WHEN ATTITUDE BECOMES A PROBLEM

He was sitting cross-legged in a forest green kimono on a red straw mat before a white enameled chair that resembled a somewhat Spartan throne. Mike Stretto knew he was dreaming. He never wore green. The man who owned the white throne by sheer virtue of his occupation of it was Mike's old guitar teacher, Jeremy Ryan.

While I find it highly appropriate, the image of you as a Zen master, Mike's doppelganger said in the dream, you're just too damned Caucasian to make it seem credible, even from inside.

Jeremy as Zen master opened his mouth, but instead of a human voice Mike heard the sound of a cheap, peeping table phone.

"Shit."

He knocked the phone to the floor, stretched his right foot over the side of the bed, hooked a toe under the curly plastic cord and swung the handset into his hand.

"This is Mike -- good morning, who's there?"

Without opening his eyes Mike switched the phone to his left hand and fumbled his right over the nightstand. A shower of quarters dashed to the floor just as his fingertips mashed the crumpled cellophane wrapper of a half-deflated packet of Camel filters.

"Hi, Mike. It's me, Laura. I sorta missed you last night..."

This was supposed to be meaningful, Mike thought. It might have been -- perhaps even deeply meaningful -- if he could only just recall who Laura was. He tried to stir the oatmeal that was his brain but only found more oatmeal. Cold oatmeal at that, dammit all.

"I had a gig in Dayton last night -- it came up at the very last minute. If I broke a date with you without letting you know, I'm deeply sorry..."

"Oh, well... okay. I thought maybe you just stood me up for some blonde bimbo..."

Laura... red hair. Very. Short. Red. Hair; tall; great shoulders; fine, fine neck. She was one of the non-bimbos. Mike couldn't recall what she did for a living or how she'd come to be in possession of his phone number, but something in his brain screamed she definitely did not fall into the `bimbo' category.

Unlike Lisa, whose thigh rested next to his. He hadn't stood Laura up, not really. Not for this girl, anyway. Lisa had followed him home from Dayton after the gig. Even now her Honda Civic with its Butler County license plates was parked in his neighbor's marked space in the lot outside.

He inhaled from the Camel and sat up in his bed squinting at daylight suffused through vinyl mini-blinds that hadn't ever quite closed correctly.

"I really am sorry, Laura. I guess I did forget or I'd have called to let you know, but there was a good reason."

"Okay. Well, I won't even ask about tonight. Obviously you're booked up..."

He grimaced. Okay, I'm a bastard, he thought. The disappointment in her voice ricocheted through the phone and into his ear like a bullet from a gun. Even if he hadn't stood her up, if she was that disappointed she deserved better than a brush-off.

"God, you actually sound disappointed. I wouldn't think I was worth that much angst... I do have to play up in Dayton again tonight, as a matter of fact. I'd invite you up for the show, but that's an awful long drive, and I'm going up early in the afternoon."

"Where are you playing in Dayton?"

It shouldn't have surprised him she asked, but his heart did a strange little jump in his chest just the same.

"Place called T-Bird's, it's up by Wright-Patterson. I'd never ask you to drive all the way up there..."

"I might. I might not, too. Would I walk in the door and find you with a busty blonde hanging from your elbow?"

Mike laughed and squinted at the well-enough-endowed blonde currently tangled in his black, decorator-print sheets.

"I'll dispose of her by then. We'll probably start playing around ten o'clock. I can't tell you how sorry I am about last night..."

"You actually do sound sorry Mike, I swear..."

"I actually am, if I stood you up -- well hell, even if I didn't, if I can't even remember it's just as bad. Well, maybe I'll see you later tonight."

"Maybe. And maybe not too, like you last night."

Mike leaned out of the bed to drag the phone's base back to the night stand. She was full of shit, but boy, was she ever slick about it. Mike knew he hadn't had a date with her last night, the T-Bird's gig had been scheduled since before he remembered meeting her. He'd never have made a date with any one, not even Diana of Windsor, on a gig night... but Laura was slick enough to have slipped in under the electric fence that held all the Lisas back from actually touching him and made an impression. If he'd managed to impress her enough she'd actually drive all the way up to Dayton, well, maybe there'd be something interesting going. Since he was awake now, he might as well drag his carcass on in to the shower, too.

