After their performance, the band drank the Kool-Aid, so to speak. The Bukowskis drank so much of the Kool-Aid that two of the four members blacked out before midnight, one spent several hours playing nostalgic pop-punk songs on an old acoustic guitar she found in a corner, surrounded by a small circle of people whose tolerance of her was saint-like, and the fourth woke up with a mild headache.

It would be preferable to believe that practical young Rex, understanding the potential harm of alcohol on the developing brain, abstained from it entirely, but let's not kid ourselves.

They woke up in a comfortable bed on the second floor, fully clothed including the sneakers they'd performed in, beside a sleeping young man with long black hair, a handsome face, and a luxurious unibrow.

This had never happened to Rex before. They remembered, vaguely, meeting him on a makeshift living room dance floor and having some kind of debate about free will. Eventually, he'd offered up his bed.

They slid out from under the covers without waking the boy and walked softly to the window. Moving aside the thick curtain, they saw they were on the second floor overlooking the driveway. A man and woman stood near the Bukowski van with their heads together. The woman, Juniper, gestured toward the vehicle. The man, Steve, must have made a joke—they both laughed and walked back toward the house, chatting animatedly until Rex lost sight of them under the window ledge.

Rex saw a mirror near the door and went to re-spike their hair. Yesterday’s gel crunched under their fingers.

“And another thing,” came a low voice from the bed.

Rex whirled around. “You’re awake,” they said.

He charming smile, squinting at the light pouring through the curtain. "And another thing, the question of free will isn't just humans have it or they don't—it's a spectrum! It depends on things like what kind of state your brain is in! Because in the end you have to make a decision, whether it's the 'inevitable' one or not." (He made exaggerated air quotes with his fingers.) "So, it's about whether your brain is in a state to make real decisions or not—or just automatic ones. Do you agree?" He looked at Rex expectantly, but then seemed to become bashful and began adjusting his shirt, which had gotten twisted around while he slept.

“I don’t think my brain is in a state to make a decision about that right now,” said Rex. They had been warned of people like this, but hadn’t expected to encounter one before college. Still, he was very cute.

“Of course! Free will is much lower early in the morning and later in the evening—hey, I wonder if Bukowski had anything to say about it?” Excitement crossed his face at the thought of working Bukowski into the debate.

“I think he was more concerned with free beer,” said Rex.

“Anyway, it’s time for breakfast! You need coffee! We can go downstairs. Or maybe you like tea?” He hopped out of the bed, also fully clothed, and moved to open the bedroom door.

"Sure, thank you," said Rex, suddenly feeling shy. "Did we, um, do anything?" they asked, gesturing toward the bed. They were fairly certain all of their memories were intact and the encounter had just been friendly, but they hadn't been intoxicated very many times in the past, and they'd seen enough sitcom episodes to feel wary about waking up with a stranger.

“No, nothing at all,” said the boy happily. “Neither of us was sober enough to give the other consent!”

He seemed proud of this fact, and Rex wondered if, like them, he hadn’t been drunk very many times. So far in life, Rex had gotten the impression that getting drunk was some kind of great achievement, until you reached a certain age, and then it was embarrassing—in the same way that sharing a bed with another person was something to celebrate, until you’d shared with too many. Rex wasn’t sure what that age was or what that number was or who it was that got the privilege of deciding.

"I hope you didn't mind sharing my bed. You seemed like you didn't mind."

“I don’t mind,” said Rex, and realized that it was true. “I forget your name.”

"Ronan."

"I'm Rex."

"Yes, I know."

Rex followed the young man downstairs to where a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast was being laid out at a table long enough to seat at least twenty people. There also appeared to be enough food for at least twenty people, and at least twenty people were meandering in from various areas of the house.

No one had gone home after the show. Not for the first time, Rex wondered what kind of place they had just stayed the night in.

Rex claimed a seat beside Jo, who was bleary-eyed and staring numbly into a mug of coffee. She croaked a quiet “Morning,” from under her hair.

