A Song for a New Day

by Sarah Pinsker

  “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.

  “Sound okay?” I asked.

  She opened her eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I’d been listening. Sorry, Luce. I feel like crap.”

  “No worries. Sorry you’re sick. Do you need to go?”

  “Nah. I’ll sit here and hold up the wall ’til you’re done.”

  To my relief, four people walked in as I finished writing my set list. Prayers answered: an audience, albeit a small one. I knew they hadn’t come for me, since “Molly Fowler” didn’t exist. That meant either they were Tanner Watkiss fans or they’d come to hear new music. I spotted Watkiss giving them the same once-over, and settled on the latter. Excellent.

  By nine thirty, five more people had wandered in. It didn’t take much to make this room look full. I stepped onto the tiny stage, tuned one more time, then flipped the little amp on and stepped to the mic. The small crowd kept chatting among themselves.

  For one moment, staring out at eleven people from a stage the size of a shower stall, nerves gripped me. I shook it off. Ridiculous. I’d played for thousands without a second thought. Why did eleven hit me this way? Because I had to win these people over from scratch. It had been a while since I’d done it, but it wasn’t like I’d never been in that position before.

  “Hi, I’m—” I paused to remember the pseudonym, but it was gone. It didn’t matter, anyhow. “—I’m gonna play a few songs for you. Thanks for coming.”

  The set I’d written skipped the songs that had hit it big on SuperStream. I lit into “Lost and Found,” urgent, upbeat, an opener designed to silence anybody who thought they’d talk through my set. It worked. I shifted my gaze, stopping short of eye contact to avoid making anyone uncomfortable in a room this small, inviting them into the song but not putting them on the spot.

  The speakers let out a squeal and broke the spell I was trying to cast. In between lines I glanced over at the PA: Watkiss was playing with the equalizer levels I’d set. I glared at him, but he didn’t look up. I knew his type; he’d never stop fiddling. H
e stared at the knobs as he twisted them, like perfection was just out of reach.

  I brought the song to its end, then turned to him. Silent stares weren’t going to do it. “Dude, step away from the mixing board before I break my guitar over your head.”

  A few laughs from the audience. At least they understood I wasn’t the problem. When I had the levels back where I wanted them, I turned to the mic. Smiled. Pretended the first song hadn’t happened. “Hi! I’m gonna play a few songs for you. Thanks for coming.” Another laugh. They were on my side.

  The set went fine after that. The audience was there because they wanted to hear something new, or maybe because they wanted to pretend things were normal for a minute.

  I was there because I needed the energy I could only get from this connection: the elusive collision of a song, a performance, a moment; the agreement that I would try to reach them, and they’d open themselves to being reached. The last few horrible months fell away for the duration of nine songs. Nine songs to stave off whatever was going on outside. I’d thought I needed to be on tour, but it wasn’t the road I was missing. It was this, in whatever room I could find this, big or small.

  I didn’t want it to end. I had enough songs to play another hour, but this wasn’t my room. I finished my last song and walked off to solid applause. Waited a moment to show the set was really over, then stepped back up to grab my guitar, mic, and amp. No way was I sharing my gear with that dude.

  “Good set, sweetie,” Watkiss said. “You could probably make a go of it if the world wasn’t going to shit.”

  “Apology accepted.” He looked like he had more to say, but I turned my back on him.

  A couple of people stepped over to make conversation. “Do you have anything I can buy?” asked one of the women who had walked in first. Her tank top showed off amazing shoulders. I’d kill for shoulders like that, though working out or swimming to get them made more sense than killing.

  “Or SuperStream?” one of her friends asked.

  I almost said no, then realized the pseudonym’s purpose had been to keep from bringing too many people into the room; it didn’t matter now that the show had ended. “Yeah, but it’s under another name.”

  Most of them looked blank at my name, but one opened his eyes wider. “Oh, man. You’ve got that song. I know that song.”

  He sang the chorus of “Blood and Diamonds” and the others nodded in recognition.

  “What are you doing in this dump?” his friend in thick-rimmed glasses asked.

  “It’s the only place open,” another answered before I could.

  “She could be playing StageHolo to way more people.”

  I looked at the guy with the glasses. “What’s Stage Hollow?”

  “It’s a new company. I’ve got a friend who works there. It’s going to take off huge any day now.”

  I made a mental note to look into it.

  “I’m glad you’re here, anyway,” declared the guy who’d recognized me. “I didn’t care who played tonight, but I’m glad it was you.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asked the woman with the delicious shoulders.

  Come-on, or friendly offer? She put her hand on my arm. A strong hand, with exactly the right weight behind the gesture. Definitely hitting on me.

  “I’d love nothing more, but my friend over there”—I nodded my head toward April—“needs help getting home.”

  She looked at April and withdrew the touch. “Uh, yeah. She doesn’t look so hot. Rain check.”

  Tanner Watkiss started to play, and the group that had chatted with me reoriented themselves toward the stage. I’d hoped he would be an awful performer, but he was disappointingly adequate. He’d bypassed the amp and plugged his Gibson Hummingbird into the PA. He had a solid fingerpicking style, and his singing voice had craggy charm. The song wasn’t memorable, but he played it well.

