Available on Amazon
“I can’t go out
there,” he whispered, hugging himself and huddling against the brick. There was
the faintest scrape from its rough surface marring Moon’s pale cheek. He’d have
kissed away the sting if he wasn’t pissed at Moon and wanting to wring his
neck.
“You can, if
either of you hopes to get another booking in this town again,” Linus,
bartender, owner, and all-around mostly nice guy unless you were fucking with
his money, declared from the doorway. His usually jovial face pinched into a
frown as he stared at Moon, who refused to look at either of them.
“Uncle Linus,”
Moon whined, voice wavering.
Mikal knew that
sound about as well as he knew the beauty of Moon singing. He was a half-step
away from full-on sobbing and rapidly approaching meltdown mode.
Linus knew it too
and was not about to be swayed this time. Arms crossed, he glared at his nephew
as Mikal stood and brushed the dust from the legs of his jeans, smearing some
along the side of his knee. Just great, so much for wearing them to church
tomorrow morning. It was the nicest pair he owned, and the only one without
holes, bleach, gouges, safety pins, and anything else that would send his Nan
into conniption fits. Sighing heavily, he pulled on fingerless gloves and got
ready to go out there and play solo, if only to salvage some shred of the
opportunity.
“Don’t ‘Uncle Linus’
me. Not after you locked yourself in the bathroom and refused to come out the
last time I booked you. And what about the time before that when you didn’t
show up at all. Wrapped your car around a telephone pole, wasn’t it? Funny, how
they never found anything wrong with that car when it reached the scrapyard. I
should know. I had them check!”
“Wh…”
The way Moon’s
mouth dropped open might have been comical if they weren’t seriously about to
lose their last chance to play in their hometown.
“You could have
killed yourself with that stunt, you little idiot. Now either you get up there
on that stage, and play like I know you can, or you hand over that guitar, so I
can give it to someone who will.”
The tears that had
been welling up in Moon’s eyes spilled over, drenching his cheeks, dripping off
his chin. When his shaking fingers curled around the neck of that guitar, Mikal
was certain he’d hand it over, Linus was too, he even held his hand out for it,
but Moon trudged past him and through the door to the stage.
“Better catch up
before he tears off through the front door or something equally evasive,” Linus
remarked, prompting Mikal to hurry after him.
Dimly lit, packed
to capacity, a couple guys standing around the pool table while one guy racked
the balls. One of the wall-mounted lamps flickered like the bulb was about to
go out, casting deep shadows on the dark mahogany wood-paneled walls. To Mikal,
there was no difference between being on this side of the room, and the other,
where he and Moon had spent countless hours splitting chicken fingers and mozzarella
sticks, sipping beers while the people watched and worked out the lyrics to
their songs.
There wasn’t an
unfamiliar face in the room either, Mikal noted as he stood behind his keyboard,
cracked his fingers, turned it on, and watched while Moon plugged in.
One chord.
The distortion was
much too high.
It reverberated
through the room in a harsh echo that left at least three people cringing,
including Mr. Kyle, their old high school music teacher. In that singular
moment, Moon went from meltdown to nuclear catastrophe, ripping the guitar over
his head and smashing it on the floor of the stage until it lay in pieces,
every squeak, squawk, and screech of its death rattle wailing through the room.
All eyes were on
them when Moon shoved the mic stand over and leaped offstage, slamming into
Derrick Nester on his way out of the room. Of course, Derrick went after him,
to confront or comfort was a coin flip, depending on his mood. Mikal would have
chased him down in a heartbeat, only he was left alone to deliver the music
they’d promised, ears still ringing from the destruction of Moon’s guitar.
Even as he pressed
his fingers to the keys, he was acutely aware of the fact that he was setting them
both up for failure, again. Launching into that first song, it occurred to him,
not for the first time either, that it might be time to cut musical ties with Moon
and go solo. At least then he’d walk onstage expecting to be alone, rather than
abruptly winding up that way. With the Tall Ships Festival on the horizon and
auditions for bands to play the stage there rapidly approaching, it might be a
good idea for him to start focusing on pulling something together for himself,
since counting on Moon had become hit or miss.
His eyes kept
roving to the broken guitar bits, the realization of what Moon had done sinking
in with every song. He’d decided for them.
No comments:
Post a Comment