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Avery and I grabbed a couple of chairs and pulled them over to the area where the guys were setting up their equipment. There wasn't even a stage. It was a tiled corner at the back of the long room that made up the pizza pub. Someone had laid out a square of black carpet across the tile. It had blue bits of tape all over it. As we watched, a second guy appeared. He was lanky, thin and awkward. He kept his head down so I couldn't really get a look at his face. The two guys were setting up the drum set, placing each stand so that the legs set directly on a blue piece of tape. We stayed there watching and whispered comments amongst ourselves until Jake walked in.
"He is gorgeous," I remember saying and surprising myself. It wasn't one of those sentences I imagined saying out loud because I wasn't one of those girls that watched sappy movies or read romantic books about meeting the perfect guy. I never went out on dates looking for Mr. Right Now. It was just true-he was gorgeous-and so it popped out.
Jake had the most perfectly put together face and body. He actually had a look. From his semi-sloppy but stylish clothes, to his big combat boots, and most of all, his strong jaw that held steady two delicious lips that gave him a slight puckered look when he was quiet. His eyes were bright, gleaming the exact same color as his coppery-brown hair.
For most girls in high school, good looking or cute was an easy determination: if they weren't ugly, they must be cute. But no one should be called good-looking just because they aren't ugly. No cute by default. Guys are either hot or they're not, in my book. Avery's method was a little more complex. She used to say that all guys fell into three categories: deliciously gorgeous, take'm-or-leave'm, and butt-ugly. To her, nearly all boys fell into the last two. But remarkably, when I motioned to Jake, Avery didn't roll her eyes or respond with snark.
She looked back at me with her wild, mossy gaze and straight black hair, giving a devious smile. "I dare you to talk to him."
Had I known at the time just how deliciously gorgeous Jacob Haddon was inside and out, or how talented-if I had seen him play the guitar or sing first, or had remembered him from that house party-I never would have had the courage to speak to him. But I didn't realize and in my ignorance, stumbled over to him on a dare.
Our talk began when the place was still near-empty and didn't stop until it had to. He asked me to sit with him at the counter while he grabbed a drink.
I was staring intensely at his profile, sipping a cool Diet Coke. He was staring at his sweating glass of water, set atop the sticky counter. His thumb grazed the side, joining the beads of moisture into a stream that crept down the outside glass and pooled on the countertop.
I rested my elbow up on the bar, trying to concentrate on the heels of my shoes caught on the middle rung of my stool. I didn't know I loved him, I just knew that I couldn't stop staring at the perfect slope of his nose, his sharp jaw that literally looked as if it were carved from marble. He was a masterpiece.
"What are you after?"
Jake looked back, eyeing me, so that I could tell his eyes weren't brown, but hazel. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, and our shoulders touched. "What do you mean?"
"With your music-at what point will you look at your band and think, 'we are successful.' Are you seeking world domination, platinum records-what?"
The curtain of music that kept our conversation private shot up in volume before suddenly cutting off. Neither of us started. It was just a sound check of the Pubs' PA system and someone was screwing around. I heard Avery laughing from somewhere in the background.
Jake grinned, showing his naturally straight teeth. There was something about the way he looked at me that made my heart race, but also eased the tension that lived in my stomach. It was a look that made me feel like the only person in the room.
"Not the whole world," Jake smiled.
"So, Nirvana's got nothing to worry about? What about Beck? Should he be worried?" They were some of my favorite bands. Up until that night, anyway. They were always in heavy rotation. Every radio station-all two of them-bumped their music. Actually, most of what I listened to back then was rock music. Any and all. But I had no CDs, so I had to take what the radio stations gave me.
"Beck? No." Jake laughed. Not the type of empty chuckle he'd start doling out to convenient fans that flocked to him as the bands popularity would inevitably grow. It was not the grin he would give to chicks who asked him to sign the free flyers they picked up at the door. Jake's affection was earned. And he must have seen how anxious I was to invest in him. That laugh was unguarded and genuine. It held something-not simply appreciation, but fire, too. Oh, how I wanted it to consume me.
His face scrunched, and lips pressed together, his head rocked playfully from side to side. "Maybe my part of the world. Yeah, I'll be happy to rule a little chunk. The Analog Controller Section." He paused, thoughtful. "Nirvana can keep their sound and I'll stick with my screamy, progressive one. As long as what I do-what I make-is important, I'll be satisfied. It has to mean something or it won't mean anything. I'm sure Mister Beck understands that."
As we talked, I found Jakes' release lever: family. I asked if he was an only child, like me, and the flood gates opened. Jake told me he was a middle child. He had two older sisters-twins-that were off at college and a younger brother who'd just started junior high, but was in a special education class.
"Henry's got this thing. The doctor calls it autism. Gets teased a lot because he doesn't act like other kids his age." Jake wiped his palms across his jeans. "He doesn't know how to stick up for himself. I tried helping him, but he's afraid, you know?" He shook his head, looking at nothing.
"I can understand that. It's hard enough to fit in when the doctor calls you normal. And it's even harder to make yourself do something you're afraid of." I poked my index finger into the bulge of muscle on his bicep. "He's lucky he's got you."
Jake turned to face me, touching his knees to mine, and kept talking. Venting, really, when I asked how he got into music. His parents were recently separated and in the midst of an ugly divorce. His mom went back to work because of financial problems. His sisters used to care for his younger brother, but since they moved away to school, the responsibility had fallen to him. Music was his outlet. His dad lived twenty miles away, and still came around from time to time, but not enough.
We eased from one topic to the next until a guy tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey man, time to warm up."
I nodded when Jake introduced lanky Andrew, the bass player, and noticed he did not introduce me. Jake simply smiled, "Check you later, Angel," and took Andrew with him as he walked away.
Analog Controller was going on first. They were the smallest band and weren't getting paid, but Jake was fine with it, because it wasn't about money. At that time Analog Controller was just beginning to understand the importance of going on at the right time. Second and third are always the best slots in an area where you want to build a fan base, but that was one of those little kernels you had to learn. Other bands playing at your level were always going to compete: lie, cheat or steal, for a cherry spot in the line-up. Analog was supposed to play second at that show, but the band that was to go first said their singer might not make it on time, so Analog was bumped into the first slot.
That was something you never heard people talk about; the pressure of competition. It's obvious from the inside, but when you're trying to break-in, no one's gonna tell you there's a rivalry. Not even if you specifically asked.
Jake got his insider information from one of the members of the main band who happened to like Analog's sound. "You play first, and late arrivals miss your set. You play last only if you are the act people came to see. Play second or third if you're looking for new listeners, and always try to play with bands who have the same audience and whose sounds compliment yours."
Going by that last directive, Analog's biggest issue seemed that no one else sounded like them. It was September of 1994, and everyone was into the Seattle sounds. No one else had that rooted-in-hard-rock-with-heavy-melodic-influences-layered-with-vocal-harmony-and-tight-rhythmic-transition type of sound. It was experimental and progressive. Aggressive, too. Everyone liked Analog's style, but no one else had it.
The band was on the same floor as the crowd-eye level in a standing room. There were some kids my age and a couple of guys in their thirties who hung in the back and stuffed their faces ignoring the awesomeness, while Avery and I rocked-out front and center.
By the second song, more people showed up near the front and we were pushed closer. When I was about two feet away from him, Jake latched his gaze on me. He crooned salacious lyrics into the crowd, playing his guitar and working the pedals while he kept me in his sights. And after the show was over, he gave me a copy of their first EP and asked if I wanted go get pancakes with him. I did, of course. We all sat in a big corner booth, laughing and chatting over a short stack of pancakes and bacon 8:30 at night.
