One line, in one song.
Not the chorus, necessarily, but something he repeated in the middle and the end of the song, his voice getting more emotional, more hoarse, almost distraught on the final shout.
She hadn’t been a backstage type.
See the band, buy a t-shirt, leave.
But her friend dated a bartender whose roommate was on the local crew.
Backstage they went.
She asked about the lyric.
He answered.
Her laugh, at herself, at the circumstance, the memory, sprayed spittle on the steering wheel.
She could smell the hotel in Iowa, the little room with the ice maker and pop machine.
She got a Mountain Dew, heavy caffeine, because she knew she’d be hungover after drinking for two days and 700 miles with a band.
That day was hundreds of gallons of Mountain Dew ago.
Their daughter’s name was one of the words in that gravelly, emotional shout.
This was Ohio, a town she never heard of, an hour from her Michigan home.
She wondered how well known the now defunct band was in Ohio, the band that had started it all.
The parking lot was freshly paved.
She wondered why she noticed that. Maybe she wanted it to be seedy, rundown, shitty.
The sign was subtle, but artfully done. The artist whom she had researched was well known, award winning, anything but shitty.
She knew the economy of that world. He was hundreds of dollars an hour.
Maybe less, if he was a fan of the band, but did they have any fans left? They had been silent a long time.
Walking with a purpose, as though she was an invited guest, she opened the door to the small shop.
Appointment Only screamed in calligraphy from three separate signs.
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