The security guy waves me through; no cover charge. Inside, it’s small and loud.
I am bumped and jostled by shoulders and elbows as I make my way towards the bar, where I buy a Miller Lite. The crowd are clapping and whooping. I turn towards the stage and see four guys arranging themselves at drum kit and keyboard, grinning over their guitars. One of them grabs the microphone and shouts, ‘Atlantic City! We’re the Magic Men. And we’re here with all your favourite songs tonight.’
They begin to play a version of Aerosmith’s ‘Walk This Way’, and the room goes wild. I take a gulp of my beer. At first, I’d thought the slurring lead vocals was down to faulty equipment, but when the singer stumbles over his guitar flex, I realise he’s drunk. There’s laughter and catcalls as he gives the audience a thumbs-up before launching into another song. Halfway through, he staggers forward, appears to attempt an Elvis-like hip gyration, catches his foot on a speaker cable and, with a surprised squawk, pitches head first over the side of the stage. The music screeches to a halt, a guitar twanging tunelessly, a last clash of the hi-hat, as the rest of the band members peer over the edge at their fallen singer.
Burly security men move purposefully forward. There is an eerie silence, and then the buzz and mutter of conversations starts up.
‘Shit,’ someone is saying. ‘Maybe he’s unconscious.’
‘Nah, the dude’s wasted,’ another voice says. ‘Won’t have felt a thing.’
There is laughter and booing as the singer is half dragged, half carried between the flanking shoulders of the stony-faced bouncers. A man in a suit climbs onto the stage and waves his arms for silence. ‘Management,’ someone says. But the noisy crowd refuses to shut up. The band members are conferring in a huddle, worried faces in the strobe lights. Another man has appeared on the stage, and I’m guessing he’s a roadie, as he’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. He says something to the nervous man in a suit, who scratches his head. Now the new guy is talking earnestly to the band. They discuss, gesticulate. The new guy comes to the front and picks up the microphone.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘It seems that your singer tonight is … a little indisposed.’ Hoots. Whistles. He waits for them to die down. ‘My name is Sam Sage. If you’ll have me, I’m happy to front a couple of covers for you tonight.’
‘I’ll have you!’ a woman calls. There’s more laughter.
Sam Sage smiles. He has a long mouth and a crooked smile. And it adds up fast in my head: that mouth, his accent. He’s the same guy I saw on the boardwalk this morning. I remember the guitar by his feet. He pushes a hand through untidy black hair, and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he nods his head, and clicks his fingers. One. Two. Three. The room falls silent. The band look at each other and shrug, and the keyboard begins, a gentle swell of notes. Sam opens his mouth and launches into a Patti Smith song, ‘Because the Night’. One of my favourites. By the time the drums kick in and his voice blasts into the chorus, the room is singing along with him, and I want them all to shut up, because he’s good. Really good.
Sam Sage sings more covers. When the band stops, there’s a frenzy of relieved high-fives between them. The audience clap and cheer. Sam springs off the stage into the crowd, and I see hands reaching to pat his shoulders, a tall blonde man thrusting a beer towards him.
‘Must be nice being the hero,’ the man next to me says.
‘He was amazing,’ I say.
‘He’s too cocky,’ says a guy to my left. ‘I could have got on that stage and done the same.’
‘But you didn’t,’ I say.
The restroom is full of girls jostling for space at the mirror. As I sit in the stall, disembodied voices float over the door. ‘Cute,’ one of them says.
‘I’m a sucker for the accent,’ sighs another.
‘I’m gonna get his number.’
Out of the cubicle, I wash my hands, bending towards the faucet to take mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid. I straighten up, wiping my lips and chin with the back of my hand. The girl next to me is tilting close to the glass, batting blackened lashes. She straightens up and winks at me, ‘That English dude has started a riot. But I wouldn’t say no.’
I go back into the club, but the band have packed up. I don’t want to stand in this crush, drinking by myself. I catch sight of Sam Sage in the crowd, people grabbing his hand to shake, patting him on the back. He deserves it, I think. He saved the night.
I did it, I tell Frank. Spent an evening in a bar on my own. But now there’s disco music playing and everyone’s hammered. I’m going home to check on Mom.
Way to go! Frank sounds a little surprised. Step in the right direction, sis. Hell, I’m proud of you.
Outside, the lights from the boardwalk trail glitter across the dark sea. The beach between me and the water is a shadowy swathe of empty space. I know that junkies loiter under the pier at night, kids with flick knifes in their back pockets, but I go down onto the sand anyway, slipping off my shoes and socks. I want to walk by the sea and think about Sam Sage, the way he sounded up there on the stage, the way he smiled into the audience, and how, just for a moment, it felt as if he was smiling right at me.