The Presidio, Pt. 5: Open Options
Posted on June 16th, 2021 by Scott Ammora

San Francisco, Earth, May 2397
The Presidio Nightclub, Saturday Night, Two Hours Later

“Thank you and goodnight!”

Uproarious sounds from the crowd accompanied the end of the band’s final number. The front-man waved, as did his fellow bandmates, and they disappeared backstage. Scott clapped along with everyone else, impressed by the musical catalog he watched from the bar top. They were good. He was good. He had a great voice, played the guitar amazingly well, and had boyish good looks that made Scott swoon. Finishing drink number five – he had paced himself over the previous two hours – he stood up and straightened his sweater.

“Another?” The trickster bartender said, grabbing the empty glass.

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”

“Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

“How do I get backstage?”

“You don’t. It’s invitation only. Warp Drive is pretty popular around here – they don’t mingle after performances. You have to know someone.” The bartender served three people in that last line of conversation. Again, Scott knew he was good, but his skills were alarmingly impeccable. “And a random invitation probably doesn’t mean you’re on the list. Unless he knows your name. But, I’m guessing if you don’t know his, he doesn’t know yours.”

“You’re on your mark tonight.” Scott’s heart sank. He had done all of this… this… to talk to the guy who had invited him. And now, after the concert and being solitarily present, he wasn’t going to get to speak with the handsome lead singer? Maybe I should club more often, he thought. If so, then, if the universe had aligned the right way, he’d have some clout to get backstage.

You have to know someone.

He tensed. Then relaxed. Scott had an idea. “Another drink, but just make it a shot.” It was served and he pounded it. “Thanks.” And he moved through the crowd to the backstage doorway, manned by a ridiculously imposing guard with a PADD. “Ammora, A-M-M-O-R-A.”

Tap, tap, tap. The PADD gave a less-than-welcoming beep. The guard looked up, “You’re not on the list.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m with…” Are you really doing this? Why the hell not, you’ve come this far. He really had two choices: one was to leave and wonder what might have been, the other was to be more persistent. “Tyson Maniscalco, party of four.”

Tap, tap, tap. An affirmative sound followed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Welcome. The other three haven’t checked in here yet.”

Perfect. Scott nodded and moved through the doorway into the back room. There was a smattering of people gushing over the band. A couple with the bassist and a whole gaggle around the drummer. The keyboardist and back-up singers were huddled together celebrating with their own beverages. In the center of the room was his target. He was talking with a man of the more mature generation, which seemed out of place amongst a group of young people. The elder stood stoically with his hands behind his back talking in hushed tones.

There was an odd sensation that came over Scott in that moment. He was drawn to the guitarist, but the excitement and nervousness melted away almost instantly into anger, a borderline rage. For no reason that Scott could personally ascertain he strolled with confidence straight forward: a man on a mission. “You have a lot of nerve, you know that?”

Obviously taken aback, the man known as ‘Tower’ quickly wiped the bewildered expression off his face and grinned, “Hey, man, glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, regardless of the hoops lined with fire I had to jump through to get here. What’s your play?”

“Uh, would you excuse us for a minute?” Tower said to the man with whom he’d been speaking to. Grabbing Scott’s arm he moved back a couple of meters away from the fray and out of earshot. “You seriously need to work on your social skills.”

Scott laughed openly, “You’re kidding, right? Says the man who followed me in the dead of night only to kiss me randomly and offer an invitation to meet at the bar without any sort of detail of when or why?”

“Yeah, totally planned that. Seriously? I was being spontaneous.”

Scott nodded and motioned back to the gentleman waiting patiently for their conversation to cease, “Well, that was me being spontaneous.”

Holding up a finger, the man before him tilted his head with a stern look. “Two seconds, okay?” He walked over and muttered some pleasantries – Scott assumed – and then shook hands with the guy whose conversation had been interrupted. Some head nodding, some smiles, and a parting word later, he was back in front of Scott with the same stern expression. “Do you know who that was?”

“Your grandfather?” Scott stated with a snarky disposition.

“Open mic nights are on Tuesday.” The sarcastic comeback came fast and furious. “That was Ambassador Larson McCabe, from Elarus II. He’s the Chairman of the Microbiology Advancement Subcommittee for the Federation Council’s Science Directorate and my sponsor for my internship at the Science Institute. So not only do you lack social skills, you lack political knowledge and professional etiquette.”

