Hold Back the Rain

The dilapidated church, which was once constructed to resemble the architecture of the era of classicism, stood on the corner of an unlit road in a bad section of the metropolitan city. Once smooth, the marble steps were now cracked. The pedestals, barely supporting the triangular pediment, once might have been representative of Ionic capitals, though now with the paint chipped off and the top of the columns disfigured, their resemblance was more like the pedestals of Doric architecture. This church had not been cared for, and it had been abandoned for years. Several homeless people had sought shelter in the church.

            It was only recently that “discord” bands, or bands with little musical talent, started playing their cacophonous music in the basement of this church. The church was now called the Wilson Center, and was named after its location on Wilson Street. This musical entertainment not only attracted a wide variety of high school and college kids, but it was also a popular attraction for the cops, who closely monitored the goings-on, on a regular basis. Recently, the Wilson Center began attracting the rich, snobbish kids, who brought their GQ fashions along with their obnoxious attitudes. They were the real troublemakers. The number of these types doubled at every event, which also doubled the number of cop cars that circled around the area. They never were arrested, even though they would often start conflict. Even if they did arrest a rich kid, the cops would drive them down the street and drop them off at the nearest bus stop. It was known that their parents paid the laws enforcers to keep their kids out of trouble. The usual crowds consisted of the poor “punks,” who could only afford this type of entertainment. The price of movies had recently jumped to five dollars. Everyone had outgrown the bowling alleys and the putt-putt golf courses. The drinking age had just been raised from eighteen to twenty-one. The bars and dance clubs were losing business. These “discord” shows were relatively inexpensive and always drew a large crowd. And there were no age restrictions, since the manager could not obtain a liquor license for the place.

As she approached the somber street, Lou Sumner noticed a few people hanging around the church, having a smoke, and chatting with friends. It was only eight o’clock. Lou enjoyed watching the crowd gathers for shows. She always arrived hours early to observe everyone. Taking a seat on the cold marble stairs, she pulled out a Camel filter from her pocket. As she ran her hand through her gel-spiked hair, which stood as straight as a porcupine’s needle on one-half of her head, she inhaled her smoke. She noticed a guy blocking the entrance of the church basement, and standing next to his short, bald friend. His tattoo caught her eye. He had a stiff, little, brown Mohawk, with a detailed tattoo of a dragon on the right side of his scalp. He was clutching a brown paper bag, which was wrapped around a green bottle that most likely contained beer. His wardrobe fit the current style of what most “punks” wore: plaid torn pants (though torn jeans were also acceptable) that were tucked into his steel-plated combat boots, and a white undershirt. The “skins” were a group different than the “punks,” but most people would not even know the difference except in their behavior patterns. The “skins” worshipped the Nazis, and they wore paraphernalia to illustrate their beliefs. They liked to wear their suspenders hanging from their jeans to their knees. On colder evenings, they all wore leather jackets, with a Nazi cross on their sleeves or on their backs. Lou did not really fit in either of these groups, though she had friends in each of them. She was more “gothic,” but more upbeat than the typical suicidals. She loved to dress in black from head to toe, as she did this evening. Her opaque stockings were torn beyond repair, yet she could not part with them. She had nail polish dotted all over them to prevent further damage, and she used safety pins to close the bigger holes. Her shoes were her favorite leather boots. She wore them almost all year long except when she could go barefoot. She didn’t accessorize much. She only wore an ancient Egyptian symbol of life, the ankh, around her neck and in her left earlobe.

She glanced at the stud in the plaid pants, who was already checking her out, and she looked away as he whispered something to his friend. Her attention was now drawn to a noisy bunch of prep school kids. They were boasting about how much they had spent on their new Izod cotton shirts, which somewhat clashed with their button-fly Calvin Klein jeans. She watched one of the guys pull out his black, suede wallet and hand a twenty to his friend. That amount seemed like a fortune to Lou. She was only carrying a Benjamin and fifty-two cents, which she hid in her black boots. She knew she did not have enough money to see the show tonight. Her boss was currently in Chicago on business, so she had no clue when she would receive her next paycheck. Lou would have to borrow money from strangers again. Maybe some of her friends would show up and help her out. Maybe she would try to sneak through the backstage door. Maybe she would just sit outside in the cool air watching everyone else enjoy the show. That had happened too many times.