I laughed. “You still judging people in parking lots?”
“Only the ones who deserve it,” he said, eyeing the supplies. “What are you doing? Flipping houses?”
“Fixing my mom’s bathroom.”
Ernie nodded, approving. “Good son.”
We stood there a second, the noise of carts and forklifts filling the space.
“You still play?” he asked, nodding at my hands. “Bass?”
Something in my chest tightened.
I shook my head. “Nah. Nine-to-five guy now.”
“That’s a shame,” he said easily. “You were good. Remember the garage on Pine Street? Those shitty amps?”
I smiled despite myself. “Neighbors hated us.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “But we got paid in beer.”
The wordpaidstuck.
I watched him walk away, pushing his cart toward plumbing, and the idea didn’t scare me the way it once would have.
Not quitting.
Not running.
Just… adding.
Day job stays.
Mortgage stays.
Health insurance, promotions, stability — all of it stays.
But nights?
Nights could earn something back.
Gigs instead of cover charges.
Cash instead of bleeding money on drinks.
Music without pretending I was twenty-two again.
A side thing.
A pressure valve.
A way to make extra money without breaking the life I’d built.
I closed the trunk, leaned back against my car, and let myself imagine it.
Work by day.
Music by night.
