Under the Stars and Stripes (Under Him)

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Too much, little of it essential.”

Petra could be terse when she was focused, but I still appreciated her help.

Standing back while she did her thing, I watched in mild awe as Petra completely re-arranged what I’d packed, removing what wasn’t needed, getting other things that were, doing up the zipper like a punctuation.

“There you go.”

“Thanks,” I said, giving my baby sister a light, brotherly hug.

“No problem.”

She’d said that in Dutch, but I decided to let it go. There would be plenty of chances to practice once I got state side.

I was probably just being paranoid, anyway. There’d never been a problem with English before, I just wanted things to go well with my first international gig.

The invite had come out of the blue from my buddy Varg. His band, Loki’s Laugh, had been tapped to play at a major summer celebration over there. We’d played some gigs in the early days, and he’d gotten their record label to book me as an opening act for their most recent European tour.

I didn’t quite get the 4th of July thing myself, but got the impression it was really important to them and wanted to do my best. Not least because of the potential connections I could make in the North American market.

“Do you really have to go?”

I could have likely stood it if she hadn’t given me the puppy eyes.

Petra always knew just how to get to me.

“I’ll be back soon. You’ll be fine, and just think of it as a chance to live on your own for a bit.”

“Oh, okay. Good point. I’ve never really done that before.”

“No time like the present. The rent is paid for the month, so you’ll just be doing what you usually do. You just won’t have me cluttering up the place.”

“I wouldn’t say you clutter, but I still take the point.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Will you bring me back something American?”

“Of course. You can come tonight if you want.”

“Will they let me in?”

“Sure, you’ll be with me.”

It really wasn’t an exaggeration. I wasn’t exactly a star per se, but I was certainly well known in the local scene. I knew Petra didn’t drink and wouldn’t even if she had the chance, so there was little risk of her doing anything too crazy.

She’d tried a single sip of one of our dad’s beers when she was twelve. It was so traumatic she spat it out and swore to never drink again.

The night had cooled to a more tolerable ebb as we left the row house in search of a bike. Neither of us knew how to drive, despite being in our 20s. It was something more than possible in a city with as many bike paths as roadways.

The two kept well apart for the sake of safety. You didn’t even have to own your own bikes. There was usually a white-painted ‘ghost bike’ meant for public use close to hand.

“Keep your eyes open for ghosts,” I said, as we head for the club.

Technically it was a gig, but there would still be lots of time to see my friends after. It was a bit of a challenge, getting all the gear into the specially made wagon, but it worked out finally.

It had had an attachment that let it latch onto the back of a bike. Most of the stuff was in hard shell cases for extra protection; you could never be too careful.

“There,” Petra said.

There were, indeed, two unlocked ghost bikes leaned up against the railing along a canal. Perfect.

Snagging them before anyone else could get the chance, we worked together to get the wagon attached and were off, at twice the speed of walking. I might even be on time. There was already a line when we pulled up to the venue. Everyone was being kept single file behind a long velvet rope.

“Are they all here for you?” she asked me.

“Looks like it, though the opener could just be really popular.”

Setting the bikes where they could be found by others, I led us to the door, not hearing a peep out of those already in line, aside from some murmuring when they started to recognize me and no doubt wondering who the girl with me was.

Speculations flew wild and free about my personal life, ranging from my alleged celibacy to assumptions that I must be a Satanist because of the music I made.

More than once my gigs had been picketed by a loony local church. My fans soon got wise, taking to dissuading them with barrages of raw eggs somehow filled with black dye, no doubt representative of the ‘rotten eggs’ they assumed everyone but themselves of being.

I never either confirmed nor denied the rumors and accusations, letting people think what they would. It was almost impossible to change someone’s opinions once they were made anyway, and I had no time for people who hated me. It wasn’t worth the energy.