Gary’s Gig
carole oglesby
The jam session was going great when what’s-her-name stormed in, eyes hard, painted lips mashed in a thin grim line. Without a word she marched over to Gary, tore the bass from his hands and hauled him out of the garage by the skin of his upper arm. The last chord Gary had played echoed feebly off the concrete walls. The sound of their voices, his pleading, hers harsh and unyielding, drifted in from outside.
‘Did you catch that embouchure on her?’ I asked Dave, my voice dripping sarcasm.
‘Yeah.’ Dave rolled his eyes and blew a single derisive note on his sax.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fish, our drummer, hated to feel left out.
‘Great pucker on her, all right.’ Fish got up, looking dangerous. He works out, and his biceps bulged under a black T-shirt. He stomped over to where the washer and dryer had been pushed into one corner. Our equipment took up most of the space in the garage.
‘So much for England and Ireland,’ he said, punctuating the sentence with a kick. The kick dented the washer and toppled a box of fabric softener, which spilled in a pale blue mess onto the floor. Powder hung loosely in the air, trapped by bits of light entering the garage around the felt taped over the windows. Dave and I said nothing. The washer belonged to Fish, and already had several dents. The volume of the argument outside rose.
‘I told Gary he was stupid to tell her in a letter,’ I muttered angrily. Dave was keeping his cool, but I was mad as all get-out. ‘Dear Petunia, me and the guys are going to Europe for a month to play some gigs,’ I added in a bad imitation of Gary’s voice.
‘It’s Penelope,’ Gary stood in the doorway, head hanging sheepishly.
‘She gone?’ I asked, peering out the door.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, blinking in the dimness of the garage after the bright mid-afternoon sun.
‘So, are we going or what?’ Fish got right in Gary’s face. ‘Dave here already has five gigs lined up, and - how many more you working on, Dave?’
Dave searched his jeans pockets and pulled out a battered piece of paper. He unfolded and pored over it, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. ‘At least five or six,’ he replied, pushing the glasses back up in a characteristic gesture. ‘We’re almost in at the Undertow in Bristol. They should call today.’
Fish stood in Gary’s space with his big arms folded and jaw tight. ‘Do we count you in, or what?’
Gary scuttled backwards, eyes darting among the three of us. ‘Year, I’m in,’ he said, circling carefully around Fish to pick up his bass. He walked back to the door.
‘I’m in. She’ll come around, you’ll see. I’m goin’ home now and smooth things out, O.K.?’
‘You do that,’ Fish said, and spit on the floor. Gary almost ran for his truck.
‘I’ll bet a dollar he’s not going straight home,’ I said.
‘Bet you ten he’s going to the Pew’n Brew,’ Fish replied with a scowl. Gary’s drinking was another think that pissed Fish off.
‘Twenty says he doesn’t ėsmooth things out',’ Dave added.
‘Think she’s home yet? I’m going to call her,’ Fish said. His eyes shone with malicious intent. I glanced at Dave, who shrugged.
‘What are you, insane?’ I asked. ‘Why would she want to talk to you? She hates you.’
‘Exactly. I’ll get her so damned made that she’ll give him an ultimatum. Then either he stops pretending he even has a choice, or he says ‘screw you’ and kicks her out for good. I’ll be doing him a big favor.’
‘What if he goes with option number one?’ Dave asked.
‘Then we get a new guitarist. But we have to know soon,’ Fish said. I knew where he was coming from. We’d planned this trip for months, and had dreamed of ėtouring Europe’ together for years. That was the catch, though. Touring Europe together.
‘I don’t know.’ We’re a group,’ I said, imagining Gary’s reaction if he were replaced.
‘Fish has a point,’ Dave said calmly. ‘If we leave it to Gary, he’ll bail on us the day of the flight. I love Gary like a brother, but over the last year he hasn’t been a real asset to the band.’
If Dave was in, I was in. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
We opened the door to the dark stairway, and climbed up toward the phone.
