“Hello, Thom Aaronsen here.”
“Hi, I saw your poster at the café,” I said, instantly realizing I could have been a lot more specific, “and I have to tell you I’m interested.”
“Really? Wow, I just put those up this morning!”
“Must be fate,” I said.
“Want to meet for a drink?”
“Uh, sure.”
I tried to hide my excitement mixed with fear.
Things were happening so quickly that I could only hope that soon I’d be a cellist with a band!
Chapter Two – Pauline
The Brass Beagle hid itself well in the bustle of downtown Seattle. At the edge of a corner, it could be hard to miss, with two streets its possible home. The brass statue of the old tyme hunting hound embedded under the sign was the best clue for its location.
Due to its slow hours currently in effect, since most people didn’t like to drink before seven, there was a choice of tables to be had. Steering clear of the dartboard, I snagged one near the bathrooms. It was a varnished oak chair, looking like it had had several previous lives, but that was part of the charm about this place.
Now that I was in position, I investigated the possibilities, seeking likely suspects who might be the man I had come to meet. I’d likely not know Thom Aaronsen from Adam, but there were still clues, subtle but present.
For starters, his band was called Dante Street Massacre, making him unlikely to be wearing priest’s robes. Then again, maybe he was going for irony.
My assumptions correct and my prejudice proved, I spotted him the second he came in, his raven dark ponytail and matching goatee making the job easy. He was also wearing a bullet belt and a Dante Street Massacre hoodie. Not leaving things to chance, I waved him over, so that he was sure not to miss me.
“Thom Aaronsen,” he introduced himself, as if for good measure.
“Pauline Guthrie,” I said, giving his hand a shake.
“Nice to meet you, Pauline.”
“Same here!”
“So, what kind of experience do you have?”
“Lessons from ages six through 18 and then college, earning a bachelor’s and master’s degree in music.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. Dare I ask your performance experience?”
“Not quite so impressive, I’m afraid. I’ve done recitals, of course, but only as a soloist. Nothing with other players or anything like a club gig. I’ve been to them, though.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it,” he assured me. “It's only scary the first few times, until you know what to expect.”
“So, I’m in?”
“Your foot is in the door, certainly. If it was only up to me, I’d say yes right now, but the band as a whole runs on something like a democracy. You’ll have to come out to practice tonight and we’ll put it to a proper vote.”
“Does the vote have to be unanimous?”
“It has to be four out of five.”
“Oh, not too bad, then.”
I was already hoping that these good odds would end in success, because there would be nothing that I’d like better than to play my cello in a band.
Well, I guessed that wasn’t exactly true.
I had been single my whole life and would love to meet a handsome man and finally lose my virginity.
But that dream was starting to seem impossible to come true. I’d been going along this way my whole life with no change in sight, so I didn’t think it possible for things to take so dramatic a shift.
Still, though, short of those lofty goals, playing in a band would be next on my list. And at least that plan seemed within the realm of possibilities for me to actually be able to achieve.
Chapter Three – Derek
I was finishing up my work at home before heading out into the world for the day. Tints of blue had simmered their way through the monitor in a blink of an eye as I looked at the screen that held the digital music notes in front of me. Just a second to cover the naked iris by the eyelid was all that it had taken for my eyes to bleed red.
It was a peculiar chemistry lurking through each vein, each depth of my body that I had yet to fully explain. I guess it was just one of the vast mysteries that made life so interesting.
Blinking back to my hasty reality, I spotted the cursor amidst the blinding light of the screen. It was as if I was slapped in the face by a blizzard. The song had come to an end, at least in terms of conceptualization. I knew what it was going to be, and it had a sort of form. I just needed to get my hands on it.
Musical notes seeped into my body as I strung my guitar, each note dancing to the melody of the rhythm. It wasn’t perfect; it took me a while to feel the rhythm of my own acoustic. But it was distinct, molded a certain way, with no labor needed from the skins of my fingers.