day.
Then my father was gone and the gears in my brain lurched back to the Scar Boys. We piled into Dino, certain we were ready for whatever the world was going to throw at us.
Richie was driving the first shift with me in the passenger seat. Johnny and Cheyenne were in the back, their knees, elbows, and shoulders touching. Chey was affectionate like that—a light touch on the bicep, a passing squeeze of a shoulder muscle, even the occasional peck on the cheek was par for the course. When I was the lucky recipient, which wasn’t often, it was the highlight of my day. I would lie awake at night remembering her touch, no matter how insignificant, and dream about the next time it would happen. Strike that. I would dream bigger dreams, dreams of Chey and me together, of going to movies, going to dinner, holding hands, kissing. I knew it was a fantasy, but as long as she gave those small, physical cues, there was hope. And hope is a dangerous thing. But in the weeks leading up to the tour she’d stopped all signs of affection with everyone except for Johnny.
I pretended not to notice.
I turned the radio on as we drove down my parents’ street into an uncertain future. One of the only AM music stations left on the dial was playing “Join Together” by the Who. I took it as an omen that big things were in store for the Scar Boys.
STREETS OF BALTIMORE
(written by Tompall Glaser and Harlan Howard, and performed by Gram Parsons)
“You were awesome, dude,” Richie said to me. It was fourteen hours after we’d left Yonkers and we were sitting in an all-night diner in Baltimore, congratulating each other on what we thought was a great first gig on the tour. “I don’t know how you got the feedback coming out of your amp to screech like that, but man, I could feel it in my sneakers.”
I just smiled. It
was
a great gig. There weren’t a whole lot of people there, but that didn’t matter.
The four of us were sharing two plates of French fries in brown gravy; something we had never tried before, but that the waitress had assured us was a Maryland delicacy. It was good, but because we thought it was exotic and cool, we were convinced it was incredibly, unbelievably, maniacally good. That was the feeling we all had that night.
The gig had been in the back of a bar in the Pimlicosection of the city, close to the racetrack, and closer still to check-cashing, gold-buying, and liquor-selling storefronts, all of them covered with steel shutters at this hour.
We were one of three bands on the bill, and other than the manager of the first band and the girlfriend of the drummer in the second band, the only people in the bar seemed to be neighborhood regulars. They sat on their stools with their baseball caps pulled low; they gave off a vibe of being pissed off. Either the owner of the bar was lousy at promoting gigs, was trying live music for the very first time, or there was somewhere a whole lot better to be in Baltimore that night.
We were the first band to take the stage, and no one seemed to care. The neighborhood regulars sipped their drinks and didn’t do much else. But as we played deeper into our set, we saw their attention shift from the TV suspended above the bar to us. Before long toes were tapping, heads were bopping, and faces were smiling. When we finished, we got a nice round of applause. There was no encore, but the mood in the room was unmistakably good.
“You know,” Cheyenne offered as she scooped up a gelatinous glob of gravy, “a night like tonight is the reason I joined this band in the first place.”
“Not me,” Richie said, tongue firmly in cheek. “I’m in it for the chicks.” Johnny and I laughed.
“All I’ve ever wanted,” Chey continued, ignoring us, “isto play music that would make people feel good. We did that tonight.” We were all quiet for a moment.
It’s funny. I’d never really thought of it that way before. I’d only ever thought about how playing music made me feel.
Then my father was gone and the gears in my brain lurched back to the Scar Boys. We piled into Dino, certain we were ready for whatever the world was going to throw at us.
Richie was driving the first shift with me in the passenger seat. Johnny and Cheyenne were in the back, their knees, elbows, and shoulders touching. Chey was affectionate like that—a light touch on the bicep, a passing squeeze of a shoulder muscle, even the occasional peck on the cheek was par for the course. When I was the lucky recipient, which wasn’t often, it was the highlight of my day. I would lie awake at night remembering her touch, no matter how insignificant, and dream about the next time it would happen. Strike that. I would dream bigger dreams, dreams of Chey and me together, of going to movies, going to dinner, holding hands, kissing. I knew it was a fantasy, but as long as she gave those small, physical cues, there was hope. And hope is a dangerous thing. But in the weeks leading up to the tour she’d stopped all signs of affection with everyone except for Johnny.
I pretended not to notice.
I turned the radio on as we drove down my parents’ street into an uncertain future. One of the only AM music stations left on the dial was playing “Join Together” by the Who. I took it as an omen that big things were in store for the Scar Boys.
STREETS OF BALTIMORE
(written by Tompall Glaser and Harlan Howard, and performed by Gram Parsons)
“You were awesome, dude,” Richie said to me. It was fourteen hours after we’d left Yonkers and we were sitting in an all-night diner in Baltimore, congratulating each other on what we thought was a great first gig on the tour. “I don’t know how you got the feedback coming out of your amp to screech like that, but man, I could feel it in my sneakers.”
I just smiled. It
was
a great gig. There weren’t a whole lot of people there, but that didn’t matter.
The four of us were sharing two plates of French fries in brown gravy; something we had never tried before, but that the waitress had assured us was a Maryland delicacy. It was good, but because we thought it was exotic and cool, we were convinced it was incredibly, unbelievably, maniacally good. That was the feeling we all had that night.
The gig had been in the back of a bar in the Pimlicosection of the city, close to the racetrack, and closer still to check-cashing, gold-buying, and liquor-selling storefronts, all of them covered with steel shutters at this hour.
We were one of three bands on the bill, and other than the manager of the first band and the girlfriend of the drummer in the second band, the only people in the bar seemed to be neighborhood regulars. They sat on their stools with their baseball caps pulled low; they gave off a vibe of being pissed off. Either the owner of the bar was lousy at promoting gigs, was trying live music for the very first time, or there was somewhere a whole lot better to be in Baltimore that night.
We were the first band to take the stage, and no one seemed to care. The neighborhood regulars sipped their drinks and didn’t do much else. But as we played deeper into our set, we saw their attention shift from the TV suspended above the bar to us. Before long toes were tapping, heads were bopping, and faces were smiling. When we finished, we got a nice round of applause. There was no encore, but the mood in the room was unmistakably good.
“You know,” Cheyenne offered as she scooped up a gelatinous glob of gravy, “a night like tonight is the reason I joined this band in the first place.”
“Not me,” Richie said, tongue firmly in cheek. “I’m in it for the chicks.” Johnny and I laughed.
“All I’ve ever wanted,” Chey continued, ignoring us, “isto play music that would make people feel good. We did that tonight.” We were all quiet for a moment.
It’s funny. I’d never really thought of it that way before. I’d only ever thought about how playing music made me feel.
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