Glenn was particularly easy to find tonight. He was the big gray-haired guy who looked ready to pull his hair out.
She planted herself in front of him and put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Glenn. This crowd is going to leave if the band they came to see doesn’t show up. Figure at least two more beers in each of them, on average, that’s another, what, thousand bucks for the restaurant at least? Giorgio can pinch hit as a cocktail waiter if you need him. Let me play.”
He gave his mustache a quick chew and scanned the crowd.
Then turned to her abruptly. “Can you get it together and be on stage in five minutes?”
“Less,” she said instantly.
“Do it,” he said swiftly.
“Yes!”She punched the air and gave a little hop then spun around and located Giorgio, grabbed him by the arm and held him fast. She ignored his dumbstruck glare and rattled off orders. “Giorgio, can you grab me that short padded stool next to the counter? The one that Mick almost brained the sheriff with? And that box the olive oil came in today. The empty one. Bring them up to the stage and mic them. I’m gonna play.”
“You’re going to mic thestooland thebox?”
“Yep. You’ll see. Oh, and grab the big flour sifter, too.”
Someone in the crowd jostled him right into her. “WHAT? I thought you saidflour sifter.”
“I did. GO GO GO!”
Bless his surly little heart, he was off like a shot.
She knewexactlywhat she was doing. It was so much easier to give orders than follow everybody else’s.
She saw Glenn talking to Sherrie, who gave her the thumbs-up as she retrieved her guitar from its case. She slung it over her neck and strapped on the harmonica, adjusting it as she walked through the hall just like a rock star emerging from an arena’s backstage labyrinth.
She arrived on stage to find that Giorgio had mic’d the box and stool expertly. He settled the flour sifter down on top of the box with a flourish. He offered her a high five as he walked off, too.
And then she took a deep breath. And she stepped into the spotlight and planted herself in front of the mic.
The crowd noticed pretty quickly. “Hoot the fuck are you?” someone hollered immediately.
“‘Freebird’!” someone else yelled. Predictably. The Lynyrd Skynyrd request had cycled back around and was now considered wittily ironic. She probablyshoulddo a version of ‘Freebird’ one day.
“Show us your tits!” came from another guy in the crowd.
“LANGUAGE!” Glenn bellowed from some place in the restaurant.
But this was all as standard as “Check, one, two” in any unruly club audience. She’d even heard women shout that at guys. She could handle it, piece of cake.
“Don’t you mean myhooters?” she said idly. “And by the way, sweetheart? No fucking way am I showing them toyou.”
This got a laugh. “Preach it, girl!” some woman shouted approvingly. Very good. Laughing was good. She needed to act as if sheownedthis crowd right from the beginning or she was sunk.
Her hands were trembling. That moment between silence and her first note was like diving into a beautiful ice-cold sea every time. The dive was terrifying, but once she plunged in the waters were positively holy. Once she was in, she was a freaking porpoise.
“And besides, hooter guy...” she said offhandedly, continuing the conversation, as it were, as she fine-tuned her E string “...in a minute, dude, you’re going to want to show meyourtits. In fact, you’ll want to do anything I tell you to do. I will own you.”
This got aWOOOOO!You had to show a crowd who was boss. It was like the cat slapping an alligator on the snout.
“You’re hot!” someone drunkenly yelled.
“Don’t you meanHOOT?” she shot back.
“No, I meant HOT,” he countered, sounding wounded.
“You speak the truth, son,” Glory agreed placidly into the mic, and they laughed again. “Hey, any drummers out there? Monroe, Monroe Porter, you out there?”
