I called April. “Waiting is killing me. Are you still telling me there’s not a single club open in New York?”
“That was last month. Now there are some spots booking shows under the radar.”
She tossed venue names at me. One was a hole-in-the-wall I’d played as a teenager. I called and convinced them to let me do a show under a different name, no publicity; nothing that would draw attention while they were supposed to be closed at night.
I took an interstate bus up to the city. I’d expected people to be warier, but we stood in line and chatted as if the social contract was still being followed by all parties. Everyone angled for a window seat; I earned a few dirty looks when I leaned my guitar into the window and sat beside it on the aisle, but I waved a second ticket at them. “She paid, too.”
The road looked the same as when I’d left it, if a little emptier. The bus spit me out at six p.m. in midtown and I wasn’t due until eight, so I walked the forty blocks down to the bar, stopping on the way for a hot dog and pretzel from a vendor. New York looked the same but emptier. Mine and not mine.
Mine: the street corners where I’d played at eighteen; the clubs that hadn’t blinked an eye as long as I walked in with a guitar; the bands that saw me sitting hungry in a corner during their soundchecks and shared their fries and let me open for them.
Not mine: the combination of the resolute “We are New York” bustle and emptier-than-usual streets. The feeling that behind the bustle, even New York was afraid.
I wondered if my parents had noticed any of the upheaval. They and all my siblings were over the bridge in Brooklyn, where they might as well have been on another continent, living as if a wall separated them from the rest of the city, with their own wonderful social structures that I guessed were impervious to the closures hitting the outside world. Once in a while I’d tried calling a sibling to invite them to a New York show, but I never expected them to come, and they never did.
April was already at the Carryback when I arrived, nursing what looked like a hot toddy. I almost hugged her after so many months living with strangers, but I held back. She looked more tired than I’d expected.
“I’m sorry you can’t play with me here. No-drums policies are stupid.”
She shrugged. “No worries. This place is pretty small for a full band.”
“I remember.”
“I forgot you’d played here before. They still have the same house amp, but half the knobs are broken off and it sounds like crap. Anyway, I borrowed a better one for you.”
“You’re the best,” I said. “Can I pay for your drink?”
“I already paid for this one, but you can buy me another.” She raised her empty mug.
I paid for another toddy for her and a Casa Dragones for myself, and we stepped past a thick curtain into the back room, April dragging a small road case behind her. The venue space was tinier than I remembered. Six barstools stood under a ledge on the far wall, and there was room for another fifteen or twenty people to stand, if they didn’t mind getting cozy. A small soundboard ate into the raised staged area, which was barely large enough for two people with guitars. Definitely not a drum kit. “You could have played bongos, I guess.”
“Bite your tongue,” she said. “Anyway, I feel cruddy tonight. Just as well you fly solo.”
“That explains the cold-weather drinks. Hung over?”
“I shouldn’t be. I dunno.” She hoisted her small case onto the stage, pushing aside the house amp. The house amp’s grille cloth had torn down the middle like an autopsy, exposing twin speakers underneath. The treble, volume, and overdrive knobs were missing; pliers rested on the cabinet for anyone who wanted to make adjustments.
“Ouch.” I tried turning a knobless knob. “That has definitely seen better days.”
“Right? You’ll like this better. My friend Nico made it. It’s good for small spaces.”
I unclasped the case April had brought, and removed the top to reveal the amp inside.
“Whoa. That’s beautiful.” The cabinet had an art deco look, stylish and sleek. No branding on the front, but a little brass plaque on the back read “Nico Lectrics, B’klyn.” I plugged the amp into the surge protector and my guitar into the amp. Turned my back on April to fiddle with the settings and play a bit. It had a wicked clean crunch, and I found a tonal sweet spot before I raised the volume to five.
“It sounds gorgeous,” I said to April. She leaned against the wall, looking a little worse for wear. “I don’t suppose he’d sell it?”
She shook her head. “One of a kind. I told him you had the money to pay for it if you fucked it up. I’m pretty sure that’s true, but don’t.”
I played a while longer, then glanced at my watch. Eight o’clock. “What time do the doors open? Shouldn’t the sound person be here already?”
“Not if you haven’t paid one, sweetie,” someone said, stepping through the curtain. “And hopefully you’re not expecting to get paid, either.”
The man speaking might have been an old forty or a young sixty, with an unfiltered-cigarette voice. He leaned a battered guitar case against the stage; the case was mostly duct tape. I wasn’t sure how much protection it actually gave the instrument inside.
I smiled my fakest smile. “If I needed money, sweetie, I wouldn’t be playing here. Thanks for letting me know about the sound, though. Not a problem. Are you on the bill tonight?”
He nodded. I couldn’t tell if he had caught the chastisement. “The owner shows up with the set times at some point. I’ll run sound for you for twenty bucks if you want.”
“I can take care of myself, thanks. If you want, I’ll run sound for you for fifty.” I dropped the smile.
April stifled a laugh, then a cough. The guy stared at me for a minute, then moved on to ignoring me, which I could already tell I’d prefer to anything he said. Even if I’d needed his help, which I didn’t, I knew his type. It had been a while since I’d had to deal with an asshole of this particular variety; I’d gotten spoiled.
The bartender pushed through the curtain, waving a slip of paper and looking harried. “Hey, y’all, Shaun’s sick, so he’s not coming in. He said these are the set times, but if you don’t like the order, you can switch. It’s just you.”
The other musician walked over to grab the paper from her hand.
“You’re here because you want to play,” April whispered. “Don’t let him ruin your night.”
She was right; he had already crept into my mood. An evening of like-minded musicians pushing back against ridiculous times would have been nice, but this wasn’t going to be that, and that hadn’t been my purpose in coming. I needed to play. I said a silent prayer to have even one person show up; playing for April and this dude wouldn’t be the same.
“Ladies first.” The other musician held up the scrap. Two forty-minute sets, me and then him, starting at nine thirty. I realized we hadn’t even introduced ourselves. The paper had his name as Tanner Watkiss.
“Molly Fowler?” He squinted at the page. “I haven’t heard of you. Where else do you play?”
I hadn’t even remembered the name I’d chosen when the owner had suggested a pseudonym. I shrugged. “This is my first show. It’s probably better that I’m opening for you.”
Watkiss gave me a suspicious look, and I tried to mold my face into some semblance of innocent and sincere.
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.