Golden State: A Novel by Michelle Richmond

it,” Tom says, “seceding is a lot like breaking up. You think you can’t live without each other. All of your interests are intertwined, your history’s all mixed up together. But then, all of a sudden, you’re separate entities, on your own. It’s downright scary. So here’s a classic breakup song, and I’m sending it out to the girl in the sky.”
    With that, Billy Idol’s voice breaks through the static, singing “Sweet Sixteen.”
    The girl in the sky. That, of course, would be me: fifteen years ago, the Fillmore, the annual KMOO concert. Billy Idol was on the bill, another attempt at a comeback, along with the Goo Goo Dolls, Yah-Yah Littleman, and a few other acts. I’d just finished the third year of medical school. For months, I’d been in constant motion, with little sleep and no social life. As much time as I spent surrounded by colleagues, I’d begun to feel isolated from normal life. This was a rare celebratory night, and I planned to make the most of it. I’d had a lot to drink, and to top it off, when I stepped outside for air, someone offered me a joint. The pot had quickly gone to myhead. What strikes me now is how young I’d been then but how old I’d felt, needing to escape already—all those hours playing doctor until, at some point, it became who I was.
    When “Dancing with Myself” began to play, someone dragged me into the mosh pit. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music. It felt ridiculous and strange, wonderful, like going back to high school to relive a youth I’d never had. As the crowd pressed forward, I was pushed farther and farther toward the stage, the bodies packed around me so tightly that my feet actually lifted off the ground. I kept going higher, higher, until I was on top of the mass of bodies, cradled horizontally by hundreds of unfamiliar hands. Someone’s finger caught my hair, pulling my head back at a painful angle; someone’s sharp ring grazed my cheek, a hand grabbed at the crotch of my jeans. The ceiling seemed impossibly far away, the lights of the stage blinding, and I began to panic. The song stopped, and Billy Idol started singing “Sweet Sixteen,” a cappella and achingly slow. Suddenly, two powerful hands wrapped around my waist. I felt myself being lifted, floating through space. My feet landed on the other side of the barricade, inches from the stage. My knees buckled; someone held me up. Moments later I was backstage, sitting in a folding chair next to a large man, who was pressing a cold bottle of water to my lips. It was hard to believe he was real, that the dizzying flight above the rowdy crowd had actually happened to me.
    “You okay?”
    “You’re so. Big,” I managed.
    He laughed. “Thanks. I guess.”
    His eyes were dark, nearly black. His hair was shaggy and wild. For a moment I wondered if I’d inadvertently smoked something stronger than pot. I shook my head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.
    “Where did you come from?”
    “Backstage. It looked like you were in trouble, just floating through the sky out there.”
    I leaned against him, still woozy from the pot and the heat, andtogether we watched the rest of the Billy Idol set. It all seemed miles and miles from the normal context of my life.
    “I’ve never dated a bouncer before,” I mumbled.
    I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me.
    The crowd cheered as Billy Idol left the stage. He walked right toward us, bringing with him a scent of musk and sweat. His hair, up close, was even more blond than it was on TV, like some punk rock halo. We all seemed to be swimming in a weird, watery blue.
    “Be right back,” the giant said to me. He shook Billy Idol’s hand. “Great set, man.” Then he walked onstage. “I’m supposed to say a few words here, but how can I follow that?” he bellowed into the microphone. “We’ll be back in fifteen with Sister Hazel.”
    After a quick wave to the roaring crowd, he returned to sit beside me.
    “You’re not the