Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

Messing with his head distracted from the empty room, in any case. So did finishing my self-soundcheck. I pulled my own microphone from my backpack to replace the club’s battered SM58. It was possible to adjust the PA faders from the stage if I didn’t mind working upside down, which I didn’t. Watkiss judged in silence from the center of the room. April sat on a stool against the back wall, holding her drink to her face to inhale the dissipating steam. Normally I’d have asked her if I’d gotten the balance right, but I didn’t want to leave an opening for Watkiss’s opinion, so I decided to trust my own judgment. When I was satisfied, I leaned my guitar against the amp and went to sit with April.

“Sound okay?” I asked.

She opened her eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I’d been listening. Sorry, Luce. I feel like crap.”

“No worries. Sorry you’re sick. Do you need to go?”

“Nah. I’ll sit here and hold up the wall ’til you’re done.”

To my relief, four people walked in as I finished writing my set list. Prayers answered: an audience, albeit a small one. I knew they hadn’t come for me, since “Molly Fowler” didn’t exist. That meant either they were Tanner Watkiss fans or they’d come to hear new music. I spotted Watkiss giving them the same once-over, and settled on the latter. Excellent.

By nine thirty, five more people had wandered in. It didn’t take much to make this room look full. I stepped onto the tiny stage, tuned one more time, then flipped the little amp on and stepped to the mic. The small crowd kept chatting among themselves.

For one moment, staring out at eleven people from a stage the size of a shower stall, nerves gripped me. I shook it off. Ridiculous. I’d played for thousands without a second thought. Why did eleven hit me this way? Because I had to win these people over from scratch. It had been a while since I’d done it, but it wasn’t like I’d never been in that position before.

“Hi, I’m—” I paused to remember the pseudonym, but it was gone. It didn’t matter, anyhow. “—I’m gonna play a few songs for you. Thanks for coming.”

The set I’d written skipped the songs that had hit it big on SuperStream. I lit into “Lost and Found,” urgent, upbeat, an opener designed to silence anybody who thought they’d talk through my set. It worked. I shifted my gaze, stopping short of eye contact to avoid making anyone uncomfortable in a room this small, inviting them into the song but not putting them on the spot.

The speakers let out a squeal and broke the spell I was trying to cast. In between lines I glanced over at the PA: Watkiss was playing with the equalizer levels I’d set. I glared at him, but he didn’t look up. I knew his type; he’d never stop fiddling. He stared at the knobs as he twisted them, like perfection was just out of reach.

I brought the song to its end, then turned to him. Silent stares weren’t going to do it. “Dude, step away from the mixing board before I break my guitar over your head.”

A few laughs from the audience. At least they understood I wasn’t the problem. When I had the levels back where I wanted them, I turned to the mic. Smiled. Pretended the first song hadn’t happened. “Hi! I’m gonna play a few songs for you. Thanks for coming.” Another laugh. They were on my side.

The set went fine after that. The audience was there because they wanted to hear something new, or maybe because they wanted to pretend things were normal for a minute.

I was there because I needed the energy I could only get from this connection: the elusive collision of a song, a performance, a moment; the agreement that I would try to reach them, and they’d open themselves to being reached. The last few horrible months fell away for the duration of nine songs. Nine songs to stave off whatever was going on outside. I’d thought I needed to be on tour, but it wasn’t the road I was missing. It was this, in whatever room I could find this, big or small.

I didn’t want it to end. I had enough songs to play another hour, but this wasn’t my room. I finished my last song and walked off to solid applause. Waited a moment to show the set was really over, then stepped back up to grab my guitar, mic, and amp. No way was I sharing my gear with that dude.

“Good set, sweetie,” Watkiss said. “You could probably make a go of it if the world wasn’t going to shit.”

“Apology accepted.” He looked like he had more to say, but I turned my back on him.

A couple of people stepped over to make conversation. “Do you have anything I can buy?” asked one of the women who had walked in first. Her tank top showed off amazing shoulders. I’d kill for shoulders like that, though working out or swimming to get them made more sense than killing.

“Or SuperStream?” one of her friends asked.

I almost said no, then realized the pseudonym’s purpose had been to keep from bringing too many people into the room; it didn’t matter now that the show had ended. “Yeah, but it’s under another name.”

Most of them looked blank at my name, but one opened his eyes wider. “Oh, man. You’ve got that song. I know that song.”

He sang the chorus of “Blood and Diamonds” and the others nodded in recognition.

“What are you doing in this dump?” his friend in thick-rimmed glasses asked.

“It’s the only place open,” another answered before I could.

“She could be playing StageHolo to way more people.”

I looked at the guy with the glasses. “What’s Stage Hollow?”

“It’s a new company. I’ve got a friend who works there. It’s going to take off huge any day now.”

I made a mental note to look into it.

“I’m glad you’re here, anyway,” declared the guy who’d recognized me. “I didn’t care who played tonight, but I’m glad it was you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked the woman with the delicious shoulders.

Come-on, or friendly offer? She put her hand on my arm. A strong hand, with exactly the right weight behind the gesture. Definitely hitting on me.

“I’d love nothing more, but my friend over there”—I nodded my head toward April—“needs help getting home.”

She looked at April and withdrew the touch. “Uh, yeah. She doesn’t look so hot. Rain check.”

Tanner Watkiss started to play, and the group that had chatted with me reoriented themselves toward the stage. I’d hoped he would be an awful performer, but he was disappointingly adequate. He’d bypassed the amp and plugged his Gibson Hummingbird into the PA. He had a solid fingerpicking style, and his singing voice had craggy charm. The song wasn’t memorable, but he played it well.

Politeness dictated that I stay for his set since he’d stayed for mine. On the other hand, April looked worse by the second. I turned my back on Watkiss.

“Let me help you get back to your place,” I told April.

She opened her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

The fact that she didn’t even try to protest told me it was the right move. I didn’t have to wait to get paid since there wasn’t going to be any money. I slung my gig bag and knapsack over my right shoulder. The amp’s road case, blessedly, had wheels and a collapsing handle.

“Can you walk?” I asked.

April nodded. As she slid off her stool I doubted it, but she made it to her feet. I let her lead the way so I could keep an eye on her. She traced the wall with her hand as she walked.

It was only eleven p.m., and the weather was on our side. The Hack I’d called arrived before we even made it to the door. April slid into the backseat, but didn’t shift over. I piled my gear into the trunk and walked around the other side. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

She shook her head. “No hospital. I let my insurance lapse. Stupid, I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll sleep it off.”