He pressed the trumpet’s mouthpiece against his lips and blew as hard as he could. A strange, awkward sound came out the other end, due to the improper placement of his lips. Just give up, a small voice inside him said, you’ll never learn how to play correctly. But Andrew knew that he had to keep trying, even if that meant annoying all the neighbors. Andrew was driven by a dream – a dream of him dancing on stage with his prized instrument in hand and the rest of his band behind him. At the right moment he would lift the trumpet and play the perfect notes. The audience would applaud and cheer for him, amazed that the front man of an ordinary punk band could not only sing, but could play a mean trumpet.

Andrew was tired of just singing (or yelling). He was sick of the lyrics that he wrote himself. He knew they were just a bunch of bullshit that lost their meaning after being hollered countless times; smash the establishment, my ass!

Andrew sat alone on his bed with the brass instrument on his lap, imagining a time when he would be recognized for his musical talents like his fellow band-mates. And with that recognition, admiration would follow. And then love would come after that. Andrew imagined a girl stepping forward from the audience, eager to get closer to him. A conversation would soon lead to the meeting of both of their lips. He would kiss her the way he kissed his trumpet when he brought it out to play. He would kiss her the way he had kissed the girlfriend he had previously loved. And this new girl would spark a light in his gloomy mind. Her smile alone would erase any stress that weighed him down. She would have smooth, dark skin and a body that would keep his eyes fixed on her and no one else. He would hold her the way he had held his pillow on lonely nights. And he would-

Andrew snapped back to reality. He had felt the trumpet move on his lap because of the large erection he was getting. He was struck with a sense of sadness and loneliness as he looked around the room he slept alone in for the past year and a half. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered to the lifeless object. “Let’s put you back to bed.” He picked up the trumpet and placed it in its case. The trumpet showed no signs of life, but Andrew felt like it was alive somehow, the way a toddler thinks its stuffed animal is alive. Andrew thought of his trumpet as a child – a small, innocent child he adopted from the pawn shop for eighty bucks. He didn’t care whose saliva lined the pipes of this brass beauty. It was his ticket to finding romance once again. He looked one last time at the object he loved more than himself and closed the case. “Goodnight.”

Cheer up, man, he thought to himself, you’re going to go to the punk show tonight and you’ll forget all your problems. Andrew made a mental list of things he had to do before he left the apartment; wash your face, change your clothes, eat some bread, no time to make a meal, lock the only window in the apartment, and take some money from under mattress.

Andrew was almost out the door when he glanced at the mirror. He stared in disgust at the hair on his face, barely long or thick enough to be called a beard. I might meet someone tonight, he thought, I should at least shave. He turned towards the bathroom. No! The small voice protested, there’s no time, plus it’s a punk rock show, no one cares! Andrew didn’t listen.

Andrew soon found himself in the bathroom, putting a razor to his face. It’s only gonna be a short cut. He quickly sliced away at the hair on his upper lip and moved on to his chin. He must have cut too fast, because a thin red line parallel to his lips emerged on his chin. “Dammit!” He yelled at his reflection. Panicked, he looked down at his watch. If he didn’t leave immediately, he would most likely miss the bus that would take him downtown. Without hesitating, Andrew grabbed his jacket, ran out the door, down the stairs, out of the building and down the block, just as the bus was pulling away from the curb. He waved his hands over his head, “Wait! Attendez!” Fortunately, the bus stopped abruptly and waited for Andrew to run inside. “Merci beaucoup!” He panted as he dispensed his bus fare into the machine. The driver nodded to indicate that the amount was sufficient.

Andrew staggered to the back of the bus and sat down across from a man with a beard that covered his neck. He wore a winter jacket with several rips and holes in it. The man’s eyes darted back and forth violently. He kept muttering something in French about how the government was stealing his money. Andrew was somewhat amused by what this crazy man mumbled to himself. Fifteen minutes later, the landscape began to change. Andrew recognized the lights coming from the buildings of downtown Montreal. As he walked off the bus and onto the sidewalk, he could hear the man scream “Ça coûte trop d’argent!” He waited until the bus drove away so he could burst out into laughter. Someday, I’ll be just like him.

