love takes at least a lifetime, if not a few, to discover. Not to mention, it would take a long time to enjoy all the finer points of life as well. I made this revelation while in a pub one night. I sat at the bar, drowning myself in a mug of beer, watching people come and go. That was how I spent my nights. During the day, I tried my best to play the part of a young bachelor seeking a bride. But once that façade was over, I scurried over to the pub. Most men who had nothing better to do, like myself, lived this lifestyle. It was a common pastime.

It was ten in the evening and I was about to order another round. A young lad, slightly younger than I was, stood upon his chair and tapped a spoon to his wine glass. Most of the patrons in the bar turned to him. I eyed his lovely companion- a lass of about nineteen with large curled locks the color of cinnamon. Her porcelain cheeks were flushed and she giggled quietly behind a handkerchief. I met her emerald eyes for a moment before she glanced back up at her lover. The lad beamed down at all of us and straightened his collar.

“Please, fine gentlemen and lovely ladies. If I could spare a moment of your attentions?” Some grumbling of acceptance was heard. “Thank you. Now…my dear lady Julia and I have been seeing each other for some time now…about ten months.” Amused, I clapped with one or two other men. “And I would like to propose a very important question to her.”

The young lass resembled a strawberry by then and wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye. It happened some times before. A youthful, handsome man would publicly ask for marriage. Sometimes the woman said yes and sprang into his arms, but sometimes she merely slapped him across the face for his impudence. I watched with a small grin.

“My lady Julia…” The girl was crying now, smiling so hugely it looked painful. “Would you do me the honor of having sex with me?”

Her face fell and a roar of laughter engulfed the pub. Drunken bastards banged their mugs on the table and cheered the gutsy lad on. My smile faded as I stared at the kid. That poor girl was no doubt humiliated and broken hearted now. I almost found myself getting angry at the boy.

I heard a sob escape her throat before she pushed the kid off his perch. I snickered as he fell headfirst on the floor. It was a due punishment for his nerve. The young beauty fled the pub, cosmetics streaming down her face. I felt a pang of sadness for her, but only turned back to my drink and took a swig.

Present Day

Jacqueline worked her way through the crowd. The air was pungent with sweat and alcohol and filled with the thumping sound of rave music. The people she pushed through were gyrating hypnotically, their movements slow and fluid. Oddly dressed women floated around with small trays of pills and pacifiers. They eyed her like a hawk, marking her as prey. Despite how frequently she went clubbing, never once did she accept the drugs. She had seen enough of the “chill room”. Drugged up people shivered and passed out on the floor, usually drooling. It was the room that the ravers weren’t supposed to see unless they were brought there in an unconscious state.

The exit sign glowed bight above the many bouncing heads- a safe haven only a few feet away. Growing impatient with the bodies pressed against her, Jacqueline shoved through more forcefully. She had to leave. Her gig was in an hour and her band would skin her alive if she was late.

A few men leered at her as she made her way across the dance floor. She did her best to ignore them an keep going. She let out a breath as she broke from the crowd. It felt so good to be able to breathe correctly again. Her relief was tamped once a kid in his late teens stepped in her way.

“Parlez-vous anglais, mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” she replied dryly. Tonight was not the night for fooling around.

“Very well.” His voice was thick with a French accent.

“Que voulez-vous?” She snapped impatiently.

“What do I want, mademoiselle? Maybe we should discover what I want in the confines of my room. Shall we?”

“No way in hell, kid. Go bag some whore.”

His face drooped into a frown as Jacqueline pushed him aside. No funny business. She needed calm and composure before a gig…once their banner brandishing the band logo dropped, then she would let it all loose. Her fingers itched and curled, wanting to grasp her bass. The time was cutting close. Her band mates would be expecting her to walk through the backstage door in half an hour. The drive there was at least twenty minutes. Fuck

Pulling nervously at her blue hair, she yanked the back door of the club open and sprinted outside. The cool night air sent shivers down the girl’s spine. She clung to her leather jacket, hoping desperately her fingers wouldn’t freeze up. That would cause chaos at the concert. It happened to their lead guitarist once. Hell got loose through the crowd when he messed up during a solo.

Walking through the empty parking lot, an odd sensation she knew all too well spread over her. The muscles in her stomach tightened. Someone’s eyes bored into her back; she could feel it. She fidgeted, her eyes scanning the dark of the streets. Cautiously, she backed towards her car. No one jumped out at her, as she expected. Her head cocked to the side as her senses scanned the night. Someone was out there, but they were concealed with expertise.

“Hello?” Jacqueline called. Her voice echoed down the sidewalk and nothing replied.

Shrugging, she turned to open the door of the 1971 Citroen. She had always been fond of old European cars, no matter what her friends told her. The drummer shared her interest; he owned a yellow1973 Renault Coupe. When she sat down in the gray leather interior, all her stress seemed to slink away. That fresh new car smell always lingered about in her machine. With a flick of her wrist, the keys were in the ignition and the vehicle shook and sputtered. She cursed silently and gunned the engine again. It growled to life, the muffler roaring. The other things she was skilled in –besides rocking the bass- were vintage cars. If presented with a car dating from 1930 through 1989, she would classify it to painful detail. It was a little obsession.

