Punk and Zen

Punk and Zen by JD Glass Page A

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Authors: JD Glass
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I
honestly wasn’t trying too hard.
    I did see Candace, though—the next week, in fact.
Totally sober and with the door safely locked, headset tight over one ear and
off the other so I could hear the sound in the room, I grooved in the skybox,
eyes closed and feeling fine, swaying along with this phenom beat I’d
discovered a few days ago. A voice with the loveliest hint of a British accent
floated up to me.
    “Hey, lovely DJ. Do you take requests?”
    I slipped my headphones down around my neck and opened
my eyes to see Candace’s smiling face.
    “Maybe,” I played. “It depends on what you have in
mind.”
    “I’m thinking…French,” Candace replied, her even white
teeth sparking up at me.
    “Ah, too bad.” I shook my head with mock regret,
pretending I didn’t know what she meant. “I can’t read minds in French.”
    “Colonist!” Candace smirked back at me. “Can you even
speak anything other than that fractured language you borrowed from us?”
    “Hey, I take offense at that.” I scowled
good-naturedly. “My grandparents are from South America, and I happen to be
fluent in Spanish,” I told her, which happens to be true. “And don’t forget,
this is Staten Island. I can speak and read a little Italian as well,” which
was also true. And in that part of New York? Occasionally necessary.
    “Well, that explains quite a bit, then,” Candace said
as she reappraised me.
    “How about you—imperialist?” I asked her, half joking,
half challenging. I mean, yes, as Americans, many of us have natural ties to
Europe, with its grand culture and history. On the other hand, we invented the
steam engine, the car, the Internet, and rock and roll, not to mention a few
other things. Besides, other countries and continents had lent us their best
people, too, and though I liked Candace, I wasn’t going to deal with any
my-country-is-better-than-your-country bullshit. Even if that might have been
true at different times in history, past and future.
    “I give, I give!” Candace held her hands up in mock
surrender. “Now forgive me and let me take you to dinner, ma cheri .” She
smiled charmingly.
    “Oh?” I asked, intrigued despite my attempt at
distance—her pronunciation was excellent. What can I say? I have a thing for
sound.
    “It’s a little place I’ve discovered in the East
Village called Port Marseille. I’m so full sure you’ll love it!”
    I couldn’t. I had to work, I had guitar practice, and
I certainly didn’t want to get involved past, further, or more than what had
already happened—and I hadn’t even really intended for that. Well, at least not
in that way, anyhow. Friends. I wanted to be friends, and that meant no dates.
What Candace suggested sounded more than vaguely like the latter as opposed to
the former, but as I tried to form an answer that wouldn’t sound offensive or
hurtful, Candace’s face wore an expression of such obvious sincere affection
that I had difficulty thinking.
    “My schedule’s really tight,” I replied instead. “When
where you thinking of—”
    Candace must have noticed some of my internal
struggle. She interrupted me with a wave of the hand and reached through the
request window. “No ABC pressure, Nina.” She patted my hand. “Whenever
you’d like.”
    Cool. Okay then. “Okay,” I answered slowly. “I’ll let
you know.”
    “Hmph,” she answered and took her hand back, then
smiled, a Mona Lisa smile that could have meant nothing, that could have meant
anything, and somewhere in my head, it made me want to crawl, crawl behind it
and discover more. “I’ll see you later,” and with that, she melted back into
the crowd.
    She wasn’t wearing her usual blue, I noticed before
she disappeared from view; the body-skimming one-piece Candace had on this
night was black.
    I returned to my board and slipped my headphones back
up on my ears. Hmm…
    Setting my faders for the next mix, I grabbed the
microphone, waiting for my moment. “Oh,

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