In the Bar
Claire had never imagined that he would fall for John, just as he had never imagined that he would end up drunk in the Blue Velvet Bar.
He was a solidly built young man, with thick black hair that curled slightly at the ends, wild and untamed. He was the lead singer of a rock band. He neither smoked marijuana nor cigarettes. Occasionally he drank with his bandmates, but he considered himself a disciplined person. He never touched gin or brandy—those burned his throat and would ruin his signature raspy howl for days.
That night, Claire had just finished another performance at a pub. Liverpool in 1970 still echoed with the legend of the Beatles. Their band also had four members—four young men from northern England: two dropouts from art school, one who had given up a stable blue-collar job, and one guitarist of mysterious background. Claire hadn’t wanted him in the band at first, but the other two insisted. They said he was an excellent guitarist, and more importantly, he didn’t touch illegal substances, just like them. That reassured Claire. He was wary of anything addictive—weed, cigarettes, alcohol.
John. That was the guitarist’s name. The same as John Lennon. On the day of the audition, Claire had looked at the young man with suspicion. Brown, long, curly hair fell to his shoulders. He wore a gentle smile, the corners of his eyes drooping slightly. A pair of mild blue eyes shone with calm. His face was almost too delicate, doll-like, in sharp contrast to his tall, slender frame.
“You can play the guitar?” Claire asked, surprised at the challenge in his own voice.
“Yes,” John replied. His long fingers brushed the strings, producing a perfect chord. Perfect, Claire thought.
After John joined the band, Claire felt as though he were invisible. Whenever Claire argued with Dean the bassist and Lip the drummer over chords or lyrics, John would sit quietly to the side, like a well-behaved student. Only when it came time for a final decision would he speak. And every time, his ideas struck at the heart of the song, like a stroke of divine inspiration. Dean and Lip quickly accepted the quiet, dependable guitarist. But Claire couldn’t stand him. He was nothing like a rock star. Rather than a guitarist in a rock band, he seemed better suited to be a guitar teacher.
When Claire complained to Lip, Lip burst out laughing. The blond, Bulgarian-mixed drummer licked his full upper lip and told him that John had been a teacher—just not a guitar teacher. A math teacher.
“A math major?” Claire asked.
Lip gulped down a beer and nodded. “That quiet, skinny guy is a top student in mathematics. God knows why he plays rock. Maybe it pays better?” He snorted. “But look at us—we don’t make much either.”
Claire thought the same. Though the band had some local fame, it didn’t extend beyond a few dozen kilometers. Trend-chasing young people came to their shows on weekends to dance away boredom, stretch their bodies to aggressive rock music, flirt, or drink themselves numb after a week of work. To make ends meet, Claire also worked part-time as a boxer at a gym on the other side of town. He had boxed for five years. Rock, to him, was another kind of sport—a way to release inner pressure.
After the performance, Claire went into the dressing room to change. He pulled off his sweat-soaked long-sleeved shirt, tied back his messy black hair, and wiped his drenched face with a towel, soaked from excessive shouting. Just then, the door opened.
Claire jumped, alert, trying to determine whether it was a crazed female fan or a rude drunk. If it was the former, he might consider giving an autograph or a kiss. If the latter, he’d give them a few honest punches.
The door creaked open.
“Who’s there?” Claire shouted.
A calm, gentle voice answered, “It’s me.”
It was John.
He stood in front of Claire, his black velvet coat neatly fastened around his slender body. He handed Claire a fresh towel. “Lip asked me to give this to you. He and Dean went to the restaurant.”
The show had ended late. Lip and Dean both worked at a restaurant to support the band, and they probably didn’t have time to see Claire before leaving. Claire nodded and took the towel, then noticed John staring at him.
“What?” Claire asked, confused, following John’s gaze. He saw a bead of sweat slowly tracing its way down the lines of his muscles, across every inch of his bronze skin. Years of boxing had carved definition into his upper body. He was proud of it—always leaving his collar deliberately open on stage just to hear the girls scream.
“What are you looking at?” Claire asked, irritated.
If such a stare came from girls, he wouldn’t mind. Even if it were Dean or Lip, he wouldn’t be annoyed—they would just joke that his body looked like that of a coal miner. But John—he didn’t know why—made an unfamiliar shame rise in him. He glared at John, but John didn’t look away.
“Nothing,” John said. “The path of the sweat is beautiful.” He lowered his eyes. His smooth brown curls fell along his pale neck. Claire swallowed.
He grabbed the towel, wiped himself roughly, pulled on his usual sportswear, and muttered, “Freak.”
