Sadie leaned on her forearms, watching her. “How did it go?”
“Good, I think. If they like you, they’ll contact you within the next few days.”
“And I don’t have to say yes?”
“Nah. They’ll offer you an audition or a contract, and either way, you don’t have to say yes. Thank you for helping, either way.”
“My pleasure. Gumming the works while negotiating with the Man. I’m into it.”
Rosemary grinned. She’d been terrified to explain her plan, nervous Sadie would share Joni’s or Luce’s reaction, though their reactions might have been different if Rosemary had been this honest with them. Maybe.
She’d tried to keep some distance, but it was hard not to consider Sadie a friend. The planning had made them closer, though she no longer had the impression Sadie was hitting on her, either because she now knew who Rosemary was or because she’d be leaving town soon. They’d settled into the roles of friendly coconspirators. “How are the invitations coming?”
“Rad,” said Sadie. “The warehouse concert of the year and group action. Spread the word.”
32
LUCE
Fix My Life
Silva booked our first shows as a band, calling around to old friends until we had gigs lined up in Atlanta, Athens, and Dahlonega. He called it the Georgia, I Must Be Out of My Mind tour.
“Don’t expect much,” he said, hoisting his amp into the back of the van beside mine as we packed to leave.
Marcia joined us, staggering slightly under the weight of her drum hardware bag. They looked nothing alike, but I felt a strange déjà vu thinking of April and the massive duffel she always insisted on carrying for herself.
She gave me an expectant look. “A little help here?”
“Sorry!” I grabbed one handle and helped her lift it.
“Just saying,” said Silva, lending a third set of hands. “Keep your expectations low. These places aren’t what you’re used to.”
“I’m not used to what I’m used to anymore, either. You were there when I rocked out at an antique store. They said to keep the volume down so I didn’t rattle anything off the shelves.”
“I played backline for live karaoke behind chicken wire at a country-western bar.” Marcia put a hand around my waist.
Silva grinned, getting into the game. “I played an airport baggage claim. I don’t know why they thought people might want to listen to live music while they waited for their bags.”
They’d shifted into Before, so I did, too. “Busking in Manhattan. August. Garbage day.”
“Oooh, you win.” Marcia pinched her nose. “C’mon. There’s more gear and I’m not carrying it all.”
I watched the two of them head back toward the cottage, memorizing the moment because I didn’t know how long it would last. It felt good to inhabit that space again. My favorite space, with its shorthand of shared experience. I picked up my pace so nobody would accuse me of not pulling my weight.
In the old days, on a highway, the trip to Atlanta would’ve taken a little more than four hours, but it took us nearly seven on the back roads, between the speed limits, the meandering roads, and the overzealous cops.
“Don’t you need to have a reason to stop us?” I asked in frustration the third time we were pulled over. The first one had claimed he thought we weren’t wearing seat belts; the second said I’d been weaving, but declined to test me; the third said she’d had a call about a suspicious van.
The fourth one didn’t even pretend. “A van with Maryland plates this far from home is reason enough,” he said before asking for my license and registration. When everything checked out, he followed us through town, stopping only when we passed under their second license plate reader. I’d wanted to grab lunch, but he made it clear we weren’t stopping in his town. We ate premade sandwiches from a gas station automat a few miles down the road instead.
“Can we skip the towns entirely?” Marcia asked, as yet another trooper deigned to follow.
I concentrated on maintaining the speed limit and the straightest line possible.
“Not if we want to get there in time for the show,” Silva said. “But this is definitely getting old. Was it like this up north, too, Luce?”
“Not this bad. Dammit.” Lights behind me again. I sighed and pulled over. Again.
The Atlanta show took place in the windowless back room of a luthier’s workshop in Little Five Points. Walking past the workbench, the neat tubs of hardware, the cubbies full of guitars with labels saying where they’d been sent from and where they went back to, I couldn’t help salivating. It had been over a decade since I’d seen a guitar store; the guitars I’d bought and sold since coming off the road I’d bought from and sold to friends. This wasn’t a guitar store, but it was akin, and the owner clearly had her own custom projects going as well as the repairs. My own guitars could probably use some of the luthier’s TLC, but that involved being in one place long enough to come back for them, or having an address to send them back to. Someday, maybe.
We were slotted with two local bands, one of which had a drummer Silva had played with once upon a time. They were kind enough to offer us the middle spot, so that their fans didn’t get the idea to show up late or leave early and skip the band they didn’t know. We soundchecked, then ordered pizza together from three different pizza places, so that anyone monitoring deliveries wouldn’t think we were ordering for a crowd. It was good to get a chance to chat with other bands, even if neither was considering touring. They were happy playing this place and one or two others on a semiregular basis, the way I’d been happy at the 2020. Controlled danger; nothing like the vagaries I’d experienced since leaving home.
I watched the audience enter with the curiosity of someone who had developed her own security without consultation or any knowledge of best practices. Mine had been named Alice. If it hadn’t been for her amazing facial recognition and deep suspicion of humanity, I knew my place would have been raided long before Rosemary’s arrival. This place seemed far more regulated, and as I watched people enter, I tried to figure out the system. It seemed to involve key fobs, a scanner, and a question. I finally gave up and asked about the last part.
The luthier’s wife grinned. “On any days without a show, the landing page on our website is one of Mary’s custom guitars. On show days, she throws a picture of an old Bacon mandolin up in the morning, then at noon, some vintage piece or another. It’s a splash page with alternate text saying the make and year—doesn’t say that we have one. They have to come in and ask about that particular vintage instrument. Once we get to recognize somebody, they can buy a key chain that gets them in without having to jump through hoops.”
“What’s today’s vintage?”
“A 1959 Gibson Explorer.”
My jaw dropped. “You have one of those? Aren’t they worth like half a million dollars?”
“Of course we don’t! She repaired one once and snapped a picture. But anyone actually looking for one would call to ask, not show up in person, since we’re mostly a repair shop, not a store. It’s not listed on our sale page, and we mostly sell Mary’s work, not vintage.”
The system seemed complicated to me, but they still had a venue and I didn’t, so I wasn’t in a place to critique. I had one other question. “How do new people find out you’re here?”
“They don’t.” She shrugged, then reconsidered. “I mean, if a band is playing here and has somebody new to invite, they can vouch and we’ll start the vetting process, but we try to keep it pretty limited. No sense risking everything.”