The sound of low thumping seemed to fill the air, a squealing guitar suddenly shattering even that as the door to a squat building, the same in a row of squat buildings, opened out into the night. It was cold, mid-winter, and the people who exited looked like they were on fire from the amount of steam coming off of their bodies. Some of them were garish, neon hair flattened and fanned in high Mohawks or twisted into spikes, leather jackets covered in patches, pins, and studs. Homemade jewelry hung from their lobes, noses, and even lips, safety pins with the dried crusts of blood still on them. Some of the others were almost the exact opposite, sweat drenched poles and suspenders hanging off their waists, jeans rolled up to the tops of shining leather work boots.
Tattoos were prevalent on all of those catching their breath outside, and quiet chatter, voices harsh from screaming along to lyrics was broken by shared bottles of beer and passed around cigarettes, only a few abstaining, and those few were people with a drawn 'X' on each hand. The muffled music still filled the night air, swirling around in the steam of rapidly chilling bodies that were gearing up for round two.
It was the kind of environment Connor had realized he thrived in from a young age. From the first show he had ever snuck out of the house to go to, to this one almost twenty years later, this was what he loved. This was what he felt like made him happy, and even if he was starting to get to old to hit the middle of the floor and dance it out with the other kids, he was never planning on slowing down. He ran a large hand over the top of his head, listening to the raspy sound it made against the shaved flesh. He took a final drag on the cigarette he had in his hands, burning it down to the filter, before pinching the fire off and putting the dead butt in his pocket. No littering.
He stood for a moment, stretching his arms, quickly crossing them back and forth over his chest to get the blood pumping again. Connor smiled at his friends, eyebrows lifted, eyes excited as he tilted his head towards the door.
"C'mon, let's go again."
Friends laughed, told him to fuck off, some pinched cigarettes and prepared to head inside with him, while it was evident others were pretty much done for the night. They were the 'Old Guard', punks and skins who were getting into the part of life where they had responsibilities, shit to take care of, and not a few of them had kids of their own that they were doing their best to do right by. But for now? Connor wanted to ignore that adult responsibility, wanted to just leave all the blood on the stage and the sweat on the floor, and scream along to the lyrics he had heard a thousand times before. And those that agreed with him, they followed him inside.
It was a swirling mess of chaos, of almost dizzying body heat and the packed tight feeling of sixty or so people in a room that probably shouldn't have tried to hold more than forty. It was a riot of color, of affiliation by patches and spikes, shaved heads and dyed hair. The lights flashed as the band played music that was fast and raw, the type of shit that made Connor start bouncing on his feet as they cleared the people just standing and watching on the edges of the pit. No matter how old, how tired, how broken he got, this was where he belonged, in this writhing mass of humanity that was spinning faster and faster, this wild exorcism of every fear, worry, and feelings of happiness in the world. You danced to get the good and the bad out, just whatever you poured into it. Every bit of yourself could be found on that dance floor, and as he entered the spinning mass of bodies, he let it all out to the beat of the music and the screamed lyrics.
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He felt it all the next morning. It seemed like he was feeling every single second of his thirty four years, and he made what could only be considered 'dad noises' as he finally got out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom. He couldn't stop yawning as he took his morning piss, unlit cigarette dangling from his lower lip, finally shaking it off and going to wash his hands in the sink after he flushed. The man looking back from the mirror was a strange one. A shaved head with a 'beard' that was mostly a weekend's worth of scruff, a nose that was as crooked as a West Virginia back road, a few small scars here and there, the most noticeable a thick line that cut at a mostly horizontal angle through his left eyebrow. Faint bruising circled the same eye, and he gingerly touched it with wet fingers to try and assess the damage.
His boss wouldn't mind if he came in with a black eye, but would probably prefer he didn't, and Connor would prefer to not have to answer questions from his co-workers that a truly bad black eye would make them ask. He ran a hand across his head again, deciding that he'd shave it in the morning before work, and then he walked into the kitchen. After kicking around for a few minutes, he had coffee brewing, so back to the bathroom for a shower it was. Finally, he felt like a decent human being, the smells of last nights show off his skin, a mug of coffee in his hand (the mug had a cat with sunglasses on it and said 'cool cat'), and he idly scratched his chin, taking a sip, and looking out over the neighborhood from his little balcony.
The neighborhood was a good one, despite the efforts to gentrify it, and the community had held strong and kept their identity. A lot of the men and women in the area worked at the same factory he did, shifting metal and building cars at the local plant. They were union people, and Connor especially took great pride in being a union man. The crossed hammer and wrench tattoo on his forearm that said 'working class' in the banner reflected that. He took another sip of his coffee, finally putting the mug down and attempting to enjoy the brisk Sunday morning.
His quiet reflection was shattered by the ringing of his phone, and with a curse he got to his feet and went inside, digging through his covers and pillows until he found the thing. He bit off a second curse, biting the inside of his cheek instead when his ex-wife's name was the one showing on the screen. He took a deep breath, counting to five, finally accepting the call just a second or two before it would go to voicemail anyways.
"Hello?" He said, voice measured. He hated talking to Michelle, hated it with a fiery burning passion since they had split up five years ago, but he tried to be civil for their daughter. That was the plan, anyways.
"I can't deal with her anymore!" The voice, one that he had once loved, was nothing but shrill and hostile now. It was like nails on a chalkboard, scraping down his spine.
"What did she do now?" He fought the urge to roll his eyes, stepping back out onto the balcony and sitting in his chair. Might as well drink his coffee while he heard the latest tirade about what Saoirse had done.
Michelle had been into all of the rebellion and punk rock, all the crazy things they had done, when they first got together. It had even extended for a good bit of their daughters beginning years. Then she had just seemed to decide that she didn't want it anymore, she was done, and that they should be done, completely. Change their music, change their clothes and the way they looked, cover up the tattoos and pretend it never happened. Connor couldn't do that, so she had found a man that was willing, that didn't know her those years. It still stung. He realised he was wool-gathering about the same time Michelle asked him if he was listening.
