Inside Stuckyâs Dive Bar and Grill the punk rock group, Flaming Bags of Dirt, prepared for their set. The stage was grimy. Covered in shards of broken glass and puddles of what Sanjay hoped was beer not piss. Still to Sanjay, one of the bandâs guitarists and lead singer, a dive barâs stage was the closest thing to home he was ever going to get.
âWe shouldnât be playing these chickenshit charity gigs, Sanj,â Rick, the band bassist chided. The easily pissed off Rick crossed his skinny heavily tattooed arms, and glared at him.
âIt's not charity. Itâs business. Stuckyâs is a punk rock institution. If nobody, but us got the balls to play at Stuckyâs right now, this can be our bandâs big break,â Sanjay informed Rick tensely, a lit cigarette dangling from the corners of his mouth.
Beyond the shoddy black curtain were the shouts and laughter of a full house. The tables were crowded with people, with most donned in colorful mohawks and faded leather jackets. As many others lined the aisles and the walls, trading cigarettes if they werenât scrolling on their phones.
For most businesses this would be an ideal night with bands scrambling over each other for a decent time slot to take advantage of the large crowd. Yet, Frank the bar manager, had practically begged Sanjay and his band to come up North for this gig. Half his nightâs regular acts had abruptly dropped out or disappeared in the weeks before.
There were rumors it had something to do with some churchy cult up near Wentworth Falls but this was a town two counties away. Besides, what were they doing? Kidnapping people?
âWe better get paid back what it cost in gas to get up here for this gig. I donât think we have enough to get us back down to Maryland, and Iâll be damned if I get stuck in this place,â Malik, the bandâs other guitarist, said, shaking his bald head.
His bright blue electric guitar gleamed in Malikâs hands, as flashes of light from behind the curtain struck it.
âAs long as the partyâs good and the beat is hot, who cares how much we get paid?â Stu, their drummer, asked, with a shrug from behind their giant drum kit.
âIf we want to keep performing without taking on third jobs, we do. We should care,â Malik argued. Stu rolled his eyes and took a swig from a bottle of tequila he had stashed behind a loudspeaker. Malik loudly sighed.
âWe are going to be fine. Frank promised to pay double the typical gig rate and after heâs going to recommend us to all his friends running clubs on the Jersey Shore and Manhattan. Weâll be playing a shit ton of new gigs after this,â Sanjay himself promised to his ambivalent bandmates.
He went back to finishing his last tuning touches on his own bright red electric guitar.
Covered in scratch marks from years of the rock and roll lifestyle on the road, it was Sanjayâs most precious possession. Lovingly maintained over the years it represented all the blood, sweat and tears he had shed for this art form and everything he was willing to give up for it. Mortgage payments, wedding rings, vans that didnât cough out poison when you started their engines.
Sanjay stepped confidently at the head of the stage, rubbing his fingers through his spiky red hair one last time for comfort.
The boisterous crowd cheered. Slamming fists on tables and against walls, Sanjay delighted in the warmth and joy of his fellow punks.
âHey, Stuckyâs Dive Bar and Grill! How are we doing tonight? Feeling pumped?â Sanjay asked, grabbing a confident hold of his microphone.
The crowd hollered. Sanjay scanned the crowd looking for Frank. When he spotted him, Frank was in the corner of the bar near a fire exit. He gave Sanjay a thumbs up and smiled at him from behind a pair of sunglasses.
âGood! Because tonight we have Hothead Rick on bass, Malik the Geek on guitar, Slutty Stu on drums, with me Sanjay the Satanist singing with second guitar and we are âFlaming Bags of Dirtâ! So let me ask one more time, are you ready to rock New Jersey?!â Sanjay shouted out.
A thunderous roar rolled over the crowd, as people shrieked and clapped and slammed boots on the ground.
â1âŚ2âŚ1âŚ2⌠3âŚâ Sanjay counted down, his fingers twitching from their need to play.
He was about to just count down to four when suddenly a sharp feedback loop squealed over the barâs main speakers. Everyone clutched their ears and groaned in pain.
âSorry about that folks. Must be a technical error. Weâll check back in a-â Sanjayâs voice on the microphone abruptly stopped as it went dead. People glanced around at each other, murmuring in annoyance and confusion when over the loudspeakers the sound of an old tape recording played.
âThe Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want,â a manâs baritone voice sang.
âWhat the fuck is this shit?â Rick snapped,
before giving the finger to the nearest sound system.