He lathered his hair with salon-brand shampoo that cost about a buck a squirt and tried to remember how `Lisa' had ended up in his Eastgate Woods apartment the night before. He'd been cold sober, if stupid-tired, and barring a total psychotic blackout he hadn't had sex with her. He often woke with women he hadn't enjoyed sex with. Many of them thought he was strange for refusing, but they persisted in asking him to take them home with him, and Mike seldom turned down what seemed a sincere request.

His other bed pillow always smelled nice, after all and there was little guilt. AIDS scared him, condoms scared him and the thought of fathering bastard children usually killed his erection even if it had survived his other misgivings. He was a bastard himself. It hadn't been an easy childhood. Not in Greater Cincinnati anyway, though very likely easier in Clermont County than other places in the area.

He rinsed his long, thick mop of hair, tossed it forward over his face and smeared it with hair conditioner that was just a few cents more a squirt than the shampoo. It might not have mattered to him but Mike made his living as a rock and roll guitarist. He'd finally crossed the line between music being his avocation and his vocation; now rock and roll was his living and he had to look sharp, since that was his career now.

It had taken a long time to get there -- over seven years with the current band, playing the current music. Mike had to credit Jeremy Ryan's guitar lessons with finally pushing him over that edge. They'd enabled him to learn to write, to play more like a professional both at home and on stage. Had earned enough gigs he didn't have to have a day or a night job anymore.

No more night jobs at the towing companies. He'd paid to press the pseudonymous compact disc that was selling fairly well in Louisville and Dayton and Cincinnati. The rest of the band had contributed, but mostly on the recording costs. 'Martinize' was the present name of the band -- though nothing was set in stone at this point -- and Michael Martin his stage name. Jeremy had tormented him about using a stage name. Mike knew he was right, but Mike had been using it for over seven years now. If a little uncomfortable in fit, it was no more uneasy than `Arden', the name of the man who'd adopted him in his teens, who wasn't really his father, but who'd gone far beyond the usual, customary and reasonable helping him become a man.

In some ways, in fact it was more his name than Stretto. Stretto had come from Richard Charles Stretto, a long-haul trucker from Chicago who'd never offered to marry Mike's mother; as far as Mike knew, in fact, he had barely deigned to allow her to give his son his name. The condition had been, according to the simple contract Carol Arden had shown him when he reached the age of eighteen and prepared to leave home, if he took the name he could have nothing else. On the suspicion Richard Stretto's name was more valuable to him than anything else he could have given her or her child, Carol Arden asked for the name for her son and passed up the possibility of child support and the probability of chasing him all over the United States to get it.

Mike still wasn't sure it was the wisest choice, but he hadn't ever voiced his doubts again after she'd shown him the document. She said she knew it wouldn't have held up in court. If Richard had ever wanted the right to visit his son it would probably have proved worthless. It had proved beside the point after all. Rich Stretto hadn't ever asked.

Along with the name, Mike had inherited some of his father's physical characteristics, according to the little he'd drawn out of Carol about Richard Stretto when he'd still been interested in knowing it -- the long, thick, curly black hair; wiry frame; classic Mediterranean physical and facial features. Also, apparently, his father's magnetic charm. But not his wanton potency. Not unless he got married; maybe not even then. Several times Mike had made the appointment to have a vasectomy, but each time he'd broken it. Having a vasectomy couldn't have made him behave more responsibly.

In spite of her disgraced status in its eyes, Mike's mother had continued to attend the Catholic church she'd attended since childhood and, until she'd adjudged him old enough to call for himself, so had Mike. Much of what he'd learned in church in his youth he'd considered with the perspective of experience and discarded -- but the implied philosophy -- absolution and forgiveness weren't substitutes for doing the right thing in the first place -- made sense to him even as an adult. It kept him from getting in trouble -- from drinking and driving, from abusing drugs -- at the times most young men, especially the musically inclined sort, wasted a lot of energy and loving time. Nothing much ever separated him from music, even at the desire's most vulnerable time inside him. Then it had seemed pure fantasy; now it was at least a shade solider.

He squirted an ounce of styling gel into one palm, rubbed it between his hands and, uncertain of its current market value, massaged it into the mop. Time for the first shave of the day, as well. He tugged a vented brush through his thick ponytail, twisting it into an elastic band at the nape of his neck. When wet, it fell four inches shy of the small of his back. He'd never had it cut, not since high school. He'd taken a vocational route to avoid cutting it -- his home school's dress code had been stricter than the one at the JVS. It had kept him from walking down the aisle at graduation with the rest of his class. After two years at the JVS that hadn't seemed important to him anyway. He'd graduated seventh in a class of 70, top in his automotive repair class at the vocational school. It had made him more money at his part time jobs and those full-time ones he'd held in the early days when he'd needed it most, if nothing else. Well, in fact, nothing else -- more money had been the deciding factor. His mother had impressed on him the value of a diploma -- a high school diploma or a GED was worth minimum wage. A strong back, a little vocational training, a special ability or skill -- all those things added dollars an hour to the diploma and to minimum wage. Odds were he'd never make it in the academic world, he just didn't have the desire.

