The People We Keep(3)

Efrem plays ukulele and Wisteria bangs a tambourine against her round butt. She’s a shrill soprano, but his voice is gravel. They sing into the same mic even though there are two on stage. He’s a half beat behind her on the lyrics.

“These guys are here every week,” Jim says, resting his arm on the back of my chair, “and they never get any better.”

I smile and hunch forward, so my back doesn’t touch his arm. “When are you up?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m not playing. I mean, I do play, but not here.”

I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask more or let it go. I let it go. It’s freezing. I pump my hands, trying to trick feeling back into my fingers. “Cold in here.”

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Here’s the trick.” He raises his hand. Eyelash Girl must have looked up from her book at just the right time. She comes over with a small pad of paper and a pen, ready to take an order.

“I’m fine,” I say, because I only have a handful of coins I swiped from the ashtray in Mrs. Varnick’s car.

Jim doesn’t hear me. “Could we have a hot water for her, and a refresh on mine,” he asks.

Eyelash Girl gives him a dirty look and clears his mug.

“This will help,” he says. “Hold it or drink it. Either way. And they can’t charge you for hot water.”

When Eyelash Girl comes back with our mugs, I make a point of saying thank you as sweetly as I can. She gives me a dirty look too, and I decide I will leave her all of Mrs. Varnick’s change as an apology.

I cup my hands around the mug and hold it up to my face, breathing the steam into my lungs, like cigarette smoke, only clean.

“Better?” Jim raises his mug in my direction.

“Much. Thanks.”

“No prob. You gotta learn the ropes. And if you know the ropes, it’s your job to teach them.”

Wisteria and Efrem finish their songs and come back to the table, flustered and blushing. Jim stands when they sit, applauding loudly. “That’s the stuff, man,” he says, and mimes tipping a hat in their direction. When he sits, he crosses his leg over his knee and rests his arm on the back of my chair again. I don’t think he’s hitting on me. I think he’s just less into personal space than I am.

A girl about my age climbs on stage. To get away from Jim’s arm, I rest my elbows on my knees like I’m going to pay super close attention. Scarecrow says, “Next up, Marion Strong singing two of her own songs. Her first is South… followed by North.” He laughs one big open-mouthed haw. “No, seriously, folks, her second song is Awakening. Ladies and germs, the lovely Marion.”

Lovely is a stretch. She looks like she didn’t even try. Stretched out sweater, baggy jeans, dirty work boots. It’s one thing to go for that whole don’t give a shit appearance when you do, but she looks like she really doesn’t give a shit.

Marion strums once and twists the knobs on her guitar. “Alright,” she says into the mic in a soft voice. She strums again. “Alright. That sounds good.” Her face cares. Her face looks like she gives a shit now. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes halfway. “Alright, here we go.”

She doesn’t just strum out some opening chords. Her song has an intro. It’s complex fingerpicking, not just a running head start on the lyrics. Her hands move furiously up and down the neck of the guitar, and I feel like I’m watching something that’s a little too private. Then she closes her eyes and opens her mouth and her voice is bigger than the rest of her. It’s clear and arched and she’s telling this story about a lover who won’t steer his ship south for the winter. She says she’s done. She’s going to go where it’s warm, but where’s he gonna dock his boat when his sail gets caked with ice and the sea is frigid and choppy? “How will you feel when you’re cold and alone up north when everyone’s south?” she asks, and I want to answer, because I can picture him huddled by an oil lamp in the cabin of an old damp ship, a single tear running down his face. I can see he’s miserable without her and I want to tell her that. There’s metaphor or simile or some term I would know if I paid attention in English. It’s full and beautiful and her guitar sounds like rough and rolling waves. I can’t stop watching her. She ends the song with hard, rhythmic strums, holding the guitar out in front of her like she’s presenting the final reverberations to us as a gift. I strain to keep them in my ears until there’s nothing left to hear.

Her next song is even better. Loud and angry. She pulls sounds from those strings that I didn’t think were possible, like she’s playing two guitars or three. I can’t keep track of her fingers to figure out how she does it. But even if I could—I mean, it’s not like I know enough about playing to pick it up from watching someone else.

I want to hear it all, every word, every note, but I get stuck in my head. I can’t stop thinking about how I have to get on that stage and my songs don’t have similes or metaphors or fancy fingerpicking. I can’t stop picturing myself forgetting how to hold my guitar, opening my mouth to squawk like a ragged old crow.

All of a sudden, everyone’s clapping. Some people are even standing to applaud for Marion Strong. I clap hard and my palms sting. Marion bows her head slightly and smiles, her moon face ruddy and shining and gorgeous.

The scarecrow guy gets up on stage. I tap Jim’s shoulder. “Watch my guitar?”