An incredibly tall man in a ratty T-shirt and sweatpants appears in the doorway.
“Alexa,” he says, smiling down at her. Then, he surveys the rest of us and adds, “The band.”
He steps back, extends his arm toward the inside of the house. “Welcome to my basement.”
So I’m pretty sure that this is the kind of situation parents have nightmares about: towering slobby guy in his thirties smiling down at a group of teenagers, gesturing to welcome them into the dark basement of an abandoned house. But maybe because of the instruments, or the fact that at one point he and Alexa spoke on the phone, or the semiprofessionalism of the typed-up sign that was supposed to hang out front—or maybe because of all of these things combined with the fact that only one of us is not officially an adult yet, we say “What’s up, Walt,” and walk in.
Walt pulls a cord and a combination light/ceiling fan switches on.
“Okay, so uh . . . here’s the stage.” Walt walks over to a line of duct tape that runs the expanse of one side of the concrete floor. “Everything from here to that wall is yours. Everything on the other side is for the rest of us. The tape is largely symbolic but I’ve found that it works.”
I nod as if this is perfectly normal. Meg’s nails are digging into her hand, something she does when she needs to suppress inconvenient laughter, which is often. Alexa has already moved past shock to practicality: her eyes scan the stage section of the basement for electrical outlets. Leaning against the wall, Bev appraises Walt with tremendous enjoyment.
Walt leads us on a tour around the rest of the basement. It is not a generous space, but he has it broken up into sections. In one corner is The Bedroom (unmade bed and chest of drawers) and in another is The Living Room (a sagging, floral-print couch). Next to The Living Room is The Kitchen (a mini-fridge, a cooler full of beer, a hot plate, and an overflowing trash can). And then we are back to The Stage.
“Oh,” he says. “I almost forgot.” He takes a couple steps backward until he is in the middle of the room, extending his arms to either side.
“The Dance Floor.”
Meg can no longer contain her laughter and, thankfully, Walt joins in.
He points a smudged finger at her.
“I like a lady who knows how to have a good time,” he says.
The completion of the tour seems like a good opportunity for me to show Walt the sign.
“Should we get more tape?” I ask.
“Meh,” Walt says, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Everyone knows where to come. That was basically just for you guys.”
Soon the girls are unfastening cases, untangling cords, plugging things in, testing sound. As they move across the basement floor, Walt gives the impression of tidying up. He circles the room slowly, ignoring the piles of dirty clothes and pizza boxes, fluffing a pillow on the couch instead, walking past a table strewn with crusty dishes to straighten a framed Heart poster. When the first person arrives, he gives up the act and grabs a beer.
Soon people are streaming in, heading straight for the cooler. A guy with a Pabst Blue Ribbon shirt and a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand asks me if I’m with the band.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Cool,” he says.
We stand next to each other for a minute.
“I already knew that,” he says.
“Knew what?”
“That you were with the band. We all know each other. We all went to high school together or some shit like that. But you, A) are younger than my youngest brother, and B) have a mug I’ve never seen before.”
“Oh,” I say.
“What kind of beer you want?”
I shrug. “Any kind.”
He narrows his eyes at me. Apparently, this was not a good answer.
“I’ll take a beer,” I say. “I just don’t really know what kind I like.”
When he continues to look at me like I’m crazy, I add, “I’m eighteen. I’m used to taking whatever I can get.”
“Walt,” PBR guy barks, and Walt appears beside him, slinging his arm around PBR’s shoulder.
“It’s gonna be a good show tonight,” Walt says. “Did you see those girls? Those girls are smokin’.”
Walt turns to me.
“I mean that with the greatest respect,” he says. “Your friends are ridiculously talented and special.”
“Walt,” PBR guy says, ignoring everything Walt has just told him, “we need to determine what kind of beer is this young man’s kind of beer.”
“I need a particular kind?” I ask.
“Everyone needs a kind,” Walt says.
PBR points to his own shirt. “You see that I take this seriously. You need to know what kind of beer you drink to know what kind of man you are. I, for example, am a cheap bastard.”
They lean back a little to get a good look at me.
“He wears old-ass Nikes,” PBR says. “Now those are some vintage sneakers. I think I had a pair like that in junior high. Where’d you find shoes like that?”
“Thrift store in the Mission,” I say.
PBR nods knowingly. “Lift up that shirt a little, kid, let me check out that belt,” he says.
My belt is lime-green canvas with a silver pull-through buckle.
“A little ostentatious,” Walt says.
“Yeah,” I say. “But it’s always covered.”
PBR nods. “Covered by a somewhat formfitting gray T-shirt.”