I head to the back to grab my Ableton Push and check my phone on the way. Youssef was supposed to get here at nine-thirty with a couple friends—a welcome buffer, since mine all bailed—and I have a text from him letting me know they’re running late but getting close now.
I glance at the blacked-out windows facing the street and feel my heart kick up.
I thought this would be a better option than sitting in a bar together again. I thought I’d have more control over myself facing him here in my element, on a night when I’m doing what I do best. The nerves gathering into a tight bundle in my chest are making me question that decision. Suddenly the thought of his face in the crowd, watching me open myself up to my art and fill the room with my sounds, feels way more intimate than just getting another afternoon cocktail.
I slip my phone into my pocket without answering and then open my Push’s case, sliding my hand into the mesh panel where I keep the cables I need.
“Mierda.”
I dig deeper, checking the panel three times even though I’m already sure it’s empty. I lift the Push up and check underneath it, but there’s nothing there except the case’s black velvet liner.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I took all my gear out to reorganize it after the Taverne Toulouse gig. I can see the cables sitting on my desk back home like a psychic vision of doom.
I whip my phone out again and check the time. I have thirty minutes until I go on. It’s about a twelve minute drive back to my place.
I could just do the whole set on the CDJs like a normal DJ. It would be fine. I’m not here to befine, though. The Ableton Push is my specialty, and given Shi Bar’s reputation for hosting up and coming DJ talent, this is one of the few crowds in the city who would actually know if I was using it or not.
Which is why I care so much.
Not because I want to impress Youssef.
I locate the manager and leave him standing there stammering when I explain I have to go get something for my set and will be right back. I burst out through the back door and start pounding up the dark street, craning my neck around as I look for a cab since there’s no time to wait for an Uber.
I haven’t taken an actual cab in years. I don’t even know where you’re supposed to find one, but I follow the lights and music coming from a main road a few streets over.
Like some miracle from the Gods of Music, I spot a car with a glowing ‘Taxi’ sign strapped to its roof inching up the street after I’ve gone about a block. I ignore all the curious glances from the people in suits and high heels heading out of the restaurants around me as I run so fast my lungs burn. The taxi is only a few metres away now. I step off the sidewalk and sprint up the middle of the road towards it, calling out for the driver to stop as I dash across an intersection.
The next moment happens so fast it cuts me off mid-word. One second my feet are hitting the pavement, and the next they’ve been knocked out from under me.
I’m flying.
The breath whooshes out of my chest, and the world shifts on its axis as I go from looking at the back of the taxi to staring up at the tops of the old brick buildings that line the street.
I can see a slice of the night sky.
There’s a star out.
It’s the last thing I think before my body smashes against the pavement. I hear a squeal of tires, and somebody screams.
Then the pain hits. Everywhere. So much of it that a spike of terror shoots through me and brings up a wave of bile in the back of my throat.
I try to breathe, and I can’t.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
The patch of asphalt that makes up my whole line of vision blurs. Then everything goes black.
