The Duet

“ANARCHY IN THE-”

“No.”

Firmly, with estimated force, the small hand pressed against Octavia’s loud mouth, drowning out the sound. Vincenza Staccato, Vinyl Scratch to her friends - an ironic name at the core - sighed and flicked off the amplifier. “No,” she repeated, taking her hand off Octavia’s mouth. “No you don’t. You promised me you wouldn’t do this after ten.”

Octavia shrugged. Her long, spiky hair, raven-black with lavender stripes, was tangled and messy. Her worn-out T-shirt proclaimed “Crush, kill, destroy, swag”. Her face was heavy from the beer, and her head was just a perfect amount of light. “Punks don’t keep promises,” Octavia explained, unplugging her guitar. “That’s what makes us punks.”

“So deep.” Vinyl rubbed her sleepy eyelids. “In this household, we don’t practise music after ten.” She paused, looking into the mocking lavender of Octavia’s eyes. “So… why don’t we do it?” she nudged her flatmate gently.

“Because,” Octavia sighed, rolling her eyes and putting down the guitar, “there’s a missy I-play-classical-violin who likes to go to bed before midnight.” She pondered. “Which is obviously bad for your health.”

“No, it’s not,” Vinyl protested, sitting down in one of the armchairs. “In fact, drinking beer after beer is bad for your health.” She reached out for the pack of cigarettes.

“And smoking is obviously good,” Octavia remarked, watching Vinyl try to light a cigarette with the lighter. She sighed and took up a matchbox. “Here,” she said, lighting a match.

“Much obliged,” Vinyl mumbled with the cigarette in her mouth. “Well, I should be allowed just a little deviation, shouldn’t I?” She inhaled the smoke blissfully. “At least I’m glad you’re past your Straight Edge phase.” The violinist chuckled and shook her head. “I had to go outside to smoke every day. Fuck.” She chuckled again.

“Well.” Octavia shrugged. “I just realised I can’t be punk enough without beer. You know. The whole anarchy thing?” She sat on the sofa next to Vinyl and took up the beer she’d placed on the little round table before.

“In this house,” Vinyl said very sternly, “order will prevail.” She glared at the wild-haired guitarist. “My order.” Content, she dragged on the cigarette and leant back in the armchair.

“We share this flat on equal terms,” Octavia remarked, chugging the beer gracefully. “My anarchy needs to have a place here too.”

“Oh, ‘equal terms’.” Vinyl laughed, waving her hand in the air. “Don’t mind me, I’m just having the laugh of my life. First, I do the dishes. I iron the clothes. I do the laundry. I buy groceries. No,” she intercepted before Octavia could make a remark, “alcohol does not count as groceries. I clean the flat.” Running out of fingers on one hand, she began counting on the other. “I pay all the bills. I maintain our equipment. I-”

“But I’m so fun to hang out with!” Octavia interrupted with her best smile. “Admit it, Vinyl, you just looove going out to dinner with me to your fancy restaurants and what-not!”

“I do not!” Vinyl put the cigarette in the ashtray. “You make a mess, you make fun of other patrons, and you have that thing on your head that you call a haircut!”

“But I’m your friieeeend~” Octavia cooed and pouted. “You’ve known me for years… Am I not a good friend?”

Vinyl sighed and rubbed her eyelids. “Yes.” She sighed again and reached for the pack. “Though, how we are friends eludes me.” She took the matchbox.

“Well, let’s see. You play violin in a fancy orchestra. I play punk rock in a rockin’ band. Hey.” She beamed.

“Yes, that’s a pun,” Vinyl said tiredly, setting the cigarette alit. “Carry on.”

“You are a prissy sassy rich girl who has manners and shit. I do what feels natural.” Vinyl winced a little. Octavia continued. “You smoke cigarettes but won’t get blasted. I drink beer. And whisky. And rum. And vodka. And gin. And-”

“I get it.”