Ouch. Open mouth, insert foot. “Come on, how was I to know he was a dignitary? He skews the age curve of the entire building and sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“Maybe that should have been your first indication? Or, you know, like a normal person, you could let someone finish their conversation before intruding with accusations of impropriety!” The third syllable punched… hard… and the man before Scott looked more intense than his rugged attraction could overcome. Scott was genuinely put off, but still enamored by it.

Scott paused, unsure of what to say. Lingering in the dead space, Scott weighed his options. A couple of seconds felt like an eternity. Option one was the standard apology and eating crow. Option two was to continue on his path of being upset at the lack of information he’d received prior to this outing and hope there was some roundabout way to smooth over the tension. Option three was to walk away. Decisions, decisions.

He decided on option four. Scott moved forward to kiss his handsome stranger, reminiscent of the night by the Golden Gate. However, he was met with a firm open palm on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. Tower shook his head with pursed lips to counter Scott’s puckered ones. “You are not reading the situation well.”

Option one. “You’re right and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did, actually. On purpose.”

Fine, so be it, option three. Scott turned and moved towards the door not saying another word.

“Scott, wait.” The words were matched with a firm grip on Scott’s left arm, spinning him around.

“Don’t touch me – whoa, what?” A sudden realization flashed through Scott’s brain, leaving him speechless. Again. It was the power of Tower, apparently. “You know my name.”

Cheeks as red as roses, a guilty grinned spread across his face, and he nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“What? How? When?”

And the Tower came tumbling down.

*****

San Francisco, Earth, May 2397
The Presidio Nightclub, The Previous Evening

Pasha Pruitt stepped up to the bar, her eyes looking around the room. She flagged down the nearest bartender and after his acknowledgement waited dutifully for service. “One whiskey on the rock, and I mean one or else he’ll be pissed the rest of the night. And I’ll take a margarita on the rocks, multiple rocks, I’m not picky.”

The bartender obliged and placed them on the countertop, “So who’s your friend?” He motioned to Scott sitting alone, obviously guarding the table with his life.

“Who? Him. Oh, that’s Scott, a friend.”

“Boy… friend?”

Pasha laughed, “God, no.” Then she caught herself, “Not that he isn’t a great guy. I mean, we’re classmates at the Academy. Security trainees. And while I love him dearly, it’s not like that. He’s not my type.”

“Clinger?”

“No! Uh, let’s just say that you’re more his type.” She winked, grabbing the drinks and taking a sip of her own. “Well made, sir!”

“Thanks. Maybe on my break I’ll pop over and say hello.”

“Good luck, he’s a tough nut to crack.” The double entendre remained in the air through an awkward silence like a floater in one’s eye that wouldn’t go away. She took another gulp of her drink, smiling through her embarrassment. “And, I can’t believe I just said that. I’m sure that he’d welcome an introduction. And you are?”

“They call me Tower.”

Pasha chortled, “Did your parents hate you?”

“Not at all! But it’s just a nickname, a bar name, a lot of people around here have them.”

About that time a man leaned against the bar. Debonair and smooth, he smiled at Pasha. “Hi there.”

As she went for the third sip at the time of the intrusion she coughed a bit, the unexpected presence of a random person throwing her off guard. “Uh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

A brilliant smile of pearly white teeth inset on a chiseled jawline appeared. “No, it’s okay, I just noticed you here by yourself and thought I’d come say hello. I’m Jason.”

Pasha’s hackles flared, but internally she warmed, “Oh, well, hello. Pasha. But I have to get back to my boyfriend, Scott.” She held up the drinks, shaking them as if she needed an indicator that she had two and that she wasn’t alone. She threw a glance to the barkeep, who was standing without movement on the other side of the counter. He threw back a smirk before stepping away to help other customers.

“Let me clear the way back to your table.” She moved away ahead of him, wondering how she was going to get out of this one. But he was the best looking guy in the room… so far. And he seemed okay. The choices weren’t endless after all.

*****

San Francisco, Earth, May 2397
The Presidio Nightclub, Saturday Night, Present

He was going to kill her. “Now THAT is cheating in every definition of the word.”

Shrugging, the man moved to his guitar case and placed it gingerly in its velvet-lined box for safe-keeping, clasping the locks shut. “I don’t think there are referees in the world of flirtation.”

“Wes! Buddy, that was awesome!” Tyson Maniscalco and his group sauntered up, a quick handshake and a hug followed, “Always a great show, my friend!”

“Thanks Ty, glad you came.”

“I wouldn’t miss a Warp Drive show for anything short of surgery. Hey Scott, I see you found your way backstage.”

Scott nodded, “Thanks to you.”

