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Monday, January 26, 2015

Playing in the Band (Part 2)

(Continued from here)

Her words reverberated in my head. Really? I should come downstairs and meet her in a basement supply closet during my band's next break? If I want to?

I made my way back to the little stage and joined my bandmates. We started our second set, and it felt and sounded good, as it always does. But I was having trouble concentrating on anything but my waitress.

Was she offering what I think she was offering? I tried and failed to think of any reason she'd invite me there that wasn't a quick fuck. My head spun.

And if that's really what she was offering, did I want it? She didn't make eye contact with me as she waited her tables, but I watched her as we played. My initial assessment was unchanged: not my type at all. Too young, too thin, too rough looking. But the question wasn't whether I'd bring her home to meet my parents, or even take out to dinner - it was whether I was interested in bending her over and fucking her.

Yes, I was interested.

The more I thought about it, the more interested I was. I would definitely go down those stairs and go into the door on the right. I stayed a little skeptical. Maybe she'd change her mind. Or be too busy with work to get away during out break. Or whatever.

We played through the second set, and it went well. People were generous with their applause, and our tip jar was filling up. Then I realized, as our singer announced it, that this would be the last song of the set, and then we'd take a short break. We launched into the song.

My waitress still hadn't made eye contact with me once during the set, and I was a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Would this really happen? It started to seem more likely when she walked past the stage, turned around for the briefest glance at the band, then descended the stairs.

The song ended, and we turned down the P.A. and put our instruments down. My bandmates started for the bar, and I told them I'd be there shortly. My heart was pounding in my chest as I walked down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, I was alone in a short hallway, exactly as she said. Mens' and ladies' rooms on the left, and one door, marked "Employees Only", on the right. I knocked once quickly and opened the door.

(Continued here)

Monday, January 19, 2015

Playing in the Band (Part 1)

We played the last chord of the song, and smiled at each other as people clapped. The singer announced that we'd be taking a short break, and that we'd still be playing two more sets. We stepped off of the small stage, thanking the couple of patrons who were putting some cash in our tip jar.

We walked through the restaurant and took three seats at the bar, and the bartender set us up with tall glasses of ice water with lemon. We'd played here before, and it was a nice little neighborhood restaurant, and a good place to play. It was also gratifying to see some familiar faces - people who'd seen us here before and had come back to see us.

The singer wandered off to talk to someone, and a waitress came behind the bar and started a conversation with the guitar player and me.

"You guys sound great."

We thanked her.

She complimented us up and down, and of course who doesn't like having their ego stroked? She told us that she was learning to play guitar, and we encouraged her to do it.

I looked her up and down. Too young. Too thin...almost scrawny. Even in her standard-issue waitress uniform of black skirt and short-sleeve white blouse, there was a little bit of a rough edge to her, and she had tattoos from shoulder to elbow. But she was sweet as could be and wanted to talk about playing music.

She told us about her guitar - she'd bought it at a pawnshop for $25. I suppressed a smile and turned to my band-mate. "Yours cost a little more than that." I knew it probably cost 100 times that. He laughed and shook his head and said he'd better get back and tune up for the second set.

She ran off to look after one of her tables, and then came back as I was getting ready to go back and get ready to play. She asked what songs we'd be playing, and I told her with a wink that she'd have to listen and find out. She called me a bastard, and we both laughed.

She paused, then asked me how long the second set would be? I told her, around 45 minutes.

"As soon as your set is over, come and see me. Go down the stairs. The bathrooms are on the left. There's a supply closet on the right." She paused. "If you want to."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and went back to work.

(Continued here)