Every Novel Opens Somewhere...

September 11, 2020 Tim Lane

Your Silent Face, coming soon on Amazon Kindle, iBooks and here.

Your Silent Face Earlier we had argued whether The Smith’s lyrics were over-indulgent. “Seriously, though,” Karen whined hours later, and drunker, at El Oasis. “What the hell is Morrissey whining about?” From the bus station, we had driven around the city, hunting for Nigel to buy some beer. Now, as it neared last call, I still had not been home. In the mirrored alcove behind the dance floor, I leaned into Karen and sang the opening lines of The Smith’s haunting song, ‘How Soon Is Now.’ Karen wasn’t loving it. “Spare me, goon boy.” She was totally rude. I singled out The Beautiful Ones, noticing how absorbed in the music they seemed. Nobody danced together anymore. On my first night here at El Oasis, during the twilight of high school, I had asked a particular girl to dance. It was my last brave act before I had gone away to college. For two whole years, this girl had been my library scope. My friend, J Dog, in the library, while we worked on AP Physics: “Look, dude, there she is, The Italian Goddess.” I never really understood why she had danced with me. “Would you like to dance? My friend and I have a bet that you’re Italian.” Lame. Her name was Farrah; Italian, not. We had danced for two whole songs: ‘Tainted Love’ and ‘Video Killed the Radio Star.’ (I hadn’t seen her since. Not at El Oasis, the library, anywhere. It was like she hadn’t been real.) I leaned back into Karen and tried to croon a few more lyrics of ‘How Soon Is Now,’ picking up where I’d left off. “Not bad, hunh?” “Barf.” I wound my way to the center of the dance floor, drawn out of the alcove by a song by New Order which was replaced by Fine Young Cannibals which faded into The Cure’s ‘Close to Me.’ I allowed my arms to swing and my neck to bend like Ian Curtis, began to sweat, became more absorbed in the music. “Last call, my beautiful people,” the DJ breathed, interrupting my groove. Did I want another beer? Damn straight. Karen was beside me. “What’s going on?” She raised her voice above the thumping bass. A crowd was gathering near the entrance to the club. Out of sync now, I gave up and relayed everything I could see. “Wow, it’s Nigel,” I shouted. “He’s out front. It looks like they won’t let him back in.” “What?” “Oh, my, is he pissed.” Nigel, who was one of the most passive dudes I had ever met, was giving the bouncers the most dramatic middle fingers he could summon. It struck me as comical. In my head, Morrissey’s plaintive voice came back around like a boomerang.