We Have Till Monday

I didn’t have either of those on me, but I had both on my phone.

She said she could have her assistant run over to the office and print it out.

Then I signed a waiver where I solemnly swore to compensate their company if I broke the guitar I was gonna borrow.

“You’re on in twenty minutes—give or take,” she hollered over the music. “There’re two more musicians after him.” She nodded at the guy on stage. “If you have the legalities in order, go talk to Lance with 105.1 WNXF next to the bar. If you’re good enough, they’ll play it on the air.”

If I’m good enough.

“Got it.”

Ten minutes later, I found August and Camden at a table where they’d managed to steal a single spot closest to the stage. Camden was perched on August’s lap, and two beers and a soda were on the table in front of them.

“You’re actually gonna play for us?” August asked in surprise.

“Looks like it.” I squatted down at the head of the table, and I gave Camden’s knee a squeeze. “This one calls himself an evil genius for a reason, I guess.”

Camden grinned in triumph. “It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission sometimes.”

I barked out a laugh.

August groaned and pressed his forehead to Camden’s neck. “It’s definitely not, boy.”

“It totally is!” Camden argued with his goofy grin. “Here, Daddy got you a gross beer.”

I accepted the bottle and took a long swig. It was anything but gross. Just like the rest of this day, it was perfect.

It was a moment I wanted to capture and keep with me forever. Camden with his cute grins and his Spider-Man mask bunched up around his head like a beanie, August with his indulgent smiles and the affection in his eyes, the bistro lights above us, the music, the people around us, even our plastic bags on the floor at August’s feet.

“Are they gonna play you on the radio?” Camden asked.

“If I’m good enough.” I smirked. “They’ll listen to the first song—which I don’t have the rights to record or distribute anyway—and if they like it, they’ll stream the second song live.”

It reminded me to shoot Nicky a text. Lance had given me a business card that I’d taken a photo of, and I pulled out my phone to attach the photo in a message.

“Are they both covers?” August wondered.

I nodded. “First one’s called ‘No Excuses,’ and the second is ‘House of the Rising Sun.’”

“Oh, I do love Rising Sun,” he commented. “I’m looking forward to hearing your version.”

I smiled in response and typed out a quick text to my brother.

Looks like I’m about to plug our gig next weekend. If you don’t have anything better to do, go to the website listed on the card and listen. (Open-mic event at the festival.)

The men who were about to comp me were a chill bunch of locals who reminded me more of bikers than musicians. One on guitar, one on bass, one behind the drums, and me. Mac was the talker, and he said I was the fourth guy this weekend to play “House of the Rising Sun.”

I wasn’t surprised, given that it was public domain.

“I’d like to think my version will stand out,” I replied, shifting the shoulder strap of my borrowed guitar over my head.

“They all think that, buddy,” Mac chuckled gruffly.

I kept my mirth to myself and made sure the guitar was tuned. “All right, I’ll just ease into ‘Rising Sun’ right after ‘No Excuses.’”

“Copy that.” Mac and the others glanced at their lead sheets and got ready.

I took the stool at the front and half sat on it.

The woman I’d talked to earlier came up on the little platform and spoke into the mic. “Listen up, y’all! Next, we have Anthony Fender from New York. Give him a big round of applause and hope he lives up to his last name.”

Oh, a Fender joke. I’d never heard those before.

I raked my teeth over my bottom lip and tinkered on the guitar as I leaned into the mic. “I was told very recently by a bossy little boy to promote the fact that I’m playing at the music festival outside of Murfreesboro next weekend, so I think we can cross that off the list now.” I got some chuckles from that, at least, and I heard Camden’s laughter.

With that out of the way, I glanced over my shoulder and gave the guys a nod before I started the first song.

I wouldn’t impress anyone with the guitar, not with these songs. It was an easy rhythm that stayed out of the limelight, giving more focus to my voice. And as I sang the first couple lines, I knew the lukewarm welcome I’d just received would change. It always did. Nobody expected real talent at these events.

I’d give Nonna one thing. My voice was a gift. Unlike with all the instruments I played, I hadn’t busted my ass to become good at singing. I treated it as a gift too; I was grateful, because I didn’t know if I was gonna lose it one day. I’d tried vocal coaches and herbal teas, I’d smoked and I’d given up smoking over the years, and my voice stayed the same. No better, no worse, regardless of my lifestyle.