The show organizer, Miranda, greeted them and sat down on Jo’s other side as Jaymie drifted in from the living room, grinning at the sight of the feast.

“That was the best couch sleep I’ve ever had!” he declared. “You people sure know how to own a couch. I don’t even remember passing out!” He looked around for the nearest empty chair and sat down elatedly at the head of the table. “I threw up on it, just so you know,” he confessed. “But I’ve already thoroughly cleaned it with supplies I found in the bathroom.”

“Well, Bukowskis,” said Miranda. “We hope last night was enjoyable for you.”

Rex and Jaymie responded “Oh, yes!” and “I have no idea!” respectively. Jo gave a thumbs up and looked dubiously at the food on her plate.

“We also hope that you’ve seen how to nice it can be to spend time in our home.” The other people at the table watched the Bukowskis. They appeared to be of widely varying ages and backgrounds, but all shone matching beaming smiles at the bandmates.

“We hope that you will not be in a great a rush to leave it today,” said Miranda. “Or ever!”

“We appreciated the audience participation last night!” said Jaymie. “Sorry, what did you say?”

"You see," Miranda continued carefully, "Our group has had a dearth of effective leadership in recent times..."

"Is this a cult?" Rex blurted out before they could stop themself. They blushed, immediately horrified. Ronan laughed loudly, spitting out a piece of egg and then blushing as well. He glanced at Rex, who looked back a split second after he'd looked away, and then he looked again, but Rex glanced over a second too late again, and they repeated this process one more time before finally making eye contact, blushing even more, and staring at their plates.

“Aw, kids! So cute,” said Jaymie, who had noticed this exchange. “Miranda, you were saying?”

"A cult!" Miranda laughed, blinking affectionately at Rex. A few of the others tittered. "No, no. We're an arts collective."

“That makes much more sense.” Jaymie nodded sagely. “Not that I thought you were a cult—well, I did, but in a good way…”

“I’m sorry,” said Rex, now even more embarrassed. Was it not a great dream of Rex’s to be involved in an artists’ collective? And to fill the world with zines and messages of inclusivity? “What kind of art do you make?”

The table was gravely silent. Rex wasn't sure what they'd said wrong this time, but resolved to take a vow of silence until they were twenty-one.

“Well… none,” admitted Miranda. “You may have noticed—these walls remain devoid of art.”

“Not everyone is born an artist,” said a soft, sad voice that Rex identified as belonging to Juniper, at the far end of the table. “And not everyone is born with the urge to create…” She trailed off, seemingly overcome by a great, crushing shyness.

“But the greatest tragedy,” said Ronan, finally looking Rex in the eye, “is when you aren’t born an artist—or, say, a musician—but you do have the urge!”

"And then you're helpless," said Juniper, and a large tear oozed a slow path down her cheek. Steve, who sat beside her, patted her shoulder in sympathy.

“In this collective, all of us fall into that category,” he explained. “All we want is to create art.”

“That’s the saddest story I ever heard!” exclaimed Jaymie. "We'll play a fundraiser show to buy you all craft supplies and guitars! You'll have to start with cheap ones, but still! It's never too late!"

“The gifted ones never understand,” said Ronan bitterly.

“Manners, Ronan,” Steve reprimanded. “They are our guests.” Ronan glared back at him and took a bite of toast.

“You see, we have all those things,” said Miranda, her voice strained with the vast patience she appeared to be exercising for the benefit of the confused musicians.. “But we cannot use them. Some people have the gift, and others do not, and some—” she gestured around the table, “—yearn for it more than anything in the world.”

The pause that followed was heavy with a barely audible collective sighing.

“…I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” said Jaymie tentatively. “But have you tried… practicing?”

Steve gave a harsh, humourless laugh and ran his hands vexedly through his greying hair. "We've all tried to paint a portrait. Or write a memoir, like Evelyn—" He gestured at a middle-aged woman who gave an ironic smile. "Compose a piece of piano music..." He patted the shoulder of Juniper, who sniffled. "Or write a scathing political article." He looked at Ronan.

“To be published on an online blog!” said Ronan fiercely.

“The result is… It’s too terrible to even show our friends and family!” He put his head in his hands.

"When writing an article, I'm not sure that creativity is the most important element..." Rex started to say, but remembered their earlier blunder and thought better of it. "What I mean is, I'm a firm believer in DIY—the do-it-yourself ethic—which encourages everyone to express themselves creatively, and not just amazing artists. Even if it's not great craftsmanship, it will speak to someone. Possibly it will speak to even more people than if it were something really impressive and esoteric!"

They were met with blank stares.

“I’m not discounting your efforts,” said Jaymie carefully. “But you might need to try it a few more times before…” He must have noticed he was getting some raised eyebrows, because he changed tactics. “Do you know how many bad songs I wrote when I was a kid? At least two or three.”

“You’ve written dozens of bad songs!” Rex contributed.

“Ok, it's true. I wrote at least twenty before I wrote one that was good. A reviewer for one of the university newspapers argued recently that none of them have ever been good!"

“But you see, that’s why we need you!” said Miranda her tone beginning to verge on ecstasy. “Once you’d awoken your creative spirit, you began to make great music!”

“Thank you, but don’t you think the ‘creative spirit’ could exist in all of you? Just buried a little deeper?”

“No, she means Bukowski,” said Steve bluntly.

“Oh,” said Jaymie, and for the fourth time in his life, he was at a loss for words.

“That’s why we need your guidance, Jaymie Bukowski!” cried Miranda. “Please stay, and help us summon our own creative spirits!”

“When you use that word summon, I’m not sure I—”

"We'll stay!" said Rex, surprising even themself. They glanced at Ronan and mumbled, "I've always wanted to be in an arts collective."

Jaymie stared at them. “It… sounds like… we’re staying!” he said.

Exclamations of delight circulated the table.

“What the fuck is happening?" asked Jo, setting down her fork, which containing a single hash brown she'd spent the duration of the conversation woozily daring herself to eat.

"Jo, we're going to stay with this artist cult—collective—and teach them the guitar!" Jaymie announced. "We'll stay as long as it takes for them to get it!"

“I work on Wednesday,” said Jo.

“We’ll stay ‘til Tuesday!” said Jaymie.

“Ok.”

Rex shared a smile with Ronan.

“Hold on, I just realized what’s odd about all of this,” said Jaymie.

“Really, Jaymie? Which one thing is odd about all this?” Jo winced at him over her coffee.

“No one is protesting.” Jaymie peered around the table. “Where’s my brother?”

***

Aaron awoke, nauseous, under a cloud-choked autumn sky, in a prairie field that had long since been shorn of its crop. The crisp, prickly remains of stalks of wheat or canola, blackened by farmers burning their fields after harvest, scratched at his arms and neck as he gingerly raised himself onto an elbow.

He immediately threw up. A harsh gust of wind blew over the empty grey field. He looked around, seeing nothing but more fields and a few scraggly trees in the distance. He had no idea where he was.

He could feel the alarm welling in his chest. A wave of dizziness hit, warning of an encroaching panic attack—or maybe it was the hangover.

He suddenly realized that he'd encountered an evil cult who'd kidnapped his family and friend and, finding no use for him, poisoned him and dropped him in a post-apocalyptic wasteland a million miles away from any kind of civilization, where he could never get in the way of their dastardly plans. He'd wander these fields for years, growing the ratty beginnings of a beard, living on burnt straw and field mice, eventually finding a rickety porch somewhere to shout paranoid ravings from till he wasted away...

He gasped for breath.

He then had the more accurate realization that he must have gotten very drunk last night, believed he'd encountered an evil cult who were attempting to kidnap his band and carry out dastardly plans, freaked the fuck out, and made a run for it. He'd probably been doubly uneasy when escape proved simpler than expected. He'd likely staggered the one block out of the city and promptly passed out in this field.

A semi truck roared down the highway thirty feet behind him.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. “What an inconvenient illness.”

Groaning, he got to his feet, stumbled to the road, and began making his way back towards the city.