“So.” Octavia smiled. “What is there preventing us from being friends? Opposites attract or whatever.”

“Yes.” Vinyl nodded, watching the smoke curling up to the ceiling. “Opposites sure do attract, it seems.”

“Which one is that?” Octavia asked, serious, pointing at the cigarette.

“FIfteenth, I think,” Vinyl countered. “Sixteenth, maybe.”

“Don’t you think that’s enough for today?”

“I did think that.” Vinyl furrowed her brows. “I did think that when I was going to bed. When you turned up the damn amp. I have an important rehearsal tomorrow, just so you know.” She placed the cigarette into the ashtray. Then, with a deep, thoughtful sigh, she picked up one more cigarette. “The last one for today,” she promised to the guitarist.

“Hey,” Octavia shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not judging. It’s up to you to find creative ways to kill your health.” She yawned and rubbed her neck. “I have a reh tomorrow too, though.”

“You have a…” Vinyl slapped her forehead with a palm. “Oh, by the gods! Octavia! Are you so lazy as to call a rehearsal a ‘reh’?!”

“Yeah.” Octavia nodded.

“Okay.” Vinyl dragged on her cigarette some more, then picked up the pack. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure, whatevs.” Octavia followed the woman with her eyes, then, with a sigh, plugged in her guitar and plugged in the headphones. Trying out a couple power chords, she looked over her shoulder and whispered to herself:

“Anarchy.”

***

Vinyl watched, out of the corner of her eye, the conductor’s hand, trembling just a little, ready to lead them into battle. Her bow was a millimetre away from the strings. Her forehead was getting sweaty. With Catcher, the conductor, the pressure was always high. Finally, the hand moved.

The orchestra blared with Summer. Vinyl’s fingers moved in perfect harmony with the bow movements; the notes danced in their proper way; her eyes were closed, the music was inside her. The music was her. She was the music. She was the first violin. In this case, she was basically the soloist. She could do this.

“Stop!” came the yell from the conductor. Vinyl opened her eyes. Mark Catcher, the most renowned conductor in the city, the middle-aged bald man with a beard that made him look like a meth dealer, turned towards her. Vinyl gulped. “Vincenza,” he said calmly, approaching the woman. Suddenly, Vinyl’s tux felt vaguely uncomfortable. The violinist wished for her usual shirt and waistcoat that, now, seemed like so far away. “We seem to have a little problem here,” Catcher addressed the orchestra. “Our little ‘soloist’ here seems to have forgotten the tempo.” He loomed over Vinyl. “What exactly was your mistake, Vincenza? Can you tell the rest of the musicians so nobody repeats that mistake again?”

Vinyl gulped. “I was…” She hadn’t noticed any mistake; but, with Catcher, not noticing a mistake meant immediate dismissal. His orchestra, his core players, were the best of the best. She’d only been in this orchestra for two months, but she knew the demands very well.

“Were you rushing,” Catcher suggested politely, his face inches away from the woman’s, “or were you dragging?” He stood tall, looming over the sitting violinist. The rest of the orchestra seemed to have lost their gift of speech, silently staring at the floor. “Tell me, Vincenza. Were you rushing or were you dragging?”

“I was… dragging,” Vinyl settled.

“Oh.” Catcher pondered for a moment. “Then just count out the rhythm, Vincenza. Presto.”

“One, two, three-” Vinyl began.

SLAP!

Vinyl ouched and touched the cheek she’d just been slapped on.

“Count!”

“One, two, three-”

SLAP!

Vinyl felt tears appear in her eyes. She tried to swallow them up. “One, two, three-”

SLAP!

Vinyl staggered a little in her seat, her cheek blazing with pain. “One, two, three-”

SLAP!

Vinyl broke into tears, by far not for the first time in her career. But she couldn’t fail now. She’d come such a long long way. She’d trained, and played, and rehearsed. She deserved the place of the first violin in Catcher’s orchestra.

