Epic Sins (Epic Fail #1)(16)

“Yeah, he’s a weird dude. I don’t know why you’d want to see him,” the guy in front of the microphone says, and his voice echoes throughout the street. “Damn, I forgot to turn off the mic.” He smirks and steps on a pedal in front of him.

“You guys have a pretty cool setup,” I observe. Rob and I have only tinkered with our instruments and have nothing close to what these dudes have. There are at least six amplifiers, and their instruments are high end. I look around the neighborhood and see that it’s pretty run down. These guys don’t seem like they can afford some of the instruments that they’re holding in their hands. The bass player is playing a Rickenbacker that I know for a fact is over twelve hundred dollars. The guitarist, and I presume the lead singer, is playing a Fender American Telecaster—a majorly expensive model. The drums are a seven-piece Gretsch kit that reminds me of the setup of Taylor Hawkins from the Foo Fighters.

Who are these guys?

“I’m Tristan,” the bassist says. “This is my house.”

I nod toward Tristan as I ogle the extra guitars lined up in front of the lead singer.

“Do you play?” the drummer asks.

“A little,” I say, and I walk toward one of the Fender Stratocasters.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Garrett.”

“You already met Tristan. I’m Dax, and this is our fearless leader, Alex.”

I pull my left hand out of my pocket and wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re Epic Fail,” Tristan says.

“Cool name,” I say and realize my hand is on the neck of the Strat.

“Play with us,” Alex says as he steps on one of the pedals in front of him and strums his American Telecaster. The sound fills the garage and Dax slaps his sticks together. They burst into a familiar song and within seconds I’m caught up in the perfect rhythm they have.

Before I know it, the Strat is around my neck and I’m taking over lead from the singer. He switches to rhythm guitar almost immediately, and the transition is seamless.

After playing a half-dozen cover songs together, I place the guitar back on its stand. I’m in a bit of a daze, and their whispers are caught on the still open microphones.

“He’s amazing,” Tristan says, and both Dax and Alex nod their heads in agreement.

I suddenly feel out of place as I look toward my father’s vacant home. “I need to leave,” I say and back out of the garage, pivoting on my feet.

“Wait!” Alex’s voice booms through the amplifiers.

Chuckles reverberate behind me and I turn around.

“Come back next Saturday. We’ll be rehearsing for a local gig and it would be cool if you came.” Alex has his hand over the mic and is talking in a normal volume.

“Really?” I ask. My mother will never let me come out here. This is going to be impossible to explain.

“Yeah, dude. Your hands were like magic!” Tristan says. “The way you and Alex played off each other was like, really amazing.”

I stuff my hands back into my hoodie and almost trip walking backwards.

“Thanks, but, um…I don’t live around here.”

“Who cares!” Dax says. “You need to get back here next week.”

I nod and try to figure out what lie I’m going to tell my mother.

Hanging with these dudes was the most comfortable I’ve been in a long time. Playing music with them felt so natural. Melodic.

I look over at my father’s house again.

“How do you know that dude?” Alex asks.

“I had the wrong address. I don’t know him at all,” I lie and crumble the paper that’s in my pocket with my father’s name and address, tossing it into the trashcan at the curb.

Alex raises his eyebrow but seems to accept my fib.

Dax walks toward me and hands me a business card. The words ‘Epic Fail’ pop from the front. They look like they were spray-painted onto the card over a deep gray background. These look professional, and I can’t believe these guys are about my age.

“Call me on Friday to confirm. I’ll add you to the gig for Saturday night. We’ll be playing all of the songs we covered today, so you’re good.”

I swipe the card from his hands and nod. “Yeah, I guess I’m good.”

“Later,” Tristan says, putting his bass back on its stand.

“Later,” I respond and look up the street past the corner. I see a few cabs passing on the main road about a quarter of a mile away. Hopefully, I’ll be able to catch one of them and jump on the Main Line before it gets dark.

“Epic Fail!” they yell in unison behind me as I jog toward the intersection.

I throw up my right hand in a backwards wave.

I like the sound of that.





Sam

Present

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Age 23



ROUNDS ARE OVER, and Cassie and I settle into our daily routine. Today’s scrubs are baby monkeys. Monkeys swinging from vines. Monkeys eating bananas. Monkeys hugging each other. Cassie hates these particular scrubs because the background color is beige. And she hates beige.

“Ugh, I can’t do anything right today,” she exclaims as she tosses a feeding tube into the garbage. Beige also makes her pissy. I look around the room and it’s filled with babies. Very sick babies. Two monitors go off at the same time, and we both rush to opposite ends of the room to check the vitals of the babies causing the alarms.