From the back of the stage at the back of the dim cavern that was Rookies Sports Bar, the beat was speeding up and slowing down like a treadmill set to a heavy-duty interval cardio routine. It vaguely registered in the mind of Jaymie Brzezinski, who stood behind the keyboard, that his drummer might be having a panic attack, but he was imagining they were playing a major showcase in Toronto, and the showcase must go on.

In front of the stage was a dance floor, which was vacant, and further back was the sound booth, where a slightly drunk but very focused man seemed to have made mixing for empty rooms his life’s work; the levels were impeccable, the low end rich but not overwhelming, the highs pristine. Behind that were pool tables, then VLTs and vending machines. To the right of the stage stood a long and well-stocked bar at which a few regulars sat heavily on their stools, patiently tolerating the band that had intruded on their habitat.

Between the checkered dance floor and sound guy, a smooshed and drooping couch crouched incongruously, like a hunching animal that had wandered in from the cold and tried to appear inconspicuous. Fortunately, the poor thing had found its niche—it had been accepted for who it was by the three people watching the band from the comfort of its decrepit cushions. These three were familiar with the couch, as they’d seen this particular band at this particular bar countless times before—together they made up three quarters of the Bukowskiphiles.

The Bukowski Brothers’ fan club was nearly as prolific as the band themselves. At its core were two of Rex’s best friends from school, and their Stan, a forty-one-year-old man from East Kildonan whom none of them had known personally before the band and who, as far as they knew, was actually named Stan. They had yet to test out whether he’d defend them to the death.

In the peripheral circle of fandom were BabyBFBgirl, a regular contributor to the forum on their website, and Bukfan66, who may have just signed onto the site believing it to be a fan page for the real Charles Bukowski. Ahem, the former Charles Bukowski.

Stan sat wedged between Rex’s two high school friends, a Mike’s Hard Lemonade in one hand and a notepad and pen in the other. Maggie and Shahla didn't seem to mind him—they considered themselves very tolerant people, and had known the risks of starting up a fan club.

Likewise, Jaymie had known the risks of forming a family band. When your backing musicians were unpaid, you had to be able to accommodate a few quirks. Jaymie knew how to be flexible, even when the beat of the song had itself become so flexible as to be all but lost forever. He turned away from the keyboard to yell, “Drum solo!”

Aaron, drenched in nervous sweat, looked at him in disbelief and stopped playing all together. Rex and Jo lowered their hands from their fretboards, relieved for the struggle to be over. Jaymie winced and said again, more quietly, “…drum solo?”

Aaron stared at him dubiously, sent him a telepathic memo that he had quit the band once and for all, and launched into an erratic, hysterical drum solo.

“Free jazz…” Jaymie whispered into the microphone.

Aaron lost a stick over his left shoulder and snatched another one from his stockpile on the bass drum, his playing unfettered by such constraints as timing. It was a deranged, lawless music that was both frantic and cathartic at once. From the chaos of the drumkit, a turbid soul was unleashed, howling a ghastly celebration of its misfortunes. The toms took on a jungle timbre and hinted at a beat, and then—an explosion from the crash cymbal—he accidentally dropped both sticks at once, grabbed another pair, and rose as a phoenix from the flames playing perfectly timed skipping sixteenth notes on the hi hat.

Jaymie was euphoric. He had caused this to happen, this fleeting temporal work of art! He turned away from Aaron and looked into the audience. Rex’s two friends were laughing at a meme on one of their phones, their heads close together as they leaned over the protruding stomach of Stan, who stared enthralled at Jaymie’s most recent impromptu act of brilliance. The bartender wiped a dusty glass and watched the stage with an expression conveying skepticism at Jaymie's life choices.

It was possible they weren’t at the right venue for this. He cued the rest of the band to come back in for the last chorus of “With or Without Pay,” the beat solidly in place.

***

“I’m booking us a tour for next month!” said Jaymie exultantly.

“Man, I thought I was gonna die up there. I don’t know what happened…” Aaron alternately gulped water and sipped from a glass of whiskey on the rocks.

“One show is already a done deal. I just got the email today.” Jaymie happily fished a cigarette from a package in his pocket and slid it behind his ear.

“It’s like, I just thought all the sudden that we’d finish up and someone would be dead in the bathroom or something, you know?” said Aaron.

Rex sat between their brothers at the bar, math textbook and notes spread before them. Pages of pencil-scrawled solutions overlapped onto the sections of counter not occupied by Jaymie and Aaron's drinks. Rex held an orange juice with a straw and a half-shot of tequila that Jaymie had generously splashed into it from his own glass while the bartender wasn't looking. The man knew that Rex's ID gave a birthdate in the year 2002 but allowed them, as a member of the band, to stay in the bar provided they didn't drink.

Rex’s friends had left after the set, driven home by parents who were concerned about them getting enough sleep. Rex occasionally wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a curfew. Perhaps they would have turned out more rebellious, had they been provided a rule or two to rebel against.