“Oh dear.” The conductor lowered his voice, touching the violinist’s cheek. The touch electrified her. “Are you upset, my dear?”

“Yes,” Vinyl mumbled, looking away.

“Do you want me to tell you why you are upset?” Catcher enquired, immediately answering: “Because you are a fucking crappy violinist!” He looked over the orchestra. “All of you are pathetic little fucks, but Vincenza here can’t run her fingers on a fucking piece of wood! Is that because that’s not your girlfriend’s cunt?” he asked, expecting no answer.

“Octavia is my friend,” Vinyl said weakly.

“Friend?!” Catcher turned sharply towards her. “Friend?” He grinned. “Little lazy fuckers like you don’t have friends! So don’t you fucking lie to me!” He took a deep breath, “You. Were. RUSHING!” He pointed at the edge of the stage. “There’s your door. Get the FUCK out of here. If you can’t distinguish between rushing the tempo and dragging the tempo, you don’t deserve to be in my orchestra. Get the FUCK OUT!” he yelled, inducing Vinyl to stand sharply, grab her violin and bow, and run away in tears.

Collapsing against the wall, off-stage, crying her heart out, she could hear Catcher’s dry baritone: “All right, ladies. Summer. Presto. And one, and two-”

***

“Heeeey!”

Octavia raised her hand in a greeting, staggering a little in the door. She took a drag off her beer bottle. “Hey, fellas. Sup?” She stormed into the room, which was, in reality, an attic, and placed her guitar case on the floor. “What are we playing today?”

“Uh…” Pat the drummer looked at Beatrice the bassist, who, in turn, looked at the blond man with a guitar whom Octavia didn’t recognise. “See, Tavs…”

“Who’s this guy?” Octavia asked cautiously, inching closer to the guitarist. “And why does he have a guitar? I thought we didn’t need a second guitar.” She looked at the blond man with animosity.

“We don’t,” Beatrice replied. “It’s just that…” She scratched the back of her head sheepishly. “Look.” She put down the bass. “You rarely attend rehearsals, and when you do, you’re drunk. When we go on stage, you yell profanities at the security and we get our asses handed to us. You throw bottles at the police, and we spend days in custody.”

“You drive under influence,” Pat supplied. “And make hateful remarks about our sponsors.”

“Because they’re fucking capitalists!” Octavia snarked, looking from one face to another. “What the fuck is this about? Tell me straight!”

“We.” Pat pointed at himself and at Beatrice. “Don’t. Need you. You are ruining our band’s chances at becoming great. We’ll never get signed with you on board. But,” he smiled, “with Fred, we can at least give it a try.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The blond guitarist extended his hand with a polite smile.

“Pleased to meet you?!” Octavia growled and spat in the offered hand. “That’s what I think about you! That’s what I think-” She spat on the floor. “-About your whole fucking sellout band! You fucking sellouts! I knew you were a bitch, Pat,” she pointed at the drummer, “but Bea? Seriously? I thought you were a femipunk, crushing those balls and singing truths!”

“There’s no such thing as ‘femipunk’,” Fred the new guitarist said calmly. “Punk is more about equality than it is about gender stereotypes. If you were aware-”

“Punk,” Octavia growled, looming in on the unperturbed guitarist, “is about fucking up with booze, crushing authority and spreading anarchy!” She looked over the attic room again. “That’s what punk is about!”

“Octavia,” Beatrice said in the same calm tone as Fred. “Please leave. We do not want you to be part of our band. We haven’t, for a while.”

“Well, fuck you then!” Octavia yelled, gritting her teeth as she observed the two traitors and the third wheel. “Fuck you and your band!” She pointed at Fred. “And fuck your choice! I’ll bet this little shit here doesn’t even know anything but power chords! I played jazz in a band, I’ll have you know!”

“We know,” Pat said, “ and we do not care.”

“When I become a fucking celebrity,” Octavia warned, picking up her case, “I won’t even look at you dirty fuckers. You’re dirt under my fucking feet!” Flustered, she stormed out of the room.

