Prologue
If you stand on the stage in the Moonlight Café – barefoot, of course – and curl your toes around the edges so you can feel the cheap painted plywood, you will be in the right place. If you imagine the weight of a guitar hanging from your neck, your arms wrapped around it, tethered to an amp on the floor that someone brought up from their basement, you will be closer to the memory. If you close your eyes and conjure up the sound of people trying to be quiet, the shuffling of chairs and the muffling of coughs, the soundtrack of the moment will be just right. And if you can feel the warmth of a spotlight fanning your face, making you the brightest thing in the room, something of a sun that the audience is orbiting around, you’re almost there.
The chairs are stacked upside down on the tables now, reaching their legs up to the sky like arms raised in a call for rain, but at the right time on the right night, they were on the floor, and people were sitting on them. The house was full that night; not a lofty accomplishment, given the size of the establishment, but an accomplishment all the same, especially considering the weather. The sign out front – welcoming The Entertainment as “the city’s best local modern folk/rock group with a lesbian leprechaun” – definitely helped draw the crowds in. Look, just there, in the corner under the stack of extra chairs. The chalkboard sign is there, the chalk rubbed half off by some hasty employee at the end of their shift. Once it advertised The Entertainment every Friday night.
Turn back to the stage. It’s small, especially with the piano set up in the corner; an old out-of-tune standup, missing the stool now. The stage only held three people comfortably, so one person was always the “sitting duck” and had to sit on the edge, attempting to look just as dignified as everyone who was standing. Sit on the stage there – yes, just like that. See how you’re looking right in the eyes of everyone in your imaginary crowd? Everyone got a turn to be the duck. Right now, it’s yours.
Stand up, back where you were before. Grip the edge of the stage with your feet so you don’t fall off. To your left, sitting with one foot on her guitar case and the other on the stage, is Emmy, the sitting duck tonight. She’s holding her violin cradled in between her shoulder and her chin like a baby she’s trying to soothe; her bow is in her hand, and she tickles it light across the strings, her fingers dancing into different formations. Behind you, sitting at the piano (this is back when the stool still existed) is Cal, hunched over the keys like a brooding hunchback. Dex is sitting behind you with his drums. Big and tall, presentable tonight in a tucked-in polo, Dex likes to think he has a threatening, commanding appearance, but as you look back at him he grins, mouths a few words.
You clip your capo onto your guitar, kissing the mic, don’t worry about the germs, life’s too short. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. There you are, on stage, a pick in your hand and a song in your throat. There you are.
Close your eyes.
