The Fishbowl

Vinyl hefted her main bag onto one shoulder, and the smaller bag onto the other. She picked up the satchel and headed out. There were times when she wondered if she could have chosen a lighter career.

It could be worse, she forced herself to think. I could be hauling around a cello.

It was a short bus ride, but then she had to head down a motley cluster of streets and alleys to get to the club. The sun was setting, spilling lines of gold down the alley, punctuated by the shadows of angular street lights and billboards. The door to the club was set back from the street, at the bottom of a short flight of steps. The blue neon sign above the door reading Underworld was switched off, and the door was fastened shut, but she’d been told to expect this. She knocked on the door.

“We open at nine!” shouted a woman from inside, muffled by the thick wood. She sounded posh, and more than a little annoyed.

“I’ve got an appointment!” she called back.

“Nobody told me about any appointments!” hollered the woman grumpily.

“I’m running your set tonight. It’s Vinyl Scratch!”

After a pause, the woman slowly unbolted the various locks holding the door in place. Eventually she pulled the door open and poked her head out. She was an older woman with blonde hair, warm brown skin and a sensible suit. She looked Vinyl up and down critically.

“Really? You? I can’t say that you look the part.”

“Maybe, but I sure sound it,” said Vinyl with significantly more confidence than she felt. A little swagger was part of the game, after all.

“Very well then, come with me. We’ll check with his lordship.” She ushered Vinyl in, past the ticket booth and down the smooth brick stairs, securing the door firmly behind them.

The club was in a converted industrial building of some sort, with a lot of exposed pipes and brickwork worn down over the years. Torn posters adorned the walls unevenly, advertising acts of the past, some of them faded beyond recognition. At the bottom of the stairs and was led round a corner and through a door marked ‘Staff only’ into a messy lounge with a mismatched collection of seats mixed up with instruments, cables, speakers and other equipment.

“You can leave your stuff here for now,” said the woman, walking over to knock at another door. Vinyl gratefully slid the bags off her shoulders, setting them carefully down.

“What is it?” came a man’s voice from inside. It sounded rich, full of itself, and it made Vinyl cringe. She took a deep breath and reminded herself of why she was here.

“Someone called, er, Viner...”

“Vinyl,” she corrected, “Vinyl Scratch.”

The door burst open. “Vinyl, darling!” The man was blond, with fair skin and a bright white suit.

This is my big break, don’t screw it up, don’t screw it up. “Hi, Mister Blueblood. I’m all ready for my set tonight. Got the kit, the tunes, the duds, the works.” She indicated the various bags.

“And I’m expecting great things from you, sweetums,” he said in an infuriatingly familiar tone. “There’ll be acres of time to set things up, so first, why don’t we take a stroll into my parlour and we’ll go over a few things. Harsh, honey, take five, I got this.”

The woman harrumphed as she headed out the door. “Just don’t do anything I’ll regret,” she muttered.

Blueblood guided Vinyl into the office with a hand pressed into the small of her back. He needs that hand, she reminded herself. I need him to have that hand so he can pay me, and write a letter of recommendation to the next club manager.

Blueblood’s office was even messier than the staff room. Papers were strewn across the two facing sofas, along with a stapler, a laptop, plates of half-eaten food and a folder full of completely unsorted accounts, receipts, invoices and scribblings.

“Find a space, sit down,” he said with a wave as he shut the door. Vinyl reluctantly pushed a slew of paperwork aside, causing a minor landslide onto the floor. She felt dirty just touching it all, and wondered how he always managed to keep his shiny white suits immaculate when the room was in such a state.

He shoved his laptop aside to sit opposite her, his expression turning serious.

“Okay, Scratch, last chance for you to back out of this. It’s...” – he glanced at his watch – “quarter to seven now. I can still get Berryshine to do the whole night if you don’t think you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it. I promise.”

“Good to hear. But the competition set you did was only half an hour, and the preview last week was just over an hour. You did well, but this is the real thing. It’s different. There’s more to keeping a crowd alive and kicking for that long. You can’t just keep playing the same thing, you have to...” – he waved his hands ambiguously as if that would help at all – “change it up, keep their attention, and stay on top of the mood of the room. It only takes one bad song to drive everyone off the floor.”