Pat shrugged. “All right, with that dealt with, let’s actually play some music, for a change.”

***

Vinyl walked along the snowy street, taking deep, painful breaths. The irony was not lost on her. Summer. Presto. One, two, three, slap. Well, this was only to be expected. Sooner or later… Everyone was subject to rotation in Catcher’s orchestra. Catcher. What a stupid name.

Vinyl sighed and tried for the pack. Of course. She’d had her last cigarette ten minutes ago. She walked onto the bridge. What to do now? She couldn’t apply for a lower orchestra. She would not be third violinist ever again. She stopped and looked over. Oh no, I’m not thinking about jumping off the bridge. That’s just fucking stupid. Once more, Vinyl sighed, and breathed in the deep, saturated air. Maybe a chamber ensemble?

Her phone rang. Automatically, Vinyl took off her gloves and took out the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Vinyl,” came Octavia’s inebriated voice. “What’s up, you sexy beast?”

Vinyl sighed, considering whether she had hit her limit of sighs for the day. “Octavia.” She rubbed her forehead. “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet,” came the reply. “But they kicked me out of the band, so I’m totally getting blasted tonight.”

“The proper term would be wasted…” Vinyl sighed, when a realisation dawned upon her. “Wait. You too?!” She almost dropped the phone off the bridge. Her hands were getting a touch cold.

“What do you mean, you too?” Octavia asked. “You mean, like-”

“I mean, bloody Catcher finally fired me.” Vinyl chewed on her lip and touched her cheek. “After slapping me a hundred times.”

“He what?” Octavia’s voice rasped in the phone. “Show him to me and I’ll give him one hell of a beating!”

Vinyl smiled, imagining her best friend kicking Catcher’s ass. “Let’s return to the getting wasted part,” she suggested reasonably.

“Oh, so little miss abstainer is gonna get a couple drinks with her old friend?”

“A couple?” Vinyl chuckled. “Octavia, after what happened today, I’m not sure if I’ll stop at a dozen.”

***

Drinking was very, very fun. Unfortunately, Vinyl did it so rarely that she had almost forgotten the drive of half a dozen whiskies in your belly. And two gin-tonics. And five beers. And four shots of rum.

“Whee!” Vinyl shouted gleefully, taking off her blue waistcoat and waving it in the air. Her shirt was two buttons off from the top, and the male patrons of the bar were doing their best not to stare. “Octavia, come over here, it’s so fun!” She spun and spun about three steps away from the bar counter, where Octavia was cradling her glass.

The guitarist chuckled, watching her friend’s antics. “I definitely should take you out drinking more often.”

“Octavia!” Vinyl yelled, even though the punk rocker was sitting a couple steps away from her and the music was not that loud. “Here, take my waistcoat!”

Octavia chuckled and caught the delicate piece of clothing. “Always thought you look better without it.”

“Come on!” Vinyl urged, approaching Octavia and grabbing her by the arm. “Let’s dance! Fuck your band, and fuck my orchestra! Let’s just dance!”

Octavia obeyed and followed Vinyl into the empty space, but, instead of dancing with her, just watched as Vinyl spun round and round, waving her arms comically. Finally, she could not contain a laugh. “Damn, Vinyl, your dancing skills are… impressive as fuck.”

“You know what we should do?” Vinyl licked her lips seductively as she dragged Octavia close to her, almost collapsing onto the woman. “We should totally make out. Gods, it’s been years since I made out with someone. Come on, Octavia, let’s do it, I’ve been meaning to do it for years.”

“No, you haven’t.” Octavia shook her head and distanced yourself from the woman. “I’m straight. And so are you. Damn,” she swore, “how come I’m the voice of reason? For fuck’s sake!” She glanced at the usually prim, proper violinist, who was trying to light up a cigarette. “Vinyl, there’s been a smoking ban for five years now.”

