Grungy Short Stories from Seattle, By Zola McDaniel
Chapter One Excerpt
Seattle’s Rocket magazine launched grunge music.
It was everywhere.
It was free.
Prologue
“This isn’t Rock and Roll High School, Mizzz Wander,” the professor reminded me for the last time. “Your syntax is salacious, and your metaphors are muddled,” he smirked as a chorus of giggles rose from the newly-minted freshmen in the back row. He was pleased with their approval, because it meant they wouldn’t be picking on him for the rest of that dull October afternoon.
“Mizzz Wander?” He coughed into his coffee mug. “Where do you think you’re going?” Normally, I’d given him a one-fingered salute, but he wasn’t worth the effort. I was late.
“It’s a big city, and everyone belongs,” I said on the way out. He ran across the room and shouted at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His face was red as he shook his finger. “You’ll regret this!” his voice boomed down the empty corridor as the freshmen jeered my escape.
I opened the exit door wide and stood in the sun. Rusty yellow leaves blew across my black and white sneakers and scattered down the hallway toward them.
“Be a voice, not an echo, Einsteins,” I said as I beelined for the bike rack. A five-for-five was happening at work that night. Five bands for a five-dollar cover charge: Soundgarden, Skin Yard, Mudhoney, Tad, and Bam Bam.
The brick-and-mortar walls of Seattle Central Community College disappeared as I bombed down a mile of hills so steep that it was easy to catch air if the traffic lights lined up—or become an organ donor if they didn’t.
I hammered into Pioneer Square and rolled into the Zentral Tavern. All of the lights at the end of the club were shining bright emerald green on the small, grungy stage.
~ Violet Wander, Seattle
Chapter Eight Excerpt: Hallowed Ground
The Off Ramp Cafe and Lounge Conjured a Crossroad vibe.
“Hey,” Nika shouted into my answering machine. She was calling from a pay phone in a club. “Soundgarden, Skin Yard, and two other bands are doing an AIDS benefit for the Chicken Soup Brigade at Off Ramp.” She listened for signs of life on my end. It had to be important if she was waiting for me to pick up. “Tonight—like, friggin’ now.” I fell out of the shower and beelined for the phone.
“Pick up … Violet,” she grumbled. “Wilum Pugglestein is gonna meet you there at nine. Maybe Gillian Gaar will cover it if she’s in Seattle.” I launched over the couch as Nika hung up. It was 8:45 p.m.
The Off Ramp Cafe and Lounge was a few blocks from my apartment, and a million miles out of my comfort zone. I made an emergency call to my wingman, Cousin Bob.
“Call me superstitious,” I reported into Bob’s answering machine. “But The Off Ramp sits right on a freaky crossroads between Grunge Alley, I-5, and the Capitol Hill overpass on Denny Way……”
He picked up.
“Chill,” he exhaled. “Don’t be so mondo dramatic. It’s just a long, black, box-like cavern that’s filled to the rafters with every imaginable kind of vice—and a few I’ve never heard of.” His end of the line bubbled as he smoked. “I’m in.”
“Is it true that the men’s bathroom has a long sink sitting on the floor that’s used as a primitive urinal?” I shouted at the receiver as I packed my army green messenger bag. I struggled to leave my bias at home.
“Totally,” he talked over music in the background. “I don’t know who it was, but urban legend a leading punk frontman pulled it off the wall, apparently he was a tad angry.” He turned and held the receiver out to the room, “Violet wants to know how the men’s bathroom sink got on the floor at Off Ramp.”
Jimmy St. Bitchin’ shouted over the band rehearsal noise, “I heard Doyle ripped the stall door off its hinges!”
Meanwhile, Matt Aird yelled his own rockin’ stage name: “Tell The Rocket was Matt Tantrum from City Heat!”
“You’re full of shit,” I accused, “There’s no way the city would allow a trough to remain installed on the floor of a public restroom. How does it flush?”
“Seattle health inspectors are scared shitless to go into Off Ramp. The old sink sits over the floor drain and every night the staff throws buckets of bleach water at it. You don’t want to know about the women’s can, because I hear it’s even worse.” He laughed and put on his coat at the same time. “This is gonna be fun,” he said. His keys jingled as he headed through City Heat Magazine’s side door to the parking lot.
“Cool,” I said, “Bring your Camcorder and your combat boots.” The line went dead. “Meet up at the front door?” I added, but he was already blazin’ a trail for Seattle.
I hammered east on my mountain bike into a headwind that pushed me toward home at every turn. The Off Ramp had a loyal following of bands and fans who packed the narrow stage and show room. I felt the capacity-crowd vibration before I cruised into the dead end where Denny slams into the freeway.
The former warehouse had a crossroads vibe that was more shooting gallery than it was chic. I’d heard the rumors about clouds of noxious smoke and powdery residues on the top of the toilet paper dispensers, but that was normal for clubs like the Vogue or the Monastery.
To be continued……..
Pink Umbrellas Love Rainydaze 