  Politeness dictated that I stay for his set since he’d stayed for mine. On the other hand, April looked worse by the second. I turned my back on Watkiss.

  “Let me help you get back to your place,” I told April.

  She opened her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

  The fact that she didn’t even try to protest told me it was the right move. I didn’t have to wait to get paid since there wasn’t going to be any money. I slung my gig bag and knapsack over my right shoulder. The amp’s road case, blessedly, had wheels and a collapsing handle.

  “Can you walk?” I asked.

  April nodded. As she slid off her stool I doubted it, but she made it to her feet. I let her lead the way so I could keep an eye on her. She traced the wall with her hand as she walked.

  It was only eleven p.m., and the weather was on our side. The Hack I’d called arrived before we even made it to the door. April slid into the backseat, but didn’t shift over. I piled my gear into the trunk and walked around the other side. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

  She shook her head. “No hospital. I let my insurance lapse. Stupid, I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll sleep it off.”

  I put a hand on her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “A cold. I’ll be fine.”

  I knew she wasn’t fine just from the fact that her hands were still. I thought back through the entire evening, but couldn’t remember her hands drumming at all.

  We rode to Harlem in silence. I carried the gear to her third-floor walk-up, then came down to help her with the stairs; she’d only managed the first four steps. I put her in bed in her clothes. In the kitchen, I pulled a glass off the drying rack and filled it with water. It was a mystery to me whose stuff was whose in the bathroom, but I grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and another of store-brand cold medicine for her to choose between. I didn’t know what else to do for her. Didn’t know where she’d intended for me to sleep, either: the living room had a curtain pulled across the entrance and was clearly now somebody’s bedroom. I opened her closet and rummaged until I found her sleeping bag and laid it out on her floor.

  April moaned and tossed, obviously exhausted but not sleeping. I felt helpless. She needed a doctor, but I couldn’t make her go. I sanitized the bathroom and kitchen sinks and all the doorknobs, scrubbed my hands raw with soap and hot water, and managed to fall into a half sleep until one of her roommates walked in around four. I got up to talk to them, but the other bedroom door closed before I got there, and nobody answered when I knocked. Back to the sleeping bag.

  “Go home,” April whispered not long after the sun rose. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Like hell. I’m not leaving until you go to a doctor or one of your roommates says they’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Don’t count on that. They’re assholes.”

  “How about a clinic, at least? Finite cost. I’ll pay if you don’t have the cash.” I knew I shouldn’t have said that the second it was out of my mouth.

  “Go home, Luce. I’ll go to a clinic later if I’m not feeling better. I promise.”

  I’d stepped over a line. We weren’t really friends. I’d been her employer, sort of. We’d been in a band, sort of. Her pride was never going to let me help more than I’d helped already. I went online to switch my tickets to an earlier bus.

  “Feel better. Thanks for the gig and the awesome amp and the place to stay . . .” My voice trailed off.

  She propped herself on one elbow. “The amp? It made it back here, right?”

  I pointed to the corner, and she leaned back again. “Thanks.”

  “You’re sure I can’t do anything else?”

  She waved me away. I would have preferred to tell a roommate how sick she was, but I didn’t see anyone, and she had said they were assholes. I showed myself out.

  I bought a coffee and a sourdough bagel on the way to the subway, both of which I regretted when I realized it was rush hour. Even with all the closings, rush hour in New York
still strained the system. I had to swing my guitar off my back and hold it in front of me to protect it, while the other elbow hooked the pole, keeping my coffee from my face. I distracted myself by people-watching, but even that was less fun than usual with the bad night’s sleep setting in. It might have been my imagination, but everyone looked drawn, lessened. By the time I got off the train, my coffee had gone cold. I tossed it in the nearest wastebasket.

  The morning bus back to Baltimore wasn’t as crowded as the one I’d taken the day before. Nobody fussed over the guitar’s seat, and there were enough windows for everyone. I took a seat on the top level to see Manhattan as we drove away; New York always looked majestic from New Jersey. After the island’s southern tip dipped from view, I turned my attention to the thought I’d been avoiding.

  What to do next? I’d hoped playing a show would buoy me, but a single show’s high faded too fast. It had been a temporary distraction at best. I needed something real and lasting, and nothing I thought of fit the bill.

  What was the new site the guy with the glasses had mentioned after my set? At least researching and setting myself up on a new platform might eat some time and make me feel productive. He’d called it Super Hollow. No. Stage Hollow? I searched on my phone until I found it: StageHolo. Not the catchiest brand name.

  The bus braked hard and I braced against the seat in front of me, arm across my guitar to keep it from shifting. I looked out on a sea of brake lights. A little odd heading away from the city at this time of morning.

  I turned back to the StageHolo site. It looked like they were offering private shows through proprietary hardware, at a fee. “No parking, no puking. Like a live show, but better.” Their taglines needed work, and they didn’t seem to have an artist sign-up link. It looked a little rough.

  The bus still hadn’t moved. I stood to look through the front window. Others did the same.

  “Can you see what’s the delay?” I asked a man who looked like he’d been paying attention.

  “Nah. An ambulance pulled up on the other side of the highway, way in front. I think they tried to get through on this side but the shoulder was too narrow.”