“Sounds like ourTrain,” Melody said.
“Why can’t I beZeppo?”
“BecauseGillwas Zeppo,” Melody said. Disgust dripping from her voice.
“Gummo it is,” Isaid.
“I should getgoing and let you boys get back to work,” Melody said, turning to leave.
“You wanna sitin on a number before you go, boss?” Vick asked.
“Sure, but noneof the Melody Morgan shit,” she said, and Vick handed her a microphone.
“How about we doone that’s a wee bit dirty, eh?” Melody asked, mimicking Orange Salad’s lategreat lead singer Dennis Moore’s intro to “She’s a Thief,” and Puddin’ countedus off.
“One, two, free,four!”
What happenednext can only be described as an out of body experience. I was playing one ofthe first songs I ever figured out how to play with Puddin’ Daily himself andMelody Morgan on vocals. I swear to God an asteroid could have broken throughEarth’s atmosphere, crashed into the Rose Garden, and hit me square in the nutsack and I wouldn’t have felt a thing. I was both hyper present, but alsocompletely disconnected from myself. By the time we played through the secondchorus I was floating.
“Come on newguy, let’s go!” Puddin’ shouted into his mic, cuing the guitar solo.
I moved my handto the correct position on the fretboard and then it happened. My mind wentcompletely blank. No guitar solo, no nothin’.
Guitar?What’s a guitar?I was drowning in sea of darkness for what felt like fiveminutes, but in truth was only a nano-second. But by the time my fingers wereon the strings, the notes flooded back to my memory in an instant, and I beganto play like my life depended on it. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.
Melody
Jesus in pajamas, the man could play. Henot only knew every note of that solo, but also the subtle sloppy nuances thata lesser player would have missed. Why the fuck this guy wasn’t an on-call,A-list player was baffling to me. I looked over to Vick, my mouth agape, and hewas grinning from ear to ear. My eyes went to Rod, who was staring intensely atTrain as he played. I knew Rod well enough to know he was studying him.Eyeballing him like a scientist with a mouse in a cage.
“So, lock upyour hearts ’cuz she’s a thief. Put her in jail so I can get relief,” I sang,leading us into the final chorus. I looked over at Train and our eyes locked.It was only for a few moments, but it was long enough for a panic-inducedlightning bolt to shoot straight through my stomach.
I needed to havea serious sit down talk with myself to figure out what I was going to do aboutTrain. I was obviously attracted to him but could clearly not do anything aboutthat while he was in the band. This was a time to put needs over wants. I mostcertainlyneededTrain in the band. I onlywantedto sit on hisface.
“And throw awaythe fucking key!” we all sang together before the band came crashing down onthe final chord.
“Fank you, Fankyou,” I said, taking my bows.
“Your Britishaccent is worse than my American accent,” Puddin’ teased, flinging a guitarpick at me.
“Pud, I loveyou. But nothing is worse than your American accent.”
“Like, come onman. That’s totally not true, dude,” he replied.
“That soundedlike drunken South African,” Andy said to laughs all around.
“Is Borat yourdialect coach?” I asked.
“That’s it youassholes, I’m totally quitting the fooking band, man.” Puddin’ took off hisbass and put in on its stand before turning his back to us. He then droppedtrou and shuffled towards the door with his pasty white English ass cheekshanging out.
Everyone in theroom fell apart. I laughed so hard I thought I was gonna bust a blood vessel.
“Well, ifPuddin’s showed you his ass, that means you’re officially in the band,” I saidto Train.
“Hear, hear!”Vick shouted, raising a toast with his water bottle, followed by the others.
“To Train, thefucking new guy.”
* * *
