“When I was 22 I had my first gig.”
“And you sucked loud right?”
“Yes. But that isn’t the point. May I finish?”
She sighs, and collapses on her wrist.
“I promoted that show more than anything I have since. First on social media, then I texted every last one of my friends, acquaintances. Hell, I reached out to enemies.”
“And no one showed. Sad. Very sad.”
He stares at her, eyes and lips flat.
“Sorry, you’re right, it’s your story. Go on.” She shoos him
“Ahem. In fact, everyone showed, which is what I thought I wanted.
But it was pretty nerve-wracking. It was my turn to play and I don’t even think I could hold the guitar straight. I looked out into a crowd of judgmental, bored faces.”
“So…how’d it go?”
“It didn’t. At least…not for long. Sure, I started to play. A song I practiced millions of times. I can’t even remember what it was now. But just as I was starting to get over my nerves and really lay into it…I tripped. Not just once, but twice. In a row.”
“Wow. So you tripped and ate it in front of everyone you ever knew.”
“You’re gonna have to let me finish.”
“Proceed.” She rolls her eyes.
“It wasn’t just that I tripped. I tripped right into my half stack. It fell off the stage and into a small table of patrons.”
She blinks and her eyes stretch. She’s finally been shut up.
“That’s not the worst part. In the chaos that ensues, no one realizes that a beer is leaking all over the amp. The room is getting smoky, and no one knows why. But eventually the fire alarm goes off. I don’t exactly burn the place down, but I owe $750 in damages and I’m known as ‘Firestarter’ among my peers.”
“OH! THAT’S why they call you that!”
“In any case, after it happens I’m ashamed to show my face anywhere for weeks, maybe months. And I think, ‘I guess I’m just not cut out to be a guitarist.’
But here’s where it gets interesting. I play that moment on loop in my head. For. Ever. I just keep coming back to it, over and over again until I can’t take it anymore.
So. I write it down. Every haunting detail. My plan is to burn it but-”
“Oh my God. Is this going to get worse?”
“My roommates find it. And the writing itself now becomes the joke for several more weeks.”
“Oh so this is your sick little game?” She tries to laugh it off but she sounds out of breath. “And then you and the whole world get to laugh at me?”
“No! Think of it this way: I don’t think anything more embarrassing could have ever happened. Not to mention…I never had to burn that story. After I read it, and everyone around me read it, it was good and burned. It used to be an orchestra with every instrument blaring. Now it’s a whistle that doesn’t even know all the notes.”
She’s frozen. Yet densely hot.
She wants to run out of the cafe but her legs won’t work. Her fingers are clenching at the table.
“I can’t. I won’t.” She grits her teeth
“Then bury it with you and no one will know the real you. It’s all the same to me.”