The People We Keep(87)

Here, I’ll stick to classics. The couple who stay are boomers: the man wears a really big shiny watch, and his wife has her hair cut into a sleek silvery bob. So I play the stuff they would have heard on the radio when they were in college. When they wore daisies in their hair and made vees with their fingers.

They don’t applaud after Wild World, but when I play the opening chords of Like a Rolling Stone, the man nods his balding head in approval. And by the time I play You’re So Vain, they’re singing along. They don’t leave, even after they finish eating. They order more coffee and turn their chairs to watch me play. But no one else is coming in, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Ethan sits at a table in the corner by himself and orders a bowl of soup and a glass of wine. The waitress and the busboy stop to watch me. There’s not much else for them to do. At the end of my songs they clap almost as loudly as Ethan does and it keeps the applause from sounding painfully thin.

Finally, another couple comes in. Mid-twenties. Awkward with each other, like it’s a first date. He keeps watching me instead of paying attention to what she’s saying. I want to stop and tell him that the poor girl got all dressed up to impress him and he better damn well pay attention to her.

I play I Can’t Make You Love Me by Bonnie Raitt and then Alone by Heart. The girl even turns around to clap when I’m done. Ethan stands and whistles.

Robert comes over to see me. “That was fantastic! Want to take a break and eat dinner?” His face is shiny. It must be hot in the kitchen. His t-shirt sticks to his back.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m not big on eating between sets.”

“Alright,” he says. “But let me get you some tea or something.”

Before I can say anything else, he goes into the kitchen and comes back with a tall glass of iced tea and a plate of toasted bread with some kind of tomatoey stuff on top. “Just in case you’re a little hungry,” he says as he hands it to me.

Robert goes back to the kitchen, and Ethan comes over to sit with me at the table closest to the makeshift stage.

“You’re amazing,” he says, putting his hand over mine and giving it a squeeze. “I’m so proud of you.”

It’s a weird thing to say. Pride for someone else always seemed to me like it had to come from seeing the journey. You knew how hard it was for them to get there and you felt invested in their success. But Ethan says it with assurance. Maybe it’s enough to understand that there’s been a journey. Maybe he’s tricked himself into actually believing we’re already in the middle of our friendship. I don’t think I mind. It’s nice to have someone rooting for me.

I eat two of the toast things. The tomato bits explode in my mouth, kind of like that gum that has a liquid center. Only this is a pure, clean taste that makes me remember the little tomato plants Margo always tried to grow on her fire escape in the summer. I could eat forever. But I stop so I don’t get that dull, thick feeling in my stomach when I try to play my next set.

Ethan eats the rest. He stays at the table nearest to me, clapping loud when I pick up my guitar again.

The sounds of getting started—the click of the strap buckle against the guitar, pop of the mic as I switch it on, the way the strings of the guitar vibrate ever so slightly when I rest it on my leg—those are my favorite sounds. I used to notice them every single time I played, but this is the first time in a long time that I’ve even heard them.

The couple who was already done with dinner is about to leave, but they sit down again and order another bottle of wine when I start to play. The date couple orders dessert. He gives her a bite of his lemon meringue pie, holding the fork across the table, hand under it, ready to catch pieces of the crumbling crust. I do a little cheer for her in my mind and play Something in the Way She Moves. James Taylor. Not Beatles. Because it’s the sweetest song I know. Because maybe it will help. Because I still want to believe that people can fall in love and stay there, the way I desperately wished the unicorn Margo took me to see at the Renaissance Fair wasn’t just a white goat with one horn sawed off.

I hope for a bigger crowd, but it never happens. A guy comes in and sits by himself in the corner. He orders coffee and pie and reads a book the whole time like I’m not even there. No one runs in from the street, moved by the music leaking out to the sidewalk. Robert won’t ask me back. This wasn’t enough.

While I pack up my guitar, I make a mental note of the things I need to gather from Ethan’s so I can head for Florida first thing in the morning before he wakes up. So there’s no need for awkward breakfast talk. It’s easier to leave when you aren’t burdened with goodbyes and loose promises about keeping in touch. Just go if you’re going to go.

Robert comes out of the kitchen and says, “Thank you, April.” He’s formal when he says it, looks at an order pad in his hand, and I feel like it’s the way you would dismiss someone if you were of the high and mighty variety. Thank you, April. That’s enough of you.

But he flips the page on his pad and says, “Can you play at the bar tomorrow, and then back here on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I can do that, possibly.” You have to adjust quickly. You can’t be too eager. Eager people get screwed. But I want to cry from the relief of it.

Robert says, “Oh, that’s great!” and claps his hand to the side of my arm excitedly. “That couple”—he points to their now empty table—“ordered two very expensive bottles of wine. One more than they would have if you hadn’t been here. And them”—he points to the table where the daters had been—“they never would have ordered dessert if it weren’t for you. Thursdays are always a little slow over here, but you turned it into a good one for us.”