“I have to return those shoes to Petersons. Mom nods, happy to have things moving into a lighter key. “Did you say you were heading to Halmstad today?” “Sure.” He turns to Mom, his tone shifting. A familiar push on another familiar bruise. “You tell Ike Lawrence he can at least cover your expenses if he wants you three to be his unpaid house band.” “You put it to him this way,” Dad plows on. “If you’re going to try to do this music stuff for a living, even as a side job, you’re going to have to stop letting people talk you into giving it away.” We’ve had this fight so many times, it’s like one big patch of scar tissue. “You’ve made it clear that that’s your plan.” His voice gets harsher with each sentence. Declare that your time has value.” Dad turns his coffee mug in a little circle. “You know, pretty soon, you’re going to have to stand up for yourself. I just shrug, looking down into my cereal bowl. I couldn’t tell Ike Lawrence, and I couldn’t tell my own band, and I sure as hell can’t tell my dad. That the way everyone saw me was based on a lie. Because I couldn’t tell them the truth: that I didn’t really deserve any of this. I kept up the lie about wanting to keep Last Things pure for now. We had a fight about it later, but at the end we all agreed that we wouldn’t sign any contracts or take any official payments until we had graduated, just to make things clean and simple. “Dude,” Jezz had said, jabbing me in the side. Or at least for the right money.” Then he turned around and strode away. “Just make sure when you do that you do it for the right people. “So you’re not ready to sell out yet.” He folded his beefy arms. “Get in our ten thousand hours of practice before we makeīut Ike just grinned. Ike had been there for us, given us a stage and support and free sandwiches ever since we were the sloppiest of open mic “With the way you’re pulling people in, I think the time has come for me to start paying you.” He looked around at the three of us. He smiled his dry little hint of a smile. Ike could win a Henry Rollins look-alike contest any day of the week without even changing his clothes. I remember him striding toward us across the Crow’s Nest after a set last summer when we had completely packed the house. Ike has been offering to pay us for months. And he still expects you to do it for free?” “You draw crowds for him every week,” Dad goes on. “And he’s still not paying you? That Ike Lawrence?” Be the regular Friday and Saturday thing.”ĭad’s eyes don’t exactly narrow, but I can see the eyelids around them tighten, like he’s bracing for a blast of sawĭust. Goblin twists through her ankles, begging for scratches. “Your mom said you had a good show last night,” Dad goes on as Mom drifts back to the kitchen table with a fresh mug ofĬoffee. Dad’s hands are like baseball mitts, broad and tough enough to grab a flying fastball or hoist a splintering beam without flinching. He rubs his head with the flat of one hand. Suddenly I can’t wait to be playing again, making the lines a little smoother, the notes even cleaner. I have a flash of those minutes sitting on the end of my bed, morning sun sieving through the pine needles, the guitar in my hands. Now I run the risk of overcompensating, having to add more milk and then more cereal in a never-ending downward spiral, but I can’t face those three drifting Cheerios any longer. I reach across the breakfast table and grab the yellow box. There’s not much more pathetically lonely than a bowl of milk with just three Cheerios floating in it.
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