The bouncer at the door of Le Bar Ourangoutang stared at Andrew’s chin for a while before Andrew interrupted by saying “It’s five dollars, right?” The bouncer took the five dollar bill, still staring at Andrew’s chin. “Batrooms on de left,” the bouncer said in broken English, “you look at your chin.” Puzzled, Andrew made his way to the men’s bathroom, only to see that the thin line on his chin had evolved into a thick gash that oozed droplets of blood. How come I didn’t feel that? he pondered as he splashed handfuls of water in his face until he was sure the blood would not return.

To celebrate the disappearance of the cut, Andrew bought a pint of the bar’s special homebrewed beer, which tasted a bit like grapefruit. He turned around on his bar seat towards the stage, where the first band was setting up. The room was filled with punks that looked barely of age. Most of them had fluorescent-colored mohawks and liberty spikes and wore heavy leather jackets to emphasize how rebellious they were. Andrew couldn’t afford to look like them.

That’s when he noticed the three women on stage. The one who assembled the drums looked more like a man because of her short hair and baggy clothes, but her face made her gender evident. Another girl was screaming “check!” into the microphone over and over. She had more muscles than most men Andrew knew. To her left, tuning her bass, was a skinny girl with so many piercings in her face that she looked like a machine. Not a single inch of her skin wasn’t covered in tattoos. Each of them had short hair and wore the same white t-shirts and black pants. Might be a riot grrrl band, Andrew thought, remembering what Tom had said to him a month ago: “You don’t wanna try to flirt with a chick in a riot grrrl band,” Tom had said, a cigarette permanently stuck between his two fingers. “Girls in those kinds of groups are either lesbians or femi-nazis.” Andrew laughed at that word, and assumed it meant hardcore feminists. He thought that Tom was making an unfair generalization, but he decided to be cautious nonetheless. Until he saw the guitarist.

He could feel his heart racing when she stepped on stage. Unlike the rest of her band, she had not cut her hair to the point where she looked like a teenage boy. She wore her hair long, past her shoulders, dark and wavy. She wore thick glasses that reflected the light on stage, so Andrew could only catch rare glimpses of her blue eyes. Her clothes fit her slender body, the body of a super-heroine. Andrew became aware that his jaw was wide open and he was pretty sure he looked like a complete idiot. I have to talk to this girl, he thought repetitively. But before he could think of how to execute this plan, the singer spoke into the microphone, “Check. Good. Alright. We’re Hot Pink Puke and whatever you’re thinking about us is totally wrong! Ready, ladies?”

Within four beats of the drum sticks, the entire room was filled with an explosion of sound. Andrew jumped in his seat and almost spilt his drink. This band wasn’t like Bikini Kill or L7, this was louder, faster, stronger. The singer sounded like a mix of the vocalists from F-Minus and Municipal Waste. Over the heavy distortion and pounding drums, Andrew couldn’t hear a single word she sang until all the instruments abruptly stopped.

We are not your toys, we are not your slaves.
So why do you act like we still live in caves?

That was all the proof Andrew needed. Femi-nazis for sure, the small voice cried, don’t talk to that guitarist, she will kill you! Andrew debated this new problem. There was the desire to be close to her, but there was also the fear of being crushed by a wave of feminist rants. After several fast-paced one-minute songs, Andrew finally made his decision when he heard the opening to Chemical Warfare. Andrew had been a Dead Kennedys fan since he was twelve years old. He decided that he should at least compliment the guitarist on how well she played one of his favorite songs. The band played two more songs after the cover. From what Andrew understood, the singer was complaining about how men were sex-driven power-thirsty pigs. Tell me something I don’t know. Then their set was over.

Before the guitarist could take her cable out of the amplifier’s input, Andrew ran up to the side of the stage. “Hey, great job!” Andrew yelled, making sure she heard him. Three sets of eyes shot his way. If looks could kill. “You weren’t half bad either,” the guitarist said dismissively. She turned her back and hoped that Andrew would be gone once she turned back around. But he was still there. “No, seriously. You have talent,” Andrew persisted. “I’m in a band, too. So, as a musician, I thought you were excellent.” This caught her interest a bit more. “Really? Thanks.” The other members rolled their eyes and finished packing their equipment. “Let her deal with him,” Andrew overheard the singer say. “He doesn’t look too smart.” Andrew prayed that the guitarist didn’t hear that.