“You can’t book a tour in one month,” said Aaron. “Three months in advance, minimum. You know that.”

“So cynical, Aar,” said Jaymie. "Can't you have some faith now and then?"

“And have you forgotten our sister is still in high school? With classes every day?”

“‘Brother' or ‘sibling’ is fine,” monotoned Rex, who had generously implemented a three-month Pronoun Grace Period where they wouldn't lose patience with those close to them struggling to make the switch.

“Sibling! Sorry, Becca. Shit! Rex. I just had a mild cardiac arrest onstage fifteen minutes ago, if that’s any excuse. I’ll get it together.”

“Yeah, get a grip!” said Jaymie.

“Fuck off, Jay, leave me alone.” He sipped from his drink.

“I’m pretty sure our brother-ette is brilliant enough to miss a few days of high school,” said Jaymie. “Who says they can’t learn grade twelve algebra on the road? Right Rex?”

Rex shrugged. “I’ll tour. As long as it doesn’t conflict with hockey tournaments or jazz band concerts.”

“Dammit Rex, quit being so well-adjusted! You should just drop out like us and pursue music! Mom would approve.”

“Don’t you dare drop out, Rex. You keep adding up those—what are they—those x’s with mini twos on top.” Aaron slid a sheet of loose-leaf covered in equations towards himself to get a closer look. “Where would we tour to, anyway? Like, Toronto? You really want to drive through the Shield in November, when it's getting all icy?"

Rex knew they shouldn't get their hopes too high when it came to the BBBFB, yet they felt, deep down, that the band was great. They didn't care about anyone else's opinion on it, and they had little interest in expanding their horizons to other musical projects, even though their mother frequently reminded them in phone calls that competent bass players were in constant demand, the world would soon be their oyster, etc.

Rex knew where their loyalty lay, and yet there always seemed to be more setbacks than successes. That spring, Aaron had quit drumming to finish his abandoned high school diploma, and Jaymie had been so angry he'd moved to a friend's couch for ten days. The couch was too short and only had springs in one side, and he'd ended up living on Adderall and vegan pate whilst penning, from scratch, a new full-length concept album about betrayal and treachery, until his siblings had driven the eleven blocks to Kildare Avenue and rescued him.

When the band succeeded, it always seemed to be in spite of things rather than due to good planning and deliberation. Rex had decided that as soon as they were an adult, they were taking over management of the band’s affairs.

“Not Toronto—although I know you're only complaining because you're having some vision of us being eaten by a bear in Ontario, which I can assure you is barely even a remote possibility. Bear-ly.”

“Stop,” said Aaron.

“What if I told you we were going to… Poland! Free tickets from Tato!”

The effect on his siblings was instantaneous. Aaron gulped from the wrong drink and sprayed a geyser of whiskey across the counter. The bartender shot him a glare.

“Are you crazy?”

“We’re not going to Poland,” said Rex.

“Poland is full of psychopaths!” said Aaron.

“It’s all sex offenders and drug lords,” said Rex.

“Do you remember last month? He barely stopped a terrorist!”

“I’m kidding,” said Jaymie. “We’d literally get kidnapped before we stepped off the plane.”

“Free tickets. Jesus. If Dad wants to see us, he can come here. All we have to deal with is the odd murder at a rock show.” Aaron wiped the soaked table in front of him with a napkin, then dabbed at a few of Rex’s notes that had been caught in the spray.

“Maybe if he did come here, he could catch that killer,” Jaymie said thoughtfully.

“Yeah, pitch that to him,” said Rex.

The Brzezinskis didn’t like to admit to others that they were afraid of Poland, but it came up occasionally in their own conversations, especially when they were trying to freak each other out. When Rex was a child, the twins had regaled them with made-up stories about the horrors of Poland, many based loosely on their father’s news-clippings, postcards and anecdotes delivered with a bit of fuzz and a time-delay over the phone.

“No,” said Jaymie. “This autumn, we go west!”

"B.C.?" asked Rex hopefully.

“Close, Rexy. Close.” He paused for emphasis until both of his brothers were watching attentively and on the verge of giving him a good shake. “Regina!”

Aaron rolled his eyes and pushed away his glass. “I’m gonna go pack up my drums,” he said. “And maybe rescue Jo from Stan.”

Jo had been cornered before she could make it to the bar, and was now being long-windedly informed which famous male guitarists she sounded the most like. The Brzezinskis had decided to allow Stan some time with her, in the interest of keeping their biggest fan happy. Fortunately, he seemed to approve of their choice to add lead guitar.

“What a snob. Am I right?” Jaymie jerked his head in Aaron’s direction and stood up to go smoke. Rex smiled and went back to their quadratic equations.

***

The next morning, Jo was awoken at 6:51 by a relentless knocking at her window. She lived in a small basement apartment in West Broadway, and the intrusion on her sleep reminded her that she wanted a word with her landlord about putting bars on the outside of her window—as soon as she’d paid rent on time for a month or two, and was back in the good books.

