“You said you’d be on stage at eight,” Dave told us gruffly. He had burly arms that stayed crossed over his chest when he wasn’t slinging drinks.
“It must be traffic or something. I promise we’re worth the wait.” Wes flashed his signature easy smile, the one that got him out of a ticket the summer before when we were speeding down the highway listening to our most recent obsession, the debut album from an English rock band named Arctic Monkeys.
Dave wasn’t having it, though. “This is a business, kid. Act like it. Either someone’s on my stage in the next five minutes, or I’ll give everyone in the area your names and a warning not to book you.”
“I’ve got it!” I blurted, without a second thought. I got this gig and there was no way in hell I was going to let it flop.
Dave and Wes both blinked at me for a second. Before either of them could protest, I grabbed my guitar and got on the low stage.
I grabbed the microphone from its holder, earning a squeal of feedback. Immediately, I replaced it, though now I had the attention of everyone in the bar.
“The act coming on soon is so good that they get an opener. But don’t worry, I won’t make you suffer too long,” I said before jumping into “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor.
The sleeves of my diaphanous vintage blouse billowed as I strummed and swayed. I was nervous at first, but as I continued on with some Bowie and George Harrison, I felt like I was coming to life.
All those years before Caper, I swore I never cared about settling somewhere, truly belonging in one place. By then, I knew I belonged in Caper, along with George, Wes, and Dad.
But that night at Dave’s, with stage lights filtering through the cigarette smoke choked air, with an ambient hum of neon, I found another place I was born to be.
On stage.
I had thought that playing for others would mean exposing my soul, giving up something precious—and I did—but in return I felt like I had complete control. Switching from rock anthem to power ballad and the mood would turn at my command. I belted out an unrefined ugly note and I was rewarded with applause that rewired something in me, leaving me craving more before the wave of praise receded.
When the guys finally burst through the back, sweat dampening their shirts and chests heaving as they gulped for air, I didn’t want to give up the warm glow of the lamp that imitated a spotlight.
It was an effort to lower my guitar and accept my time was up. “That’s all from me tonight,” I said, and was met by groans. I remember it so well, how good it felt to have people disappointed that I was done. I’d been on stage for maybe half an hour, and the bar room had become crowded. “Oh, come on. Anything you hear from me isn’t any better than that jukebox in the corner.”
I waved to the crowd as I left the stage. Jared, Garrett, and Wes hurried to plug in amps and arrange Luca’s drum kit. Luca was in the corner hurriedly talking into his cellphone.
“We replaced the tire fine, and I’ll take it to the shop in the morning.” He paused, panic taking over his voice, eyes flaring wide as he paced. “No. No! You don’t need to come check it out.”
“Luca, get up here!” Garrett called. “You can talk to your mom after.”
Luca muttered a rushed goodbye, flipped his phone shut, and scrambled past me onto the stage.
After another five minutes of tuning and hissed conversations, they were ready. I almost forgot I had George’s camcorder and managed to press play just as they started.
The microphone popped and the first chords screeched, but I kept recording, expecting it to get better, but they never did…
Wesley
Fall 2007
The crowd was eager, leaning forward and hungry for more after Avery’s performance. She’d set us up perfectly.
But we ruined it after two songs. Originally, we were booked until eleven, but were off that stage at ten thirty, Dave opting for the jukebox over us. Safe to say, none of us felt like sticking around. We didn’t speak as we hauled our equipment out. We’d gotten big heads, thinking we were too good for dusty county fairs. To give us some credit, it took talent to be so bad that drunk people didn’t want to listen to you, and that reality hit us like a meteor.
It started raining while we were inside. Fat drops pelted us as we sprinted to Luca’s mom’s van, covering any exposed electronics with jackets. Our clothes were soaked through in minutes, but I couldn’t feel the cold. The heat of raw embarrassment kept me warm. What were we trying to do? We were teenagers chasing the same damn dream as thousands of people. Nothing about us was special.
I was ready to go back to Luca’s garage and never take the stage again.
“Fuck,” Jared shouted, kicking at the ground. His momentum and the slick sidewalk sent him falling backward on his ass, knocking the breath from his lungs on impact.
Avery was the one to help him up, unimpressed with our dramatics. “Yeah, we’re so not doing this right now.”
“Easy for you to say,” Garrett grunted out.
“Hey!” I jabbed my index finger at him. “She got up there and covered for us. You saw the last bit.” I was one second away from grabbing the collar of his shirt and snarling in his face.