“You can always name drop me to get good stuff.” God, the arrogance dripped from every word, creating a puddle of unsubstantiated superiority on the floor at their feet. More small talk continued for a brief minute before the Triad moved on to the next band member, leaving Scott and Wes, whose name was now finally known, alone and separated from the rest of the after-show celebration.

“Wes, huh?”

“I prefer Weston, but Wes will do in a pinch.”

It was a perfect segue to blend all of his previous choices. “Well, Weston, I do apologize for interrupting. And the show was great, thank you, you’re quite talented.” He turned again, this time slowly and took a couple of steps away from the lead singer, motioning towards the door, “I hear that Warp Drive rarely makes appearances in the public eye after their shows, but would you care to join me for a drink?”

Weston slyly smiled, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Their conversation was in-depth, but fragmented. Scott came to the conclusion after half of his drink why the band members didn’t socialize after a performance: too many fans to have any meaningful conversation. It took them what seemed like an hour to get through the standard discussion of where they both had come from. A slew of fans wanting autographs – that Weston continued saying after each one was wholly unnecessary and virtually worthless – and holo-images that would become meaningless when the next musical group burst onto the scene. According to Wes, Warp Drive was the ‘flavor of the year’ and nothing more.

“You guys blend really well, the feel is cohesive, and the lead singer is attractive.” Scott said coyly at one point, winking and hoping it looked playfully amorous and not like a nervous tick.

The two talked family and work, hobbies and dreams, service and inspiration. At one point the fans had stopped stepping in, the bar had thinned out, and it wasn’t until the bartender mentioned it was closing time that Scott realized the time had gotten away from him. It was late. Weston and Scott were two of the last four still in the bar. Support staff had started to clean and the overhead lights, designed to see the trappings of the night, burst on showering them in a less-than-flattering glow.

“3am.”

“Shit, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” Weston said, finishing off his drink and placed the empty glass on the counter. “We should clear out so these guys can go home.”

Scott agreed, finishing his own and matching its placement next to Wes’ glass on the bar top, “You’re probably right.”

“Night, Tank!”

“Night, Tower!” The second bartender responded.

“Tank and Tower?” Scott laughed, “Now there’s a band name if I ever heard one.”

Weston shook his head as they moved towards the door, “Except the guy is about as musically inclined as a rock. But, he’s good-looking, so there’s that.”

“Oh, really?” The upward inflection of Scott’s inquiry was matched with a perked eyebrow and a throwing glance to the man in reference.

“We’ve been talking for four hours, but still not long enough for you to make insinuations like that.” Wes playfully pushed Scott’s shoulder as they walked through the open door and into the coolness of the Saturday night air. They both paused for a second, unmoving, and looking off into the darkness in their own right. Weston motioned to the left, “I’m this way.”

Scott met that gesture with one of his own, to the right, “The dorms are that way.”

They didn’t speak, but stood on the sidewalk outside the club. The wind whipped through the trees, a soft sound of leaves crinkling together echoed just faint enough to disrupt the silence. Scott put his hands in his pockets, but his feet remained firmly planted. He didn’t know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, but putting words out seemed a trying feat at the moment. He looked at Weston; it was almost like looking into a mirror, but Scott wondered what was going on in that head. He was trying to guess whether or not it was anywhere close to his own thoughts.

Scott ran a hand through his hair, “So, uh, I guess good night?” There was that awkward inflection again.

“Sure, yeah, it’s late.”

“Or early, depending on how you look at it. Morning and all.”

“You’re right, yeah.”

“I had a great night. Or… morning, as it is”

Weston’s head bobbed up and down. “Me too, thanks for coming.” The words seemed to have a longing behind them.

Live a little, remember? Take the risk, you idiot. “I’d like to see you again. I mean, if you want. Whenever you’re free.” Scott chided himself because that wasn’t what he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know if it was an option for anything else. Hell, he really was having a hard time putting together cohesive thoughts at present, but he pressed on. “You know, like a drink or something? When I know when to be somewhere.”

The chuckle Weston gave cut the awkwardness, “You’re going to have to let that go – ”

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Scott blurted out.

“To the dorms? Hard pass. I just finally got out of there.”

Scott tried to hide his disappointment, “Right, of course. Goodnight then.” And Scott shifted back to option three. He took a couple of steps, each compounding his feelings of disappointment one on top of the other. It was late, true, but he was having a good time. This guy was funny, insightful, handsome, adjective, adjective, adjective, and so on. He didn’t want to go home.

“Scott?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“How about my place instead?”

Scott tried to suppress the huge smile he knew was forming on his face, “I like that choice.”