Punk Love

All in all, Alex was by far my favorite pleasant surprise.

A month after The Picnic that Changed Everything, my parents demanded to meet the mysterious guy I’d been spending so much time with.

Actually, they would have done so much earlier if it wasn’t for my elaborate, often ridiculous lies about spending half the time I spent with him with Paulina.

It helped that Alex was the son of two respectable dentists one town over, drove a Volvo, played three different musical instruments, and was generally a straight A student, even though he gave exactly two shits about school. They had the general idea that he was a very good kid. An idea, of course, that was at risk of bursting like a soap bubble the minute they actually met him, the mammoth guy with the Mohawk.

However, I couldn’t keep both worlds separate forever. I knew my mom and dad had to meet him at some point.

Because the whole meet-up was orchestrated by me, nothing about this meet-up was organized and constructed. One day, I just told Alex on the phone: “Listen, my dad says if you don’t come into my house next time you come over to pick me up, he’ll meet you out front with a baseball bat.”

“Your dad doesn’t have a baseball bat,” Alex challenged.

I sighed. “True. But he does have a machete. He works in construction, remember?”

“In that case, I’ll wear a suit.”

We both laughed.

Alex didn’t wear a suit, but he didn’t wear his usual might-be-homeless clothes, either. He wore dark jeans without one hole in them (hooray!) and a crisp white shirt.

Alex was…not what my parents had in mind for me.

First of all, you could tell he had an edge. Second, he looked like he could fit me in his pocket, and third, he had this air about him, of someone who wasn’t very keen on people, and they must’ve picked up on it. He wasn’t overly nice, or falling over their feet. He spoke to them on eye level, which was disastrous, because they were my parents.

Still, Mom and Dad couldn’t really fault him for not being their taste, so they kept their mouths shut.

My mom did ask me, upon meeting him, if we needed to go to the OB-GYN and get me on the pill. I said, “Gross, Mom.” Then, after a pause, “But ask me again in three months just in case, okay?”

I was wondering at what point, exactly, I was going to have my grand debut into society as The Girl Who Screws the Drummer (even though technically, I did not screw the drummer).

I’m going to be extra honest here—I’d thought long and hard on which band member was best to date long before I found out about Alex, and came to the conclusion that, when in doubt, always go for the drummer.

Here is why:

The vocalist knows he is hot shit and will always come with an attitude the size of Italy. All vocalists have a I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD complex. All lead singers also feel, somewhere deep inside their hearts, that they are the only member that’s not disposable in the band. After all, anyone can play the drums, guitar, and bass, right?

Guitar players are vain, vain people. And they would most likely talk about their craft twenty-four seven. They’re the football players of the music instruments.

Bass players are anemic. This is not a scientific fact. However, it should be. Do we know any super famous bass players? I sure don’t.

Drummers have great arms and inherent pent-up rage, which is why they become drummers in the first place.

Drummers come from very loving, understanding families, because who else would be okay with their child banging on a set of drums several hours a day, every day?

Travis Barker.

Obviously, I could write an entire dissertation about the subject, but you can just take my word for it—drummers are the best.

The answer to my question (when I was going to see Alex play live, in case you lost the thread, which would be understandable) came a month and a half after the picnic. At this point, Alex and I were treading second base. We were taking things slow. There was patting and groping, but I still wouldn’t get near that thing between his legs. He never pushed for it, but I could tell he was a little frustrated and, after making out for hours, usually wanted me to go back home so he could take care of business.

One day, Alex and I were on his bed, kissing until our mouths went numb, when he said, “We have a gig next month. Wanna come?”

“I mean, sure.” I played it cool, throwing a party from within. This was finally happening. A month and a half ago, during the picnic, I was still somewhat of an outsider. But now we were an actual couple. Things were different.