“Stupid fucking city,” Vinyl swore without ceasing her efforts.

“That’s a national ban,” Octavia tried to explain. “Hell, it’s the same in other countries. It’s banned everywhere.”

“Stupid fucking authorities.” Vinyl finally managed to light up her cigarette and dragged on it victoriously.

Octavia regarded her friend with a degree of respect. “I always knew that, deep inside, you were an anarchist.” She smirked and opened her mouth to say something else, when a waiter approached the pair and said politely to Vinyl:

“I am sorry, ma’am, we are a non-smoking establishment. If you would care to go outside…”

“It’s fucking snowing outside!” Vinyl remarked, staggering a little. She pointed her finger at the waiter accusingly. “If it weren’t for all you waiters telling us nobles what to do-”

“All right, that’s enough.” Octavia grabbed Vinyl by the waist and the shoulders and dragged her away towards the exit. Glancing back, she took a right turn towards the toilets and entered the toilet, Vinyl in her half-embrace.

“I thought we were performing anarchy tonight!” Vinyl complained drunkenly.

“Fuck, I have no idea how you manage to be so beastly drunk, make a fool of yourself, and still retain eloquence.” Octavia pondered. “Fuck. I said ‘retain’. That’s not very punk. Though…” She rubbed her chin. “If Bad Religion do those complicated lyrics…”

“Why are we in a toilet?” Vinyl demanded, freeing herself from Octavia’s grasp. “I don’t need to pee.”

“We aren’t here to pee.” Octavia took a quick look around and, noting that there was no one around, dragged Vinyl into one of the stalls.

“Wha…” An expression of surprise on Vinyl’s face changed into a sultry expression as soon as she found herself in the cramped space, rubbing shoulders with Octavia, quite literally. “Aaah… I see. You wanna sex me!” she proclaimed victoriously. “Great, I haven’t had sex in years. Come on, let’s-”

“No, you silly ugh.” Octavia pressed her palm against Vinyl’s mouth, much like Vinyl had pressed her palm against Octavia’s mouth so many times. “I’m straight. And you are straight. And while I’m all for breaking rules, I’m sure it’d be something we’d seriously regret. We’re here to do this.” With that, the punk rocker fished out something from her pocket.

Vinyl squinted her eyes, then gasped. “Octavia! Is that- is that a joint?!”

“Yup.” Octavia grinned. “High-quality marijuana here. I think we should blaze it, just for the occasion.”

“Octavia,” Vinyl said warningly, “that’s illegal.”

“Much stuff I do is illegal,” Octavia countered boldly. “That’s the punk way. But,” she admitted, “this one’s legal. For your info, there’s been a court ruling you can keep up to three grams of marijuana for private possession if you’re not gonna distribute it. Also, blazing it in a public place will get us a fine at most. Come on.”

“How do you know so much?” Vinyl furrowed her brow.

“I secretly graduated from law school. Come on.” Octavia motioned for her friend. “Gimme the lighter. Let’s blaze this shit.”

“I don’t know, Octavia…” Vinyl took out the lighter reluctantly. “I mean, I’ve never tried drugs, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to start…”

“Oh, since then are you not drunk enough to do stupid things?” Octavia snapped. “Come on! They fired you, they fired me, now let’s fire this joint and make it square!”

For a moment, Vinyl contemplated the joint. Just like a cigarette. Then she touched her cheek. And then she remembered. And gritted her teeth. Then grinned. “Let’s blaze it.”

***

“Hey, Vinyl. Wake up.”

Vinyl rolled over, shielding her ears from the terrible noise that seemed to have taken form of Octavia’s voice. “Mhmhmhgway,” she mumbled, grabbing a pillow and putting it over her head.

The pillow, however, was swiftly taken away in an act of unspeakable betrayal and cowardice. “Vinyl, wake up, it’s four in the afternoon.”