John didn’t respond. He simply watched Claire get dressed and said softly, “Nice body.”
Claire’s cheeks burned. He stood up and tossed the towel aside. “Listen, newbie. If it were me before, I’d have punched you already. What do you think I am?” He was shorter than John, forced to look up to threaten him.
John said nothing. He crouched down, picked up the towel, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket. “Let’s go. It’s getting late. The bar’s about to close.”
They walked down the street together in an awkward silence. Claire’s mind raced. He felt vaguely apologetic about his rudeness. Lip had joked about his body before too, saying it was a waste for him not to be a fitness model. Claire would always snap back, calling him a Bulgarian mutt, with that strange combination of blond hair and dark eyes. But with John, things felt different.
“Hey,” Claire finally said. “You did well on stage tonight.”
John hummed in acknowledgment. He had done well. Dean had drunk too much, the rhythm going off. John had saved the set with a perfectly timed improvised riff. Claire admired that. He patted John’s shoulder. “You’re pretty good. You really were a math teacher?”
John nodded again, smiling faintly. “I like mathematics. I think guitar is a kind of science too.”
Claire nodded. Ahead of them, the neon sign of the Blue Velvet Bar glowed eerily in the dark. He suddenly wanted a drink—but shook his head. There was a show tomorrow. With his tolerance, he didn’t want to wake up in some cheap prostitute’s bed, splitting headache, begging for water.
“Let’s have a drink,” John said calmly. He quickened his pace and turned into the bar.
“Hey! If you go in, I’m not responsible for you!” Claire shouted after him.
No one answered—only laughter and clinking glasses.
Damn it. Claire cursed inwardly, clenching his fists. He remembered Lip telling him John was only seventeen, just of legal drinking age. He shouldn’t need watching. But somehow Claire thought of his sister Betty, with her shiny black ponytail, sneaking off to dance with bad boys and coming home past midnight. He remembered promising his mother he’d protect her—protect young Betty from being led astray. He trusted his fists to make people listen.
But facing John, the new guitarist, Claire felt helpless for the first time.
To hell with it. He gritted his teeth and walked into the noisy Blue Velvet Bar, pushing past drunk girls and shouting men. He spotted John sitting thoughtfully on a couch in the corner.
“Hey! You drinking or not?” Claire shouted as he squeezed past the last man slumped over the bar.
“Just a little,” John said, smiling. He ordered a bottle of brandy.
“Do you know how much that costs?” Claire stopped the waiter. “The four of us only ever share half a bottle. You’re extravagant.”
John shook his head and took the bottle. “I can hold my liquor. And—” He leaned close to Claire’s ear. “I made good money teaching math.”
The smell of tobacco in John’s hair made Claire’s head swim. He had never been this close to him before. He could see the faint freckles on the bridge of John’s nose, traces of youth not yet gone. He held his breath, suddenly aware of how loud and rough it sounded—like a starving beast.
“Fine. I’ll drink a bit,” Claire said, pouring himself some. “Your treat. I don’t care.” He tipped his head back and swallowed it in one go. Warmth spread through his body. He shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms. John drank silently, Adam’s apple bobbing, lips slightly shining.
“You’re only seventeen, in university, with a bright future. Why rock?” Claire slurred after a few rounds, slouching on the couch, unbuttoning two buttons at his chest. His body burned, like a volcano pulsing in his veins.
“For something,” John said. Claire didn’t notice his throat move again.
“For money? Don’t kid me. There are too many rock bands. You won’t make much.” Claire waved his hand, then looked at John—and realized John was looking back. There was something smoldering beneath the boy’s gaze.
“For a dream?” Claire murmured drunkenly. “You’re too young. Rock doesn’t pay. Dreams can wait—you need something solid first.” He threw an arm around John’s shoulders. “You’re too skinny,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t make it in boxing.”
John trembled slightly in his arms, like a startled bird.
“Scared?” Claire chuckled. “You’re in my band. I take care of my own. Don’t worry. It’ll get better.”
“I’m doing this for you,” John said suddenly.
“What?” Claire mumbled. “For who?”
Through the haze, he saw John’s face draw closer until the bridge of his nose touched his own—then soft lips pressed against his. The entanglement of mouths made him forget everything. Claire grabbed John by the collar, pulling him hard against himself, biting at his lips and neck under the influence of alcohol.
“For who?” Claire panted after the kiss.
John’s face was red enough to bleed.
“For you.”
Claire fell asleep in his drunken haze. He thought he felt John kiss him again. He closed his eyes.
This is going to be a very, very long dream, he thought.
