Sandra

Steve Allele and the Split Infinitives

“How is this even my life?,” Steve Allele wondered as he surveyed the teeming, hivelike crowd stretched out before him. Steve and his band, The Split Infinitives, for whom he played bass, were set to take the stage at Newton’s very first Plastic Armadillo Festival; four days of live music set against a backdrop of two enormous, psychedelichued, fiberglass Dasypodidae; each one with plates the size of compact automobiles. The Echo Chamber had just finished their set of sprawling jam music; now a bevy of roadies scurried to and fro, laying lengths of cable across the stage, snaking it between mic stands and pedals and Brendan’s drum kit—all the things that would help the Split Infinitives sound like the Split Infinitives.

Though Steve absolutely refused to use the term ‘midlife crisis’ (it was too much of a cliché), deep down, underneath the tight-fitting leather jacket and even tighter jeans; underneath the hair gel and layers of cologne and tastefully-applied yet nevertheless fake spray tan; buried somewhere in his soul he knew—the Split Infinitives should never have ventured beyond Brendan’s basement. He’d never dreamed, not in a million and one years, none of them did, that what started out as four sad, middle-aged dudes indulging their rock and roll fantasies would end up where they were at the moment.

Steve ran his hands up and down the fret board of his bass, silently playing lines in the hopes that when the time came, his fingers would simply know what to do. Brendan stood next to him, twirling a pair of drumsticks through the air with the precision of a majorette. He nodded in his succinct bro-dude way when Steve made eye contact; ‘yes,’ his sharp chin jab seemed to say, ‘we are meant to be here, man.’ Yet, Steve knew better. They weren’t really supposed to be here; being here had come at great personal cost, to Steve in particular, and he was curious to see if it was all going to be worth it in the end.

Steve fished his phone from the pocket of his jeans. Waiting there was a text from Wendy; how long it had been there was anyone’s guess, the tickling of the phone’s vibrate setting no match for the teeth-rattling pulsate of the Echo Chamber’s bass lines, nor the persistent, murmuring buzz of the audience. Wendy. Poor, sweet Wendy was Steve’s wife, though purely by technicality only, she having gone to stay with her mother after the unfortunate newsroom incident. She’d put up with so much from Steve these past few months; so much so that now Steve could only stare sheepishly at the screen of his phone, unable to push the ‘read’ button, afraid of what awaited him on the other side.