Behind the bar, staff scrambled to find the source of the problem as everyone else all blearily stated at each other in aggravated disbelief. Was this somebodyâs idea of a sick joke?
âThe Lord is my shepherd and I will not need,â the voice sang again. Blinking rapidly, Sanjay became inundated with a quick series of jumbled memories and sensations. Polished wooden pews, Bible camp, the spinning blades of a lawn mower. Cargo shorts.
Sanjay stumbled back a step and would have collapsed if not for Malik immediately stepping to his side and steadying him.
âYou okay, man? Whatâs going on?â Malik asked, wrapping his hand firmly around Sanjayâs.
âI donât know. It's like Iâm having 100 instances of deja vu all at once,â Sanjay tried to explain, rubbing his temples.
âWhat the fuck? What the absolute fucking shit?â Rick shouted, as he sank to his knees, digging his nails into his head. Rick tore the bass strap from around his neck and threw it down in front of him like a disgraced offering.
Sweat dripping down his face, his pale skin flaring red, Rick looked like he was about to molt from out of his body.
He wasnât alone. Several others in the crowd began to clutch at their heads and groan as well. Panic spread and people ran for the exits.
Once Sanjay was able to stand on his own, he and Malik ran to Rickâs side as Stu cowered from behind his drum set.
âRick, tell us how youâre feeling. Whatâs going on?â Malik asked, bending down. Sanjay put a hand on Rickâs bony shoulder to keep him upright. The man was trembling like a panting dog in Summer's heat.
âI hear it,â Rick whispered, raising his head upward, his gray eyes unfocused and distant.
âHear what?â Sanjay asked, stepping closer to him.
âThe doors are locked!â someone screamed from a nearby fire exit.
An unsettling grin crept across Rickâs face.
âThe shepard has come looking for his lost sheep,â Rick replied with a bewildering laugh. Squealing in pain, Malik and Sanjay watched as Rickâs body began violently contorting itself. Sanjay and Malik stepped back.
Radiating from his head, muscle and fat bulged from Rickâs normally skinny neck and stretched downward. Soon Rickâs back widened, his traps expanded, his arms and legs strengthening with corded muscle as his tattoos disappeared. Well combed black hair grew in to replace his own greasy blonde.
As his body shifted, so too, did his clothes. His leather jacket melted away and became a crisp green polo shirt. His black combat boots were replaced with loafers.
When the transformation was complete, Rick stood up from his previously hunched over position and chuckled amicably.
âWhat the fuck?â Malik shouted when Rick turned around to face them. Not only had the manâs body changed, so had much of his face.
No longer did it have the dark circles and five oâclock shadow of a recovering heroin addict, but a fresh youthful smoothness. Malik began taking several more steps back and Sanjay following his lead did the same. Rick smiled, his teeth white and blinding.
âWhat is this a funeral? Why is everyone here so glumb?â Rick asked in a disgustingly cheerful voice.
From the side, Stu groaned and fell over out of his chair, clutching at his face and head.
âWe should be celebrating! For I have been saved by the good Lord! And He has come to save all of you good people!â Rick shouted, triumphantly.
Shambling to their feet, several people who now looked as if they could be extras in an American political campaign, smiled serenely at Rick.
âThe Lord is my shepherd and I will not want,â Rick sang along to the music, clapping his hands. Soon the others whoâd been changed began to sing along too, as others panicked and ran or fell over as they began their own transformations.
âLetâs try the back office!â Malik urged and together the two sprinted for the backroom with their unplugged instruments in tow.
Sanjay, having been on a track team throughout high school, made it first, but when he slammed his side against the backdoor he found it wouldnât budge. Tossing his guitar to a nearby couch, Sanjay ran at the door, throwing his whole body weight its metal hull, before bouncing off against it and hitting the floor,
âSanjay!â Malik cried out, helping him to his feet. The two punks were more insulated in the back room from the pulsating Christian music, but it was vibrating in through the walls.
âThereâs got to be another way out of here,â Sanjay insisted, running from one side of the room to the other. There were windows, but they were narrow and high up near the ceiling. Then looking at the cheap drywall, he attempted to kick his way clean through but all it did was send a painful recoil up his leg.
Gritting his teeth, Sanjay briefly sat down in a nearby bean bag chair to recuperate.
When he did, he was hit with more flashes. Psalm readings, boy scout meetings, intramural Christian basketball leagues, watching football with the guys.
âBe sure to ice up that knee, son,â Sanjay heard a voice, vaguely sounding like an older male relative in his mind. Sanjay clenched his fists.
