“Hey, guys, don’t fucking throw glass!” Guitarist Steve Labate promptly barks into the mic, just in case anyone was thinking of making it a Rocky Horror Picture Show type deal, but with razor shards of killer glass instead of delightful toast.

Mack plumps down Indian style, an awkward heap holding his wrist in a bloody yellow towel. Five people storm the stage to help. Labate is on top of things, “Just to be safe, is there a doctor here?”

A girl in the crowd turns to me, “Who threw that?! Did you see it?”

“Yeah! Some blonde chick just came up and chunked it at him! Right beside me!”

“You saw her?!”

“She was right beside me! Yeah!” I can’t believe it either.

“Ohmygod who was it? Ohmygod what’d she look like???”

More people turn to me. My mind reels. I could be the key witness. Shit, an hour from now I could be in a police station behind a one-way mirror picking this girl from a line up, where they’d probably make her throw a rocks glass or something of the same size and shape, you know for continuity.

“That’s the one, officer.” I’d say with an icy calm, glaring at Mack’s assailant. “Her, number four. I’d know that throw anywhere. –Now slap her in bracelets!!!”

And then there’d be trumpets and high fives all around.

I search my memory, playing the scene back, who was it, what’d she look like, she was right beside me, c’mon, who was it, you can do this, who was it, who was it…

I here myself sputter, “Uh… I dunno. Blonde? Like a red shirt or … I dunno. … Blonde? She was blonde.” I mentally slap my own brain.

For some reason, I find that I can’t stop saying “blonde,” like somehow that’s going to identify her in a room chockablock full of blondes. For God’s sake, the girl asking me the damn questions is blonde. I am the world’s worst witness. Carmen Sandiego has completely gotten away. God, it was probably a wig. She’s known for that, Carmen. An assassin in a blonde wig, probably a reversible coat, with a rocks glass and holy shit, holy shit holy shit- what if it was just a pretty dude? Could it have been a pretty dude??? Oh my God. It could have been a petite, pretty dude, like a jockey with good genes and a penchant for girl shampoo or something and I couldn’t tell. I have let Mack down. Am I that dumb? Maybe I’m just really drunk? Drunk… Yeah. Drunk, that’s it!

I feel like Ralphie and the ice cycle.

“I dunno, I’m kinda hammered, so… She was blonde? Maybe with like, boobs? Kinda?”

I wave my hands in front of my chest to further stress my point about the boobs. My unimpressed audience dissipates, turning to their own accounts of what happened, forgetting the not drunk guy with the pathetic sense memory.

My friends and I eventually get back stage to see Mack. A bottle of water in his hand, the smile back on his face, he’s fine, bloodied and a bit wide-eyed sure, but fine, with no arterial damage. Later, he gets seven stitches and eventually will have a Grade A Rock Scar.

But that’s how I will forever remember Attractive Eighties Women’s debut album. Booze, bar, blonde hair, lots of blood, mild panic, Neal has the memory of a goldfish, Mack’s okay, that girl is nuts, and the show’s over, good night. The end.

Neal