Page 12 of Resonance
Owen:Franther. Almost sexy, yet slightly concerning.
Dan:[clears throat] Better?
Owen:Yeah, think so. Okay, 3, 2, 1.
Dan:Welcome to this edition of—
Owen:Nope, it’s still there.
Dan:[frustrated growl]
Owen:Ohhhh, panther has eaten the frog. So… how about that water? If that fails we can do some tea with honey.
Dan:We’re recording a podcast, not an opera. Where’d my water go?
Owen:It’s right next to your elbow.
Dan:So help me god, if you make a quip about me needing glasses…
Owen:I don’t really have to now, do I?
Chapter 5
It was still there as I surveyed the crowd at Miller Hall, slung low in my groin. The distant heat of want and emptiness, same as I’d felt at Howie’s. I hadn’t picked a good crowd for my typical fare, though. I wasn’t the oldest there by far, but most of the men I spotted around my age seemed like settled-down family types, had their arms wrapped around a woman or, in a few cases, another guy. And a majority of the folks were flat-out too young, which was just the way of the live music scene in this part of Nashville.
I eyed the bartender back when he fixed his gaze on me, unsure whether I was detecting interest or recognition. The former would’ve been more welcome than the latter. Recognition happened a lot less over the years, but he was probably only five years younger than me, and when he brought back my drink and I handed over my card, he checked it and a smile lit his face.
“Thought so,” he said, passing the card back. “On the house. ‘Dusty Dawn’ was great. Still holds up.”
I hated when people said that—still holds up—even though I knew he meant it as a compliment. What he meant was timelessness, not some effervescent bubble of a song that popped and left only a faint glimmer of soap scum behind a couple of years later. Guess I was still arrogant enough to thinkof course it does. But even so, the sales on the single solo album I’d put out after Ryder and I dismantled our band were nothing compared to his, and even less compared to what we’d been together. The synergistic effect was gone, and I’d always supposed that meant I had little magic on my own. Ryder had been the amplifier, and without him, I was a faint echo. I’d up and quit like a sullen kid snatching his toys and storming home. Some days I regretted that.
I tucked the card back in my wallet and headed toward the stage with my beer, nodding at Ru when I spotted him off to one side chatting with the promotor.
He waved me over. “You know Jimmy, right?”
I did know Jimmy. I gave him a handshake and asked after his family and, when he jetted off, turned to Ru as he subtly ticked his head toward the audience.
“There are a shit ton of reps out there.”
“It’s still your game right now, you play it how you want.” Ru’s stubbornness and unwillingness to bend a knee to just any label that come calling was one of the things I liked about him. But lately I’d started wondering if he even had any interest at all.
He took a swig of his beer, then aimed the mouth of the bottle toward the crowd. “Quinn’s out there, too, if you want to park it next to him.”
I skimmed over faces until I spotted him. “Maybe so.”
“Saw Owen floating around earlier, too.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded and I sent my gaze out again, poking through the nooks and crannies of shoulders and tops of heads, looking for the dandelion fluff glow of Owen’s hair and registering faint disappointment when I didn’t see it.
Shaking it off, I squeezed Ru’s shoulder, wished him well, and roamed in the direction of Quinn. I took in the people around me, the mic checks, the cigarette smoke wafting in from the front entrance, and the dusty twilight beyond the windows. There was free-floating energy in the air, a kind of infectious anticipation palpable in the audience. When I’d been the one up there beneath the lights, it was as if the stage amplified it, funneled it right into my spine, and I’d always spent hours after a show wired and slow to come down.
Quinn lifted a hand as I approached, then patted the thick cement column he was leaning against. “Saved this patch of wall just for you.”
“So considerate.” I’d known Quinn Marx for almost as long as I’d known Ru, but more peripherally until they got together. I had one of his giant black-and-white paintings on the wall of my office at home, and we made small talk about some of his new projects until the lights flickered.
“Think he’s gonna do all right up there?” Quinn glanced at me sidelong.