Benton, Adam #4563

“Hey, uh, we’re friends of Benton.”

That was all it took and we were in the door.
After a quick name check, we were let into PanFlash free of charge at the head of the line. Which wasn’t really that long or anything, it was just cool to be friends with the headliner.
Adam Benton had been DJ-ing for around five years after an earlier attempt at becoming the next white rap star had failed like Kirsty Alley’s career. He was no Eminem.

What he was was a kid from an affluent new-money suburb who fancied himself a music connoisseur. I couldn’t really debate that, though. He was pretty good at what he did. PanFlash had allowed him the promotion, booking, and use of their club every other week for months now, and Benton was great at packing it with guests. He was charismatic in a subtle sort of way. Part of this was due to the fact that he and three drug-addled high school friends had rented out a house in college. More than twice a week, a barrage of drunken, drug-loving, hippie wannabe co-eds could be seen blowing large clouds of smoke from the front porch and side deck.
One of my first memories of Benton actually involved him pulling a plate out of a dresser drawer in his bedroom full of people and sweet smoke before sifting through some floury substance that was not flour.

Since then, I had actually come to like him. That memory was three years past when I walked through the doors at PanFlash. Mordred was with me. He was one of the reasons I knew Benton in the first place, and I let him lead me through the dark, surprisingly open feeling PanFlash.

The ceiling was high, and the whole place had an abandoned warehouse atmosphere. It wasn’t classy, but it was urban which was fine for a DJ venue. It was dark, with sparsely placed hanging lights and a few colored spotlights near the dance floor, which took up a good third of the place. There was a bar area right in front of us with a few people waving money for the bartender, but after a bit of hesitation, Mordred steered me toward the round booth tables directly beside the dance floor.

“I don’t really have that much money on me,” Mordred said in my ear, because it was loud, and gestured toward the bar. He probably didn’t need a drink anyway; I figured he was probably already high.
So typical of Mordred to take me to a bar that he could get in for free, and then not have money for drinks. Somehow he always paid for pills, though.

The place wasn’t crowded yet, but there were plenty of people standing around or sitting and staring at the music videos playing on the big screen behind the stage. Nearly everyone looked like they were trying to be something they weren’t. This sort of style has always surprised me with its contrived authenticity. They looked like rich kids on Halloween. It occurred to me, as we moved toward a booth directly across from center stage, that the style might just be the kind that happens when you combine substance abuse and MTV.

We sat down for a second. I remember looking at Mordred and thinking that he was beautiful. The colored lights reflected off his eyes, and he smiled at me.
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
“Strangely.” And I laughed. The adverbial form of the word ‘strange’ was not something Mordred would have said if he weren’t high. And he smiled again because I was laughing. His eyes were relaxed in the thick of it, and he squeezed my hand.

I looked back out at all the youth and excess around me. One lone guy was now dancing on the dance floor, breaking the empty floor up with his break dancing, which included much more flailing of arms and intense facial expression than was necessary. He was sweating rather profusely when he stood up and made an exaggerated gesture to no one in particular that said “you just got owned.” He was serious. So it was pretty funny.
“I’m gonna go find Benton,” and Mordred got up and ran off in the direction of the bar.
I sat there, suddenly trying to sit up straight and not look fat, staring at the sweaty break dancing guy.

After a couple of songs, break dancing guy found someone to battle, which only made him flail more wildly, almost knocking himself into onlookers, which I thought was hysterical. I, on the other hand, found myself being pulled toward the back of the place by Mordred who had found Benton.

“Hey! It’s good to see you!” We had entered a small room at the back of the bar across from the restrooms. The room was for talent so they could get ready for shows. While one would think this to be really cool, it wasn’t. It was a room with white walls, one table, a couch, a tv, and a cooler full of some overpriced energy drinks. Benton stood up from a table where he had been sitting with his glowing ibook.
“Its good to see you too!” I came forward and we hugged. Benton was the kind of person who hugged you even if he didn’t know you that well. He had wide eyes and a boyish face that he tempered with a seemingly out of place goatee and mustache. They were both just thick enough to pass adolescent inspection. It kinda looked like baby hair.
“I’m just gearin’ up for the show!” He adjusted his flat-billed cap. “You’ve never been here before, right?”
“Nope.”
“It’s gonna be dope, man. Really cool.”
Mordred broke in before I could say anything else.
“Oh yeah, have you had a chance to look at any of the stuff I gave you?”
Mordred was constantly getting things off the Internet for free. New music, new movies, he was impatient and impractical in nearly every aspect of his life.
“Yeah, I looked at it.” Benton went back to fiddling with his laptop, and Mordred turned to me, I guess to recap why he was cool.
“I gave Benton some music so he could maybe put it into his set.”
I nodded.

Mordred looked down at me and batted away my hands from my stomach before making a quick face and turning back to Benton. He didn’t like it when I clasped them in front of me. I think he thought it made me look fat. In fact, I know he thought it made me look fat.
Then Janie came in. She had a drink in her hand.

“Hey, you want anything? I am so incredibly sober.” Janie was Benton’s girlfriend. She was a gorgeous girl with long black hair and pale, naturally flushed skin. They practically lived together. I gave Janie some credit, though. She had a real job, something about graphics and advertising, and she lived by herself when Benton wasn’t there. She walked around the table and sat down on a couch behind Benton. It was facing a television with the same music videos from the stage on it.

“We’re okay. We don’t need anything,” Mordred said, and I wondered if he always answered for me. He rubbed my back while he said it.


Benton’s show was pretty good. It was a little sad because when he finally went on stage, most people had already left. It was nearly one in the morning, and he played for around thirty people standing close to the stage.

Mordred was here and there during the show. I sat with Janie, and made obvious comments about the lights, and the cigarette smoke, and the musical transitions. Everytime Mordred came back he sat down next to me and squeezed my hand, or rubbed my back, or kissed my cheek. One time I saw him come out of that back room, and I knew why.

Just before we left, he ran outside, threw up, and came back in. When we walked out to get in the car and go home, he ran toward some trees near the edge of the parking lot so I wouldn’t see him get sick again, but I knew it. I pretended not to listen and kept my attention focused on two guys just outside the door to the place. They were arguing about whether they should go home, or beat someone up who had apparently threatened to shoot one of them. The one who wanted to beat up his would-be shooter was most definitely drunk. The other was yelling at him in a high pitched and exasperated voice. It was high drama.

I got in the car, hoping the guy who had “beef” wouldn’t show up for a show down, and waited for Mordred to get in. My head hurt just looking at him when he opened the door, his face all ashen, so I backed out pretty suddenly.

“Are you mad or something?”
“No.”
“You’re mad.”
“Why did you have to go and do that? You knew it would make you sick.”

He didn’t answer. It must have been because he didn’t feel well. Mordred always had an answer. In high school he had almost been a certifiable genius with a whopping IQ score. As a three-sport athlete and an Honors student, he was popular to boot.

But no matter how rich he and Benton had been in high school, or how smooth they looked or talked, it really felt, to me, like they were blowing up a balloon full of nails that had gone way past its bursting point. It was that time that always came to me in the night where I felt like I had to get out of there, or else I would end up being smacked in the face with all those little bursting shards. So I contemplated forcing Mordred out of the car, and then pulled around the corner.