Besides, he had a special ability. He had a good voice and he was a good guitar player. He even wrote a pretty decent song, when he could prevent too many other things getting in his way. He had a low-overhead lifestyle. Playing three to five nights a week with `Martinize' more than covered his rent, his meals and his auto insurance. Even on his red 1971 Corvette Stingray.

He'd bought the car in 1981, when it had been less dear than it was now at over twenty years vintage. Now it was considered a classic. Its renovation had been his JVS class project, his senior year. It was insured at just over sixteen grand. He'd paid less than a quarter of that; just about doubled the original price rebuilding the body and the engine.

Having waited; taken time searching for original replacement parts had paid off. He'd planned and made effort to preserve the car's value. It could mean a year's wages, if there was ever the need. If not it might one day be the down payment on a house. However the car served it had provided a hundred percent return on his investment in ten years. Few people his age could claim the same on any of their investments.

Carol Arden hadn't been overtly supportive of his musical career but Mike knew she loved him and respected the fact he'd gotten out on his own as soon as possible, whatever the source of his living. She still teased him about his long hair, his late hours and his entourage (other than Joel, Eddie and Jerry she called it a menagerie). Compared to Mike, and even to many of his friends' parents, Carol was socially conservative -- she'd probably never really accept his chosen vocation. Mike's stepfather, a man Carol finally married when Mike was fourteen, was a financial analyst -- or, as Gil often said with a wink and a nudge, `a highly glorified accountant'. He too loved Mike in his own quiet, abstract way. In fact Gil had been the one who loaned Mike the money to buy the Corvette. As soon as the car was in legal street condition, and until it was paid off, Gil Arden had driven it. Mike hadn't been happy to offer, but he had offered. Until the car was fully his he'd only driven it to auto shop and to his night and weekend job at the garage.

He never came to call Gil `Dad', and Gil never called him `Son' in the capital sense. It wasn't an uneasy truce by any means -- they'd seldom disagreed, never raised their voices to each other in the four years they occupied the same home. Mike understood Gil's position in the structure of his family. Gil never tried to father Mike. He'd come in late in Mike's upbringing and while they'd spent a good deal of time together, he never questioned Carol's authority over Mike. Gil wasn't creative or handy as Mike was, but for all they didn't have talent in common Gil shared Mike's love of music. He was a gentle, intelligent soul who'd managed to make Carol feel beautiful and smart and capable in her forties. There were worse stepfathers he could have had, there'd never been any doubt in his mind. It had been a good bargain for Richard Stretto's abandoned bastard boy. Mike always knew it and never had to try hard to make himself feel it.

He rinsed his razor under the tap and ejected the disposable blade into an overflowing can next to the toilet. He should clean it out. Soon. He started to walk away from it then turned back and snatched up the can to carry to the kitchen. It was the subconscious specter of Jeremy Ryan. It only seems like little shit. If you take care of that, the big shit will take care of itself.

It wasn't precisely true, not in Mike's experience. It may well have been for Jeremy, though. Jeremy's mind and body appeared to be in such scrupulous synchrony Mike sometimes suspected Jeremy could eat for a week and burn the food so efficiently he'd never shit an ounce. His body would probably utilize every single calorie in service to the operation of the great brain.

Mike never envied his reluctant mentor the responsibility of that great brain. Jeremy was honestly and almost psychotically unhappy when he wasn't pleasing someone other than himself. That had driven him into the field of rock and roll -- those fans were some of the easiest to please, and the most effusive. If a rock fan liked your music she said she loved it because it didn't cost her any more than saying she liked it, and she knew that was more rewarding to you than merely saying she liked it. Once you'd heard it a few times it started to pay for itself.

He returned the empty trash can to the bathroom and turned off the light. Damned shame emptying the trash can didn't make Lisa take care of herself.