“So, what do you play?” She asked. She swung her guitar bag over her shoulder and stepped down to Andrew’s level.

“Actually, I just sing,” Andrew was excited that she was listening intently. “But I’m learning to play the trumpet.”

“You should stick to singing. I would sing if I knew what to sing about.”

A new hope popped in Andrew’s mind. Maybe she isn’t like the rest of her band. Maybe she’s not a hardcore feminist. Andrew was so overjoyed over this possibility that the next sentence slipped out of his mouth unintentionally: “Can I buy you a drink?” Shit, too soon. The interest dropped from her face. A frown now replaced her smile. “Why? So you can drop a roofie in it?”

“No!” Andrew protested. Sweat broke around his temples. “Just to…uh…congratulate you on…your…umm…performance…?” He held his breath and waited for the worst.

She raised her eyebrow suspiciously. “Fine, what the hell,” she shrugged. “I could use a drink. But no tricks!”

“Trust me,” Andrew added to his defense, “I’d still buy you a drink if you were man.” It was a lie. But he would rather lie through his teeth than to have her think he was attracted to her.

“What’s the name of your band?” The guitarist asked at the bar.

“My band’s called the Frying Burrets.” Andrew replied, hoping that she would recognize the name. Instead her reply was, “I thought the racist stereotype was that Asians used Ls instead of Rs.”

“Don’t ask me, I didn’t come up with the name.” Another lie. It’s just a joke. I’m not racist.

The bartender pushed two bottles of Molson Export across the counter. Andrew gave the bartender ten dollars and told him to keep the change. The guitarist grabbed one of the bottles and half of its contents disappeared down her throat. Andrew took small sips of his, pondering about what he should say next. “So I didn’t quite catch your name…” Andrew said.

“It’s Alex, short for Alexandra.” She answered between gulps. “Do you have a name or should I call you Jack the Ripper?” Damn, this girl is harsh. But, oh God, how I love her!

“No, you can call me Andrew.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jack.” Alex laughed, “I’m just kidding, Andrew.”

She finished off the rest of beer in another gulp. Without asking, Andrew ordered another bottle.

“Hey, now. I’m not your date. I’ll pay for the next one.” Alex said.

Too late, darling. Andrew took out another five dollar bill and laid it flat on the counter. “It’s my treat.”

“Then I should pay you back somehow.” Alex declared.

Andrew’s heart skipped a beat. Sweat reappeared on his forehead and his mind filled with thoughts. He watched Alex search through the front pocket of her guitar bag. He was disappointed when she presented her idea of compensation. Her band’s album. Still, he took the CD case and held it in his shaking hands. On the cover was a picture of the band, all four of them standing in a tree-house with a sign on the front that said “No Boys Allowed.” Andrew opened up the case and took out the little booklet. He turned the small pages and looked at some of the lyrics. I’ll laugh at these once I’m back home.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Alex said, enjoying her new bottle of beer. “We don’t have many left, but you seem like the kind of person who would want one.”

“Thanks.” Andrew felt he was getting closer to her with every word. He couldn’t predict what Alex would do next, but he felt that their conversation was going a lot smoother.

At the back of the booklet were the credits. No trace of any masculine names, not even in the “special thanks” section. At the bottom of the credits page, there was a small picture of an eye with long eyelashes surrounded by the recycling logo. Above the picture it said “Hot Pink Puke is a strong supporter of the FFGM.”

“What’s the FFGM?” Andrew asked, not really interested, but he wanted to keep talking to Alex.

“Oh, that’s an organization me and my sister work for.” She took another gulp of beer and prepared to explain. “It stands for the Freezing Future Generations Movement. If you’ve been paying close attention to the news, there’s been a shortage of male births lately.”

“Really?” Andrew never paid attention to the news, mainly because he didn’t have a TV.