She sat up, turned on her lamp, and immediately collapsed back onto her pillow, one arm slung over her eyes, head feeling like a balloon blown too full. She concluded that she may have had one too many drinks after the show. It seemed to happen more often at the shows where the stakes were low and attendance was poor—times when there was little reason to celebrate. She’d also indulged in one of Jaymie’s cigarettes, if only because, as most musicians know, it is important in life to show that you’re able to do a number of things that make you feel physically ill.

She groaned and rose to peer through the glass. Jaymie stared back expectantly through the cloudy window. The streetlights were still on; the pale hint of a reluctant sunrise had yet to reach the narrow stretch between Jo’s window and the tall apartment building beside it.

She jimmied the window open. Jaymie immediately took this as an invitation to slide through the small rectangular opening and drop down onto the end of the bed. He squeezed a heavy-looking messenger bag through the window after him, barely keeping its contents from spilling out the top, and sat leaning against the wall, his hiking boots—possibly the most practical thing Jo had seen him wear—dangling over the side of the mattress.

An odd thought crossed her mind, that her band was stalking her and she’d just lost her last opportunity to get out while she still could. It passed as quickly as it had come, leaving only a weary annoyance in its place.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “We just got home, like, five hours ago.”

“What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m delivering your mail!” he gestured at his scruffy bag.

“You’re a postal worker,” she said dully. Then she sat down heavily on the bed next to him and looked at the ceiling. “Of course you’re a postal worker. Like Bukowski.”

“I’ve decided not be offended that you’ve never shown enough interest to ask how I pay for our equipment, but yes, I work for Canada Post. Union man! And I just got switched to your neighbourhood! Fortuitous, no?” He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Hey, did you move recently?”

Jo had moved to this apartment shortly before joining the band, following an extended stay in her parents’ basement. At one point she’d lost her job, decided to ‘make a go of it’ in music, promptly failed to find any paying gigs as a guitarist, and had needed the free rent at her folks’ until she found a part-time job.

Since moving, Jo had unpacked exactly one and a half bags. In fact, Jaymie was the first official visitor here. She wondered what he must think of the small space, scattered with cardboard boxes.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Don’t you have some kind of time limit for your deliveries?”

He ignored her question and said, “Jo! It’s good to get up early! You can get so much more done, even more than people who sleep the same amount but stay up late—studies show!” He began rifling through his mail bag. “You have… an angry letter from your internet provider—uh oh! wonder what they want!...aaaaaaaand… the Long and McQuade Christmas catalogue. Wow, they’re early on it this year, aren’t they?”

“I don’t have anything I need to get done today!” she protested. “I was going to sleep in. Since we played that show last night? And loaded all our gear in at one in the morning?”

“A success is no reason to give up, Jo. In fact, the opposite is true!”

“How many energy drinks have you had this morning?” As she asked it, she wondered if it weren’t something stronger that was giving Jaymie his zest.

It wasn’t that Jo was unmotivated. It was just that once you’ve taken the time to learn an instrument, you realize that you’ll never be good enough at anything in your life. Everything you took on was an unending commitment. How did anyone just casually decide to, say, learn French? When would you be done learning French? You’d have to spend the rest of your life on it, or forfeit and admit defeat. Sure, she could spend this morning cleaning her apartment, but would it ever really be clean? It all seemed distantly overwhelming.

Besides, Jo enjoyed being a little bored for a stretch here and there. It inspired her musically.

Jaymie Brzezinski had not been bored since 2012.

“No 5-hour Energies until after 12 PM, that’s my rule. I ate a ton of Lucky Charms this morning though.” He winked. “It’s not healthy, but it is lucky—I manifested us a tour!” Jo began to burrow back into her warm blankets. “What’s his secret, you ask? Creative visualization. And a complete breakfast. Of cereal marshmallows! Youcangetthemwithouttheactualcerealnow…” Jo had turned her lamp off again and was rearranging her blankets in the semi-darkness. “But just imagine how much you could practice the guitar if you started at seven in the morning—”

At this, Jo had had enough. She knew how to practice the guitar. She got up, grabbed Jaymie’s mail bag, and thrust it out the window. Then she grasped his shoulders and hefted him off the bed, guided him back to the opening, and got her palms under his heel for a boost before he could protest. Just as she did when loading gear, she felt fortunate for her strength and stature. As she stuffed him back out the window, he quickly delivered the message he’d undoubtedly come to share.

“We have a mini-tour! In two and a half weeks. Two shows in Regina. One’s a bar, they offer a payment guarantee of two-fifty. Then another house party, which is always great for a built-in crowd and some gas money. Kinda weird folks, judging by the emails, but nice enough. We’re gonna make bank. ‘Get that bread,’ as Rex says. Okseeyouatpractice!”

Jo slammed the window shut and tumbled back onto her mattress. She curled up with her arms around her knees until the slight nausea in her stomach subsided. Trying to maintain her annoyance, she thought of all the reasons why a seven-hour drive for two shows was barely worth the trouble, and yet, after a moment, a small, satisfied smile curled its way across her face.