“What’s up?” he said.
Willing my eyes not to roll, I tipped my head up in a wordless greeting. It was enough to acknowledge him but not enough to encourage conversation.
“I’m Mike. Bassist.”
Good god. This guy didn’t take verbal cues very well, did he? I could feel him staring as if he were actually requiring a spoken response, and I had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t stop until I obliged him.
“How’s it goin’?” I replied. No eye contact.
“Goin’ fine.” He paused for a moment, and I thought I might be free and clear, but no. “Well-aimed steady stream with a nice flow. A little out of control but not dangerously so. Life’s good.”
My eyes darted from the wall to him and back. His face was alive with amusement, forcing me to suppress a smile while I broke rule number two of men’s bathroom etiquette: laughing while dicks were out. But his jovial reply got my attention, reminding me of Kyle with just a splash of Keith to make things interesting. I remembered Mike from the audition. He was the guy who’d plugged his bass guitar into the amp and pretended to be electrocuted. Hilarity ensued—not. I saw Tucker cross his name off the list before he even played the first chord. And while he did prove to be a good bass player, there were better.
“Crazy in there, huh?” he asked, keeping up the chitchat.
“Crazier in here,” I replied, shaking off and buttoning my fly. Thankfully, I’d had a head start on the bassist, so it was still possible to wash my hands and be rid of him before that well-aimed, steady flow of his petered out.
No such luck. He sped up—maybe even stopped in mid-piss—all in an effort to catch me before I left. And I knew what he wanted—to talk about the audition, make his pitch. He was wasting his breath. The reality was that unless a bolt of lightning hit the building andactuallyelectrocuted the rest of his competition, this dude wasn’t getting the gig.
He met me at the sinks. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Mike, and I just auditioned.”
“I know. We were introduced at the urinals.”
“Oh, right. I wasn’t sure how good your memory was.”
It was at least good enough to remember the unusually tall, skinny guy with the long black ’80’s metal band hair that reached down to mid-back. He also sported a virtual landscape of ink, my personal favorite being the memorial tattoo of his dog covering the entire landscape of his right arm.
“Quinn,” I offered in return.
He grinned. “I know.”
“Okay, I wasn’t sure how good your memory was, you know, after the electrocution.”
“Ah.” He laughed. “Too much?”
“Are you kidding? Who doesn’t love a good electric shock skit?”
“Right? I’m always telling people that and they look at me like, ‘Dude, you’re fucking weird.’”
I waved off his personal insult. “Fucking inspired if you ask me.”
He tossed his head back, laughing. Even though looks-wise, Mike wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to meet in a dark alleyway, just by talking to him I could tell he was a decent, good guy. Hard not to like him.
“Do you always follow random dudes into the bathroom, or was there something you wanted? I’ve gotta get back.”
“Now that you mention it, yes, there was something I wanted,” he said, pausing as the first outward sign of nerves hit him. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. ‘No earthly way is this dude getting the gig.’”
Good god. Not only was he a comedian, but Mike was also a mind reader.
“I’m well aware that I’m not as good as half the musicians in there. Hell, I’m sure Russ and Echo were frontrunners before they even auditioned, and I don’t blame you. Those dudes are…” He shook his head, almost wistful in his worship. “I mean you heard them; you know. They could play in any band or behind any big-name artist. So, you gotta ask yourself, why are they here?”
That was a good question. Why were they here? Both Russ and Echo had been in the business since I was popping pimples in the eighth grade. Each had impressive resumes a mile long. So what did they need me for?
I caught Mike’s eye in the mirror, silently questioning. And then I got what he was saying without a word being uttered. Those guys weren’t band-hopping because they wanted to. They were band-hopping because theyhadto. Russ and Echo did not play well with others.
“I’m not going to talk bad about anyone.” He shrugged. “You can do your own research. But listen, man, this is going to be the ride of your life. Who do you want to share it with? Do you want the best musicians standing up on stage with you? Because Russ and Echo, they’re it. Or do you want to have guys up there who’ll have your back no matter what? Because I’m telling you right now, bro, I’d be proud to stand behind you, and there are a few others in there that feel exactly the same way.”
I took a moment to really process his words. What he said would make sense… ifwe were arealband. But what Tucker was suggesting wasn’t a real band. It was me… and them. Was that really what I wanted?