As soon as Vinyl opened her eyes, she felt that the world had conspired against her to deliver a most painful death. A special level of hell, even. One reserved for people who didn’t turn mobile phones off in a concert hall. “Why. Do you. Ugh!” was all she could say before the light murdered any desire to live on this planet anymore.

“I wouldn’t wake you up,” Octavia said, “but you ate everything in the fridge yesterday so we’re out of food. And I’m hungry.”

“Ugh!” It took Vinyl a good five minutes to sit in bed, looking at the dressed guitarist. “What happened yesterday?”

Octavia blinked. “You mean you don’t remember?”

“I remember smoking that joint. Then…” Vinyl chewed on her lip. “Much fun. But nothing substantial comes to mind.”

“We went home,” Octavia said with a grin. “There was nothing ‘substantial’. We went home and you raided the fridge. Then you tried to get me into your bed. Tried to bribe me with beer.” Octavia sighed. “I must say that was fucking tempting.”

Language… Vinyl rubbed her eyes. They felt like going out of the sockets and straight to the moon. “We didn’t…? You know?”

“No,” Octavia replied, “we didn’t. I had to remind you that you’re straight about a thousand times.”

“Okay.” Vinyl nodded. “It’s great that… we are still friends.” She tried to stand up, but, instead, fell down on the bed.

“So…” Octavia smiled. “What about that duet thing?”

“What about what?” Vinyl tried to collect her thoughts, but the little punk Vinyl in her brain told her to fuck off and kept on napping. Why do I even have such a personality in my head in the first place?

“The duet?” Octavia supplied eagerly. “The thing we decided on yesterday? That we’ll make our own act and take the audience by storm and shit?”

“Storm… and shit?” Vinyl reiterated dumbly. “Why shit?”

“Oh come on, Vinyl!” Octavia almost facepalmed. “We talked. About. A new act. Me on guitar. You on violin. We’ll kick ass. And chew bubblegum. And drink beer. A lot of beer. And get hot studs and have a foursome.”

“What.”

“Okay,” Octavia admitted reluctantly, “that last one, I made up. But we could still get hot studs and have sex in the same room. ‘Cause the Golden Rule says that-”

“What.” Vinyl yawned and rubbed her eyelids again. “Uuuh. I need a cigarette.” Thankfully, Octavia had thought about it and handed her one:

“I guess smoking on an empty stomach isn’t pleasant, but since we don’t have food anyway… yeah.”

“We had two steaks. A cake. A whole plate of ham. Half a kilo of cheese. A pack of french fries,” Vinyl counted from memory.

“Yup,” Octavia confirmed. “We ate everything. One of the little side effects of my special joints.”

“Uh.” Vinyl took a drag on the cigarette. “Huh. An act. A duet. You on guitar and me on violin.” She pondered. “Will that even work?”

Octavia shrugged. “We can try. Besides: you don’t have a job, I don’t have a job.”

“You never had a job,” Vinyl made a point. “Your punk band cannot qualify as a job.” She sighed and took another deep drag. “Okay. Theoretically. How would that even work?..” She looked at Octavia, then rubbed her forehead. “You know…” She took the cigarette out of her mouth. “It could work. Of course, you’ll have to play acoustic guitar, not one of your monstrosities.”

Octavia gasped. “What? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“What?” Vinyl smiled. “Can’t play acoustic?”

“I can!” Octavia countered. “But acoustic is not punk enough.”

“Oh really?” Vinyl sighed and dragged on the cigarette greedily. I feel like I’m getting addicted to sighing. “Rise Against did acoustic, and Bad Religion did acoustic, and Anti-Flag did acoustic… should I continue?”

Octavia looked at Vinyl attentively for a few seconds. “How the hell do you know about punk bands?” She gasped. “Wait. Don’t tell me… Sissy prissy little miss violinist actually listens to punk rock in secret!”

“Well, my dear Octavia…” Vinyl smirked, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray. “You’ll find out that I’m still full of surprises.”