“I know that, and I can totally do it. Don’t you worry.” And don’t you dare touch me again, you nasty little–

“Awesome. The doors open at half eight. We’ll get Berryshine to do the opening set to about 10, then you take over for the rest of the night. That means you’ll be catching the closing bar traffic, but most of the office party sorts will have either cleared off or got properly stuck in. Also it’s a saturday so you’ll see some of the school crowd, but that tails off about 11.”

“Got it.”

“Alright. Go set up your kit, and try not to mess with Berryshine’s stuff while you’re at it. She’s awfully possessive about it, and we don’t need any more bottles through the speakers.”

Vinyl was pretty good at this. She had the whole club rocking, and some well-placed changes in tempo had helped to break up the clusters and get the punters. She knew she would, of course – this was her calling, her raison d’etre, her home – but there’d still been a degree of bravado in her promise.

She spotted a few kids from school among the crowd: Rarity with her hair down and wearing plenty of diamonds. Flash Sentry and his band mates doing air guitar. Tree Hugger wearing flowing robes and doing her own thing with no discernable rhythm. Octavia in a tight little dress…

Tavi?!

She was standing near the door, looking awkward. She was wearing a slinky, shiny dark grey dress that emphasised much more than it concealed. She had a grim face, and hugged her arms, kept her body closed. She kept moving behind objects and people, shielding herself, whether from the dance floor or from Vinyl’s vision. Her eyes darted about, as if she expected monsters to jump out from every corner.

Seriously, Tavi, you’d stand out less if you turned up wearing nothing but a neon sign.

Vinyl nearly missed her next cue to keep the beat going, but managed to get past it by quickly setting up a massive bass drop that had dancers whooping and doing silly things with their hair.

She waved the other DJ over. “Hey, Berry, do you might covering for just a minute?”

“Yeah, it’s rocking, right!” shouted Berryshine.

“No, I mean can you watch my set? Just for a couple of minutes!”

“Sure thing!” She made to head for the bar. “What are you drinking?”

Deciding that mime was the universal language of the deafened, Vinyl made an exaggerated motion of stepping away from the mixing deck and gesturing for Berryshine to take her place. She got the idea and took over.

Vinyl threaded her way through the crowd, hopping nimbly through, betwixt and occasionally over the dancers. Octavia was staring intently at a patch on the wall; she looked up, right at Vinyl, and staggered backwards, only saved from falling over backwards by hitting the wall.

“Tavi, what are you doing here?” Vinyl wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be pleased or worried.

Octavia hesitated before answering, “I wanted to see you. That is, I wanted to properly see you, when you’re in your element, your true self. Not just the side of you I see outside.”

“Woah, that’s nice of you, but you kind of look–”

Without warning, Octavia stepped forward and pressed her lips to Vinyl’s.

What the–?

Is she... she’s kissing me. She’s kissing me!

Is she drunk? She doesn’t smell drunk. And I should know. Damn it!

Should I step away? Should I push her away? Would that be rude? Should I hold her? Is being rude more important than... than letting her know how I feel?

How do I feel? This is Octavia, this is the girl whose sand castles I kicked down, who shared her lunch with me, who always lent me pencils. She’s my oldest friend.

My friend who has really, really soft lips. I mean, does she moisturise them, or what? How do you even get lips that soft?

Shit, stop, no, don’t think that!

But oh, wow, that feels nice. It’s all tingly and warm, and is that her tongue? How does she know how to do that?

Wait, is that her breasts pressing against me? That dress she’s wearing is really tight. Like, I never really noticed before, but…

Gyaah! Don’t be distracted. This is important! You need to make a decision. You can’t just stand here…

Octavia broke the kiss. She paused a moment, her lips hovering over Vinyl’s, then closed her mouth and took a step back. Her eyes were pained.

“I... uh... Tav... um...”

“I know, Vinyl. I could tell.” Octavia turned and walked away, up the stairs and out of the club.

Vinyl felt she was supposed to run after her, stop her, hold her, say something, anything. But what? What could she possibly say that wouldn’t make things somehow worse?

The most important thing had already been said.