Actually, Mike considered, laughing silently at himself, he didn't know for sure the leggy young girl with the by-the-hour tan tangled in his sheets was named Lisa. A `Lisa' was any busty young girl you mysteriously awakened next to in the morning. Usually blonde. Occasionally brunette -- but usually not. At least not for Mike. Lisas were almost exclusively blonde.

"Lisa..."

"What?" her petulant, pillow-muffled voice responded.

"Time to get up. I've got some coffee on in the kitchen. You can get a shower if you want..."

She sat up in the bed and blinked at him, smiling a princess smile through her rosepetal pout; squinting through smudged black kohl that marked the borders of her eyes.

"Okay. Hey, you're cute..."

She was staring at his ass while he gathered his clothing and bent over to pull on his socks. He turned to face her and she continued to stare at the same general vicinity.

"Sorry -- probably more impressive from the other side..." he grinned, quickly turning back around.

"I wouldn't say that. Hey, are you sure you don't want to... you know."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Trust me, it ain't you, it's me."

She pouted, crossing her arms tightly across her flat stomach. Her breasts, pressed together by her posture, were just a degree below Playboy caliber. If he'd ever been tempted to accept a Lisa offer this Lisa was as good an excuse as any...

The big shit will take care of itself.

"I could give you head..." she offered solemnly. Mike felt a film of sweat crawl over his skin -- it sounded like a ritual religious offering.

"I didn't let you follow me home last night 'cause I wanted to get laid, sweetheart. You wanted to sleep with me. You slept with me."

She slithered out of the bed and reached for his fly as he settled his ass in a shamefully tight, beat-up old pair of Levi's. He blinked at her as she buttoned the button for him and zipped the fly slowly.

"I can see it ain't because you can't. Are you sure?"

He nodded regretfully in response and kissed her forehead.

"Get a shower, I'll take you out for some breakfast before you leave."

"Oh. I'm leaving, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so."

"Not good enough for you?" she asked, scowling over a slightly pouty grin. "Or not bad enough?"

"Neither," he insisted, clasping her bare shoulders firmly under the palms of his hands. As nice as any he'd clasped the same way recently... the greatest temptation he'd had in a while. "I just don't have the time for this stuff, do you understand? It's nice to have somebody stealing my sheets but I'm not ready to get involved with a woman right now in any way, including that way. Hell, you've probably got some office job up in Middletown or somewhere you'd have to get back to come Monday anyhow. Maybe even a bland but nice insurance salesman or garage mechanic boyfriend who'd instantly become an axe murderer if he found out I'd had sex with you, -- or maybe even if he found out I hadn't had sex with you because it would look like I didn't think you were good enough for me..."

Her grin tightened; Mike knew he'd hit home. There was a boyfriend. At least one. There usually was. That was another reason Lisa was synonymous with platonic.

"Think I'll just get that shower."

He pulled on a black Roland sweat shirt and a pair of white leather boots that were a sort of Western style. The wooden block heels had the de rigueur Cuban taper; the shaft was inlaid with leather embossed to look like lizard skin. It wasn't. It didn't need to be if it looked that way, like a lot of other things. His life was the sheer, stripped-down-to-the-finish definition of 'close enough for jazz' -- or rock and roll, which was the most literal truth.

Mike thought about shoes while he poured his first cup of coffee and stirred in a rare heap of table sugar. Shoes and musicians. Some of them couldn't leave the house in anything short of boots like his or even something yet fancier. Some refused to wear anything but high-top athletic shoes of one kind or another. The lead guitar player in Jeremy's band wore no shoes at all, on stage. Some did that, though not many. All it told Mike was, Jason was as strange as Jeremy. That was no surprise.

"We all gotta be a little deranged," he said out loud to the louvered pantry door. "Or else we wouldn't be doing what we're doing for a living."

Three o'clock in the afternoon on a gig day always made Mike sure he understood why drug abuse riddled the music industry. He sat in his car in a traffic tie-up on Interstate 75, just past the Middletown exit northbound. It was too cold outside to roll down his windows. He smoked, sulked, wished he had a few shots of Glenlivet to relieve the boredom. Maybe a big, steaming cup of coffee laced with Kahlua... or even a barely cold bottle of Miller draft. A diet Coke with a shot of Jim Beam... even just a diet Coke at this point.