Jacqueline cruised down the road, bopping her head to the band that was opening for hers. She glanced casually at the clock before doing a double take. She had exactly fifteen minutes to get to the stadium. Red lights would have to be ignored this time. She revved the engine and sped down the street, everything becoming a blur past the windows. Her car was underestimated greatly. It was with ease that she made a sharp turn, only slowing down for a moment before racing off again. The needle pushed 70…80. In a moment the car was flying at 95 miles per hour. Sirens wailed behind her, but the adrenaline was too much. She slammed the gas pedal down for one final burst of power. The sleek automobile surged forward for the last leg of the race playing out in her mind. The sirens grew more distant and she slowed, approaching the stadium. I wide smile played across her face as she smoothly parked in front, not bothering to slow down. The car pulled up next to the curb perfectly. Once in place, she slammed on the brake, her tires skidding on the pavement.

Heads turned as she stepped out of the car. In fact, she had the whole waiting line in awe. She grinned smugly and locked the door. She sauntered over to the bouncer standing at the entrance. He looked her over once and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Madame, you just parallel parked while going at least 60 miles per hour,” he said in a rumbling voice.

“Oui. I did. Are you going to get the police?” she purred.

“No. I wanted to point out the sheer talent you have with cars, Madame. Now please, go to the end of the line.” He pointed with a meaty finger to the bodies lined up down the street.

Jacqueline shook her head. “I’m a VIP…” -she glanced at his nametag and raised an eyebrow- “Felix.”

“How old are you?”

She tapped her foot. “Why should you care? Now let me in. I’m part of the band,” she snapped, losing tolerance with him.

He looked startled and glanced once more at her beloved Citroen. “Mon dieu! I am so sorry, Jacqueline! This way, Madame.”

The bouncer opened the door for her and bowed slightly. “Merci, monsieur,” she responded curtly, pushing past him.

A narrow corridor painted in black led to the band’s dressing room. Black lights glowed down on white graffiti along the floor. She could already hear the band tuning their instruments. There was a clatter and something thumped on the floor. She heard their guitarist, Dominique, shout a string of loud profanities. She burst into the door.

“How vulgar, Dom. Qu'avez-vous laissé tomber?”

“He dropped his fucking guitar. What took you so long, ma amour?” asked Anette, their singer.

“I ran into a little trouble on the way out of the club. Some kid wanted a roll. When do we go on?”

“Ten minutes. The opening band plays four songs and then we jump on.”

“Great. I probably just burned off all my rubber trying to get here on time.”

Jacqueline swept the room for her bass and found it lying on a couch. Sighing, she went to retrieve it. Slinging the strap over her shoulders, she caressed the sheer body. It was an orange bass, with black at the edges. A nautical star was engraved in pink on the body, with miniature ones in-between the frets. Her bass was her only other possession besides her car that she truly loved. She strummed each string, making sure they were in tune. Satisfied that they were, she plucked out a rhythm, her fingers flying over the frets. Looking around the room lazily, she realized everything was too quiet.

“Hey, where the hell is our drummer? And that other kid?”

“Bar,” Dominique replied simply.

In that instant, two swaggering men stumbled into the room, singing Monty Python’s “lovely bunch of coconuts”. They spotted her and bounded over.

“Ma chérie! You made it!” slurred Napoléon, the stinking drunk drummer.

“Oui. You know I don’t mess around when there’s a gig. All business.”

Maurice, the keyboardist, sneezed and leaned heavily on her shoulder. “It’s all business for me too, Jacquie. That’s why me and Napoléon over here hopped on down to get some booze.” He poked the swaying drummer with a lean finger. Napoleon brushed it away with his pudgy one and laughed stupidly.

“Ma petite chou chou, you make me laugh. Don’t ever…damn I forgot what I was saying,” he said.

A crash of instruments sounded from the stage and they all hurried out of the room. Their opening band was decent, in Jacqueline’s opinion. They were a mix between punk and metal with thumping rhythms and crawling riffs. She found herself actually listening to the opening band. But they only played four songs and were on their last chord before she knew it. Time always flew right before a concert. The guitarist and bassist slammed their instruments into the ground as the drummer beat the shit out of his set. The “singer” let out a growl that seemed to go on forever as he thrashed about. When they finally went silent, the crowd erupted.

“Merci, my friends!” the singer wailed. The opening band retreated from the stage and walked past them. Jacqueline smiled brightly at them, slapping a few high fives as well. It was her turn now. The crowd was becoming restless again, bopping up and down and starting up a chant.

Membranes! Membranes! Membranes!

She found her stomach tightening up, as it always did before stepping out onto a stage. Hundreds of people, sweaty and excited stood just past the backstage door. She inhaled and stepped out after Anette. The banner was up already, so all the crowd saw were shadows moving about on stage. But that was enough to make them eager. People started screaming and clapping, making the speakers shake.

Napoleon grinned and gave her a thumbs up before settling behind the mound of drums. He clicked his sticks together to set the rhythm. The crowd screamed once more as the banner fell and Dominique struck his first ear shattering chord. Anette wailed into the microphone, her face scrunching up as she closed her eyes. Maurice started his rhythm on the keyboard and then Jacqueline came in with Napoleon. Her fingers strummed incredibly fast over the strings, keeping time with the drumbeat. Anette’s screech brought the crowd into frenzy. They all started jumping up and down and throwing each other in the mosh pits. The bassist sung the lyrics in her head.

She had written the lyrics herself and felt extremely proud that her words were blasting out the speakers. The song escalated and slowed suddenly as Anette’s angelic voice rung out and hit notes higher than Jacqueline could ever go. The ecstasy of being on stage and playing in her very own band was like no other. She lost herself completely.