The last time I saw this door was about six years ago. The doorstep still smell of piss and Jack Daniel’s. As I’ve guessed, nobody bother to do something with the faded paint. The mould makes it even greener than what it used to be. I stand in front of the door. For a moment, I startle.
“We so gonna open for Van Halen one day.”
It’s like I can hear Johnny Boy’s voice loud and clear. He was wafting his drumsticks in the air while half-lying on the sofa we stole from our neighbour. He called it the way he sat.
Honestly, I can’t remember much – I’ve been blending into the insurance industry for too long – but maybe those bad horny jokes we made in between rehearsals, and that moment when I broke my Gibson into two and shouted I was sick of it. That night my then-girlfriend said I’d never make it big, and she’d started seeing someone with a decent job. I was supposed to ask her to move in with me in my band’s hideout.
The next day I shaved my mohawk, died my hair black and called that fat guy who was known for job connections. And of course, The Spirals didn’t make it big. But just three hours ago, I was being told almost the same thing by a woman I’d bought a ring for.
Three steps away from the door, I wonder what’s happening behind it.
Hong Kong, Hong Kong