“Yeah, it’s true.” Alex continued. “There have been more female births nowadays. You know how the fetus is growing and when it comes time to develop their genitals, it can become either a penis or a vagina, right? Well, the fetus now usually ends up being a girl. And some males that are born have problems with their reproductive organs. Apparently, it’s caused by certain chemicals found in plastics. But fat-cat corporations don’t care that they’re destroying the human race as long as they’re making money, so we took the next step. Basically, what we do is collect as much sperm from different men as we can get and we freeze them, so that in the future, when there’s less human males than women, we wouldn’t have to worry. All we would need to reproduce is the frozen sperm we’ve accumulated over the years.”

Andrew dropped his beer to the ground in shock. He jumped off of the bar stool, trying to get as far away as he could from Alex. “What the fuck?” He yelled. “That’s…sick! Are you fucking crazy?”

“Andrew, calm down. You have no reason to act like this,” Alex pleaded, surprised by his response. “We’re doing this for the greater good of humanity.”

“The greater good? What? A world without men? Is that your idea of the greater fucking good?” Andrew panicked, unaware that every head had turned to look in his direction. “What about us? Are we just sperm? Is that our only fucking use? Was that the only reason you talked to me? So you can steal my cum for your sadistic little club?”

“I didn’t say that. You spoke to me first, asshole.” Alex stood up, fists ready to attack if necessary. “Saying men are only good for sperm is no different from saying women are only good for sex and sandwiches, which seems to be an acceptable thing to say in this mind-fucked society!”

“Well, at least your species isn’t dying out. Why don’t you just go murder a bunch of guys in the street, for Christ’s sake? It’ll speed up the process. Then you will look like a fucking genius. So go ahead, kill us all, Alex. Like you fucking care!”

The bouncer grabbed Andrew’s shoulder and pulled him towards the door. “OK, shit-ed. Time to get your ass de ‘ell out of ‘ere.” Andrew tried to resist, but the bouncer was twice his size.

“Oh, and by the way,” Andrew shouted as he was being pushed out the door. “Your band is bullshit and I only talked to you because I wanted to fuck you!”

“You men are all the same!” Alex shot back. Then Andrew was thrown onto the pavement outside the bar. He knocked his chin on the sidewalk and the cut reopened. “You are banned from dis bar now. Mange d’la marde, maudit fif!”

Andrew took the last bus back to his apartment. The whole time, he thought continuously about Alex’s crusade for a “better tomorrow.” How is she supposed to get my sperm anyway? She’s too much of an inconsiderate bitch to ask for a donation. She must get it by force, then. She probably lures men to her place, and then drugs them so she can get it out of them when they’re unconscious. She probably doesn’t masturbate them, because that’s too submissive for her. No, she probably shoves her fingers up their asses and milks their prostates. Yeah, that’s what she does. Then she destroys the evidence. She probably has a dumpster full of dismembered males behind her house. She might as well just shoot us with a tranquilizer gun and milk us in the middle of the street. Then she’ll kill the victims and no one cares because she’s “saving the world.”

Andrew got off the bus feeling sick to his stomach. He walked slowly to his apartment, alone, once again. What if he had not overreacted to Alex’s explanation of the movement? Maybe he would be walking home with her right next to him. He would finally have someone to share his room with. Someone to appreciate him.

Andrew walked up the stairs to his floor. When he got to his apartment, he saw that the door was wide open. He walked in and saw that the place had been ransacked. Everything was ripped apart and spread across the floor. Andrew realized that he must not have locked the door when he was running for the bus. The thief had left a message in permanent marker on his wall; “Dear idiot, nice stuff. You didn’t have a TV, but that’s cool. I got enough. Thanks.” Andrew checked his apartment. The radio was gone, the microwave, his computer, the rest of his money under his mattress. The trumpet was gone, too.

—

Chris Aitkens is a college student from Montreal. He has been a faithful Verbicide reader and regularly reviews music for it. He sings in a punk band and, like any Canadian writer, enjoys soaking his literature in irony. His idea of relaxation is crying while watching romantic comedies directed by Kevin Smith while drinking wine coolers.