In music, the space between the beats is important. It determines it's feel and is the place where everything flows. Sometimes, life is what happens between the beats.

***

It was 3 AM and we were halfway to the next gig. The windshield wipers struggled to keep pace with the falling snow, which had created a thin layer over the mountain highway's perilous black ice. At 40 below the dense fog concealed both the road ahead and the abyss that was the valley beside us. 

Suddenly, there was a booming thud. Jerome wrestled with the wheel as the van fishtailed violently down the highway. In the back seat I was surprised at how quickly I resigned myself to a fate of being splattered into mush. Next to me, Keefer raised his arms and opened his mouth in dramatic slow motion while we continued to skid down the highway. 

At least we continued to skid forward.

"Good job dude!" I praised Jerome for his driving. 

"I had to aim for the smallest one," he replied. "There were 3 of them. I never saw them until it was too late." 

"Good thing it was a deer and not a moose," Keefer offered. "Those things with their long legs come flying right through the windshield." 

It was still a hundred clicks to the next town and our headlights were toast. We were without heat and had to stop frequently in the middle of the highway in order to fill the radiator, which sprouted anti-freeze from six antler-sized holes. Slowly, we rolled into the next town and fixed the radiator.  We arrived at the gig twelve hours later just in time to hit the stage.

***

There is nothing like a brush with mortality to make people perform at their best. There was a lineup for blocks and the tequila was flowing freely. From the stage we watched the eager, young punk chicks dance. 

Afterwards, Keefer and I stepped into the bathroom and noticed a pair of shoes protruding from the bottom of the stall. Keefer's curiosity, mixed with the tequila, got the better of him and he peeked over the top of the stall. It was Jazz, an eccentric fan we ran into on the road many times. He was sweating and the sleeve of his unbuttoned shirt was rolled up past his elbow. A needle had been jabbed into his forearm just below a small tattoo of a heart with chains. 

"Dude. Is it working for you?" 

Jazz seemed disturbed by Keefer's intrusion, but Keefer asked again. "Is it working for you dude?" 

Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was an eager, young punk chick. 

"You want to fuck me don't you?" she asked.

"What's in it for me?" 

"I knew it." she replied excitedly.

With that we left the club and made our way back to the hotel. The show was over and it was time to fill the space between the beats.