He picked some lint off a Wint `O' green LifeSaver that rested, still partially wrapped, in the pocket of his fringed white leather jacket. His fingerless driving gloves, also white, made a squeaky, crackling noise against the leather wrapping on the steering wheel as he pulled himself toward the windshield and sucked hard on the candy. He'd once read a rich man had said the true joy of having a practically limitless financial reserve had been the opportunity it afforded him to surround himself with beautiful things. Though for Mike money was only an object, he tried to the limit of his worth to do just that. It seemed stupid not to combine beauty and function if the price wasn't too high. Whenever possible he did precisely that.

Not unlike the Stingray, growling impatiently, inert on the seemingly endless gray ribbon of concrete. Actually there were more practical ways he could have had a beautiful car -- or more practical beautiful cars he could have, right now -- but he liked it and it was, without doubt, dependable and attractive. In Mike's mind the interstate wound out behind him, through Lexington and Knoxville; blasted flat through the heart of Atlanta; speared the Gulf of Mexico at one end; Canada at the other.

He opened his eyes but the rusted, once-blue Buick Regal ahead still spewed a thin stream of water and a bluish haze from its tailpipe. Burning his rings, Mike thought absently. But the car was about twelve years old. Considering the engine was built in the late seventies, that it was still running testified its owner -- or series of owners, more likely -- had made at least a cursory effort to care for it. Easy enough to blow out even a V-8 these days, no more engineering than seemed to go into making them durable. General Motors still slipped a good car through the factory doors once in a while, even now.

Still, it was shameful the low-quality garbage people drove. To buy a car properly engineered with a safe weight of sheet metal around you, you had to pay about as much as most of the people Mike knew could afford to pay for a house. Even at that, you weren't guaranteed the car would be dependable. People with hot cars tended to gravitate toward each other. He'd heard horror stories from Jaguar owners about models bought within the past five years; more often than not they were in the shop more than they were on the road. For the money you could buy five Dodge Omnis, and the odds were pretty good at least one of the five would be on the road on any given day. Of course it wouldn't feel as good as the Jag when you were driving the Omni, but function was important to Mike... marginally more important than beauty, if only a hair more important. Too important to own a car that didn't run and cost ten times what it should to fix. That was worse than plain ignorant, or willfully ignorant. It was conspicuous and greedy. Greed, of course, was a prime mover in the world -- not necessarily his, but there was no point being unrealistic about the rest of the world -- but for it to be that conspicuous was a little grotesque.

Mike let out the clutch and eased the Stingray forward six feet, shifted back to neutral and reached for his cigarettes again.

It was a quarter after four when he finally reached Dayton. Six hours until show time. If all went well they'd get paid tonight. That was something to be cherished. While T-Bird's was a decent place to play -- good ventilation, good view, plenty of tables, medium-sized stage -- not every place he played in the area was. Sometimes getting paid was virtually the only reward. It wasn't pleasant feeling that way. Mike hated it, in fact but to support himself he simply had to push through to a better venue and a better frame of mind when a booking turned into a nightmare. It would have angered or disappointed his mentor to hear Mike say it, of course. Jeremy never let himself not enjoy music -- playing, writing, listening. He could only be mercenary about product -- once the song was on the Mylar he could talk about its placement, release date, cutting singles from an album, sales figures and chart status. Before music made that magical transformation to product, for Jeremy it was and would always be pure, unadulterated magic. Mike envied him that often. For Jeremy, playing live, no matter the crowd or the venue, was never completely unrewarding. It was one thing Mike wanted to learn from him and one thing both of them knew couldn't be taught. Music was Mike Stretto's living; it was Jeremy's life.

When Mike had told his teacher he was frustrated and wanted to quit his lessons Jeremy had accepted the explanation Mike had merely `hit the wall' and didn't see himself going any farther. It was true, but in the philosophical sense -- not the technical.

Of course, as an electric lead guitarist, Mike's technical skills had exceeded Jeremy's from the start. Jeremy had been teaching him theory, not technique. Some of the man's personal philosophy was bound to leak through his teaching methods. What of it Mike had been capable of absorbing, he had absorbed. The rest of it -- the part he couldn't assimilate, the part that ate at him even now -- had ultimately prevented him continuing the lessons.

He turned off the car in the parking lot of Abe's Music, locked the door on his way out of the seat and pocketed his keys. He needed a new set of strings and a couple dozen picks. The store was close to T-Bird's -- he could stop at the club while the cleaning crew was in, put the strings on the guitar and allow them to stretch out while he went to dinner.

