guys from the football team. Jason took my hand and we followed a trail of footprints in the snow that led to the door.
If the Dungeon was the hottest club in town, the Signature Wall was the coolest place inside. When Leo first opened his club, he had started an unusual tradition: you come in, you sign your name on the wall. Now, decades later, the wall was covered with names and messages from his customers. There was one signature that looked eerily like Jimi Hendrix, and another that Valerie swore was from Kurt Cobain, but Leo would never confirm or deny any of the rumors.
When we finally made our way inside, we headed straight for the wall to sign our names. Since Valerie always dotted the “i” in her name with a heart, and since she was at the Dungeon almost every Friday, I saw her heart all over the wall. Natalie’s signature was a narrow scrawl of pink. I signed my name beneath Jason’s. He hesitated, then quickly drew a plus sign between our names. I slipped my hand into his and gave it a quick squeeze. It was nice to know he wasn’t mad at me anymore.
Because I knew they were playing tonight, I scanned the wall for the signatures of the band. I saw the bold, blocky letters of Zero Hour almost immediately. Both the “o’s” in Zero and in Hour held two arrows pointing to where midnight would have been on a traditional clock face. The only numbers on these blank clocks, though, were the Roman numerals MDVI that crawled along the bottom curve. A thick black chain with three links connected the two clocks, and inside each link was a name: Tony. Zo. V.
The band certainly knew how to make a statement, I’d give them that.
Across from the Signature Wall was the bar where Leo usually held court, overseeing his customers like a benevolent deity. Tonight, though, I was surprised to see Dante behind the bar instead of Leo. He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His black gloves were shadowed blurs as he poured drinks for the steady stream of customers crowding around.
“What’ll you have tonight?” he asked us as we slid onto the stools lining the bar.
“Strawberry soda,” I said.
“Make that two,” Jason chimed in, leaning against the bar next to me.
“Make that three,” Natalie said.
“Diet Coke,” Valerie said, breaking the rhythm.
Dante nodded. He flipped a bottle of Diet Coke from underneath the bar, resting it on the back of his right hand. With his left hand, he quickly slapped a glass down, filling it with a scoop of ice. Gripping the bottle in his left hand and then passing it to his right, he spun the glass in a tight spiral, pouring the soda into the center of the glass. Bubbles fizzed and spat. Dante splashed a slice of lemon into the drink and the glass came to a stop in front of Valerie’s hand.
“Show-off,” she said with a wink as we all applauded his flair.
Dante grinned, showing his teeth in a flash of white. “I can’t help it if I’m good with my hands,” he said. “Three strawberry sodas?”
Quicker than my eye could follow, Dante had placed three tall, narrow glasses on the bar and filled each with a rich red liquid, a splash of soda water, and a paper umbrella. A split berry on the rim completed each drink.
“Wow,” I said, taking a sip. “This is better than Leo’s.”
“Where is Leo?” Jason asked, reaching past me for his drink.
Dante fussed with spinning an empty glass on the bar. “Leo’s . . . on vacation for a time. I’m filling in for him.”
I had just opened my mouth to ask another question when Julia, farther down the bar, signaled for a refill. Dante nodded to us and walked away to help the other customers.
Jason ate his strawberry in one bite, then leaned down to kiss me on the top of my head. “Be right back.” Jason pointed across the room at Robert, who was waving him over to his table near the front of the stage. Robert had his arm around a girl I didn’t know.
Valerie and
If the Dungeon was the hottest club in town, the Signature Wall was the coolest place inside. When Leo first opened his club, he had started an unusual tradition: you come in, you sign your name on the wall. Now, decades later, the wall was covered with names and messages from his customers. There was one signature that looked eerily like Jimi Hendrix, and another that Valerie swore was from Kurt Cobain, but Leo would never confirm or deny any of the rumors.
When we finally made our way inside, we headed straight for the wall to sign our names. Since Valerie always dotted the “i” in her name with a heart, and since she was at the Dungeon almost every Friday, I saw her heart all over the wall. Natalie’s signature was a narrow scrawl of pink. I signed my name beneath Jason’s. He hesitated, then quickly drew a plus sign between our names. I slipped my hand into his and gave it a quick squeeze. It was nice to know he wasn’t mad at me anymore.
Because I knew they were playing tonight, I scanned the wall for the signatures of the band. I saw the bold, blocky letters of Zero Hour almost immediately. Both the “o’s” in Zero and in Hour held two arrows pointing to where midnight would have been on a traditional clock face. The only numbers on these blank clocks, though, were the Roman numerals MDVI that crawled along the bottom curve. A thick black chain with three links connected the two clocks, and inside each link was a name: Tony. Zo. V.
The band certainly knew how to make a statement, I’d give them that.
Across from the Signature Wall was the bar where Leo usually held court, overseeing his customers like a benevolent deity. Tonight, though, I was surprised to see Dante behind the bar instead of Leo. He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His black gloves were shadowed blurs as he poured drinks for the steady stream of customers crowding around.
“What’ll you have tonight?” he asked us as we slid onto the stools lining the bar.
“Strawberry soda,” I said.
“Make that two,” Jason chimed in, leaning against the bar next to me.
“Make that three,” Natalie said.
“Diet Coke,” Valerie said, breaking the rhythm.
Dante nodded. He flipped a bottle of Diet Coke from underneath the bar, resting it on the back of his right hand. With his left hand, he quickly slapped a glass down, filling it with a scoop of ice. Gripping the bottle in his left hand and then passing it to his right, he spun the glass in a tight spiral, pouring the soda into the center of the glass. Bubbles fizzed and spat. Dante splashed a slice of lemon into the drink and the glass came to a stop in front of Valerie’s hand.
“Show-off,” she said with a wink as we all applauded his flair.
Dante grinned, showing his teeth in a flash of white. “I can’t help it if I’m good with my hands,” he said. “Three strawberry sodas?”
Quicker than my eye could follow, Dante had placed three tall, narrow glasses on the bar and filled each with a rich red liquid, a splash of soda water, and a paper umbrella. A split berry on the rim completed each drink.
“Wow,” I said, taking a sip. “This is better than Leo’s.”
“Where is Leo?” Jason asked, reaching past me for his drink.
Dante fussed with spinning an empty glass on the bar. “Leo’s . . . on vacation for a time. I’m filling in for him.”
I had just opened my mouth to ask another question when Julia, farther down the bar, signaled for a refill. Dante nodded to us and walked away to help the other customers.
Jason ate his strawberry in one bite, then leaned down to kiss me on the top of my head. “Be right back.” Jason pointed across the room at Robert, who was waving him over to his table near the front of the stage. Robert had his arm around a girl I didn’t know.
Valerie and
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