âMy father never told me shit. Get out of my head,â Sanjay yelled upward at the intangible music which only seemed to grow louder with more voices as time went on.
âSanjay,â Malik said in a warning tone, sitting down on the couch next to his guitar. Sanjay got up from the bean bag chair and sat beside him on the couch. He gripped his knee.
Malik was sweating through his clothes. Heâd already taken off his jacket and was starting to leak through his t-shirt. Malik put his guitar down but held it upright next to him like he intended to use it as a walking stick.
âI donât know if weâre going to be able to leave this shithole town, afterall,â Malik joked, smiling through the pain. Sanjay shook his head.
âWeâre going to get out of here, I promise. Even if I have to take a sledgehammer to the walls, Iâll figure out something,â Sanjay said, rubbing Malikâs knee to comfort him. Malik smiled again but said nothing, the concentration to stay himself surely overwhelming him.
Sanjay stood up from the couch.
âIâm going to try the back bathroom. Iâll be right back,â Sanjay said, giving Malikâs knee one last squeeze before leaving.
The bathroom was halfway through the hallway leading into the bar. Putting his hand on the door, Sanjay risked a peek to find nearly the whole bar had been transformed. When once thereâs been a crowd of workers and patrons with dangling piercings, revealing outfits, and brightly colored hair were dull straightlaced Christians cheering along to the repeating chorus of that foul song.
Grimacing, Sanjay forced his way into the bathroom. It was a small and narrow space with only two stalls, but it also had two large easy to access windows facing the parking lot.
Opening one of the windows, Sanjay briefly felt his head clear as in the distance there death trap of a van sat safely parked.
He went to go back to Malik to tell him the good news, but then he caught a glance of himself in the mirror.
His bright red mohawk was gone. Replaced by an easy to manage head of short black hair. That wasnât all. His nose ring, his diamond studs, his snake tattoo; all of it was gone too. Even his posture had unknowingly changed. While Sanjay had been a proud sloucher all his life, his spine was now the rim rod straight befitting a soldier or a disciplinarian.
The music was starting to come in from under the door and with it Sanjay felt a familiar unsteadiness come over him. Falling against the edges of a cracked bathroom sink, Sanjay felt his wiry body begin to pulsate and expand. Groaning in pain as he leaned his head downward, muscle and fat pushed its way up from his chest to form two heavy pecs as downward his gut bulged with fat outward but hardened underneath with muscle. His arms grew thick as boulders, bursting out of his suddenly tight leather jacket, as his thighs grew strong enough to crush grapefruits with. His neck widened to that of an offensive lineman, while his face began to rearrange itself. Grunting in a deeper voice than he was used to, Sanjay could only watch helplessly as his body not only grew but aged. Laugh lines and crowâs feet were growing in on the edges of his eyes and mouth. While his facial hair, once thin and space grew into that of a neatly trimmed beard within seconds.
Once his face changed, his clothing shifted too. His leather jacket transformed into a tight-fitting blue dress shirt like the kind his dad used to sell cars in. His ripped jeans became slacks with a belt, his sneakers, a pair of sensible Oxfords.
Once he was able to catch a breath, Sanjay stared at his reflection but could no longer recognise himself. He didnât look like a hard core punk anymore. Sanjay looked like somebodyâs middle-aged dad.
Another wave of memories smacked into him, more concrete this time. A wife, Anjula. Two sons, Jebediah and Ezekiel. Their faces and voices plastered across the walls of his mind. Sanjay yelped and tried to push them away, running from the bathroom and back to Malikâs side.
When he returned though, Malik was gone. Instead in his place was another one of the Christian suburbanites outside. Same skin tone and most of the same facial features, but muscular in the way Malik never was, dressed in a pink polo shirt and smiling up at Sanjay as if they were only acquaintances.
âMalik?â Sanjay asked, tentatively as he crossed over to him, unsure what he would hear back.
âHey there, Mr. Vishwakarma. Have you come to audition for choir director, too?â Malik asked, with his voice, but none of its distinctive cynicism or wit.
âSnap out of it, Malik! This isnât you! Please, we can get out of here. Letâs go!â Sanjay insisted, pulling the man to his feet.
Malikâs plastered smile faltered when their hands touched. When he came to, his voice was weary but unmistakably Malikâs.
âSanjay, where are we going?â Malik asked, sounding like he was wrestling through mental fog.
âThereâs an open window through the bathroom. We can escape!â Sanjay said, gruffly, his voice surprising him.
âSanjay, it's too late for me. You should just go without me,â Malik said, filling Sanjay with rage.
âNo, I donât believe that. The music wears off when in the fresh air. It worked for me, câmon,â Sanjay said, trying to pull him on but Malik dug in his heels to the floor, refusing to move further.
âStop being stupid. Iâm already too far gone. I feel it. The music scraped me out and left this shell in my place. Iâm only hanging on by a thread,â Malik pleaded. Sanjay stopped pulling, his breath caught in his throat.
âIf you donât believe me, look at what they did to my guitar,â Malik said, gesturing back to the couch.
Instead of the snazzy blue electric guitar Sanjay was used to seeing, decorated in the same scratches and history of his own red one, there was a brand new acoustic guitar sitting on the couch. Letting go of Malikâs hands, Sanjay walked back to the back room trembling with horror.
He touched the guitairâs smooth sides and laminated finish, refusing to believe the old instrument was gone until he touched it for himself. Sanjay gasped, letting go of the guitar as if burned. Malik smiled, glumbly.
âNow you know. Thereâs no hope for me. You should go,â Malik said, but Sanjay just then wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him tight.
âNo. I wonât leave you here to become one of them. Not without me. I⌠I canât do this without you,â Sanjay whispered into Malikâs ear.
Malik patted his back, affectionately. Then stroked the back of his head.
âYou are such a lovesick idiot,â Malik said, sadly.
The two men briefly pulled away, but then Malik kissed him deeply. Both men shut their eyes as they did their best to remember every curve of the otherâs lips, the flick of their tongue, the warmth and softness. They wanted the kiss to last forever, but it couldnât. They both knew that. Eventually, they pulled away and wordlessly sat down next to each other on the couch.
Sanjay held out his hand and Malik took it, squeezing it tightly.
âYou think weâll be able to stay friends at least?â Sanjay asked.
âOf course. Weâll probably end up living next
to each other too, with our perfect heterosexual families and houses with lawns divided by a white picket fence, likely going to the same church as the rest of these jackasses. With our luck weâll even have Rick and Stu on the opposite side of the street. Always causing trouble,â Malik said, closing his eyes.
It was meant to be an insult, but as Sanjay shut his eyes and listened to the music, it only sounded pleasant. Easy. Safe.
âWe couldnât have picked a better area to settle down in. With the Church in charge, people here are obedient, decent, polite, and pious. The perfect community to raise our families in,â Sanjay said with a comfortable smile.
His past hard life was circling cheerfully away, while his new life was helpfully filling the void his old self left behind.
The new Sanjay would never have embraced homosexuality or a punk rock lifestyle. Sex was between a man and a woman and it was cool to obey societal norms not twist them. He had become a man who was strict and morally upright in all things. Every day, Sanjay measured his lawnâs grass with a ruler to keep it trimmed down to HOA standards, while flipping a coin on every bed to make sure each had been properly folded before the day could begin.
Once freed of their pasts, both men came back to themselves.
âAre you ready to wow Pastor Lawerence and become the new choir director?â Mr. Jones asked, pleasantly as he stood up and collected his acoustic guitar.
âI only do what the good Lord seeks of me. If He believes me good and loyal enough to be choir director so be it. If not, I accept his judgement with humility and grace,â Sanjay answered, sternly.
He rose to his feet with a grunt and picked up his acoustic guitar. It was brand new and freshly polished, free of any unpleasant blemishes that could lower its value. Holding it in his hands, Sanjay felt a strange twinge of disappointment, as if heâd been looking forward to finding a scratch. Sanjay scoffed and waved the thought away.
Without either of the men realizing it, Stuckyâs Bar And Grill had been changed into the newest location of Our Lady of Sacred Contentment Church.
Stepping out from the back room, Sanjay and Malik walked out with guitars in hand, taking their selected spots in the front of their choir pews.
âIs everyone ready?â Pastor Lawerence asked with a warm grin. He looked to Pastor Frank, who stood proudly at the front of the church, in his new vestments. Without prompting he had contacting the Church, promising dozens of new followers at once in return for turning his failing business into a profitable church he could be a part of.
Everyone in the choir nodded their heads at once, united in purpose and mind. Sanjay beamed proudly, his fingers itching to strum his guitar strings, in honor of his God, in Sanjayâs home away from home.
â1âŚ2âŚ1âŚ2⌠3âŚ4!â