Most musicians were emotionally attached to their guitars. Mike wasn't particularly -- in fact, he left his main guitar other places more frequently than he took it home. His main guitar was a black Ibanez he'd customized almost past the point of brand identification. The pickups were Bartolini, the bridge was Floyd Rose, the neck was from a luthier in Illinois. In fact, only the body and control knobs were the original Ibanez. At that, the guitar had been repainted at the time the neck was replaced; technically, only the shape of the body of the guitar reflected its original maker.

He also had a Carvin six-string with no tremolo and a Hamer `Robin Zander' style twelve with a split nut. The Hamer wasn't playable yet -- he'd only had it a few months, hadn't had time to schedule the repair. The Carvin stayed at the apartment -- he went through phases of loving and hating it, usually loving it in the studio and hating it onstage. It sang beautifully but was moody. The Ibanez had no moods. Mike never felt there was any benefit using a beautiful-singing guitar onstage, playing live through a cheap house system to two hundred (or fewer) drunk office workers on a weekend night anyway. He might have thought the moods were in him and not in the inanimate animal that was the guitar, but he hadn't.

Jeremy had advised him once he progressed beyond technique, there would come a time he'd pick up a guitar and find his hands glued around its neck. Mike doubted it but in most ways, he hoped Jeremy was right. It would be nice to feel that way about a piece of equipment on which he spent as much time and effort as he did a guitar; nice to feel that way about the tool that put food in his mouth, if nothing else.

He returned to the car with the strings and a small sandwich bag loaded with plastic tortoiseshell-colored picks. It was kind of sad, he thought -- as he rolled the Stingray to the edge of the parking lot and squinted to the right and left, waiting through traffic to pull out and head for the club -- that he'd never been so attached to an instrument. Most musicians were; most of them had at least a minor soft spot for the instrument they played most often or had a holy grail they were waiting for. For some it was the first guitar they'd ever played. For some it was one so rare or so expensive they'd never be able to afford to play it. The Hamer would be nice when he got the nut fixed, but the thought sparked no electricity, static or otherwise, inside.

The feeling came that always came when he thought about the ways he compared unfavorably to other musicians -- mostly his former teacher, since he'd spent more time discussing such topics with him than he had with anyone else since high school. Mike felt like an impostor. He was a good player, nobody would have argued it. He was probably even good enough to make it, in at least a relatively big way. But if he didn't want it like it meant something to him, how rewarding could it possibly be? If it wasn't the reason he was doing what he was doing, why did he keep doing it?

Not to say he didn't enjoy playing music. He wasn't even one of those people who enjoyed saying he was a musician more than he enjoyed being one -- he took a definite pleasure in excellence; managed to resist equating it with perfection.

Sometimes it just all seemed empty. Bad enough he didn't seem to want the dream that much; there wasn't another one he wanted any more than he wanted this one. He was frightened by his apparent lack of depth. Mike knew he was capable of understanding almost anything that came his way. Though he wasn't a genius in general, like Jeremy, he thought he was more than intelligent enough to have managed making music a career without ever leaving Cincinnati. In some ways he was smarter than average. But for the most part, knowing all those things just made him feel flat inside. There wasn't any smugness, no fear or anticipation. Only the dry satisfaction of knowing there was another show tonight at a decent venue that would most likely pay off exactly as he had been told it would.

"Mick, it's highly overrated..." he said aloud to himself as he snatched up the paper music store bag, locked the car again and headed into T-Bird's.

T-Bird's had arranged an opening band for Martinize -- a three-piece consisting of the usual drummer, bass player and singing guitarist. The music they performed was similar to that Martinize played, if not the same, and they weren't anything Mike would have spared a quarter to call home about but they were proficient enough, well known in Dayton... they warmed up a crowd well. They didn't do covers, but their originals were so predictably close to other three-pieces in style and sound -- Rush and Triumph, most notably -- they reeked of those bands. They were good-natured guys who rolled with the punches better than Mike himself did, he never complained when they opened for him as they did most times he played with an opener in Dayton.

John Clary -- the singer-guitarist for SofaKings, the opener -- met Mike at the door when he returned from dinner. They had opened for Martinize the previous night; had already soundchecked for tonight, leaving the stage open.

"Where's the rest of the guys?" Clary asked, peeling part of the silvered label off a bottle of Budweiser Light. Mike couldn't stand Budweiser but it was all T-Bird's ever gave the bands free. Consequently, Mike either ran a tab or paid cash out of his pocket to drink something he could stand.

"It's still early, I guess they're on their way up. I had some work to do on my guitar. How's it going?"

Clary trailed Mike to the stage where Mike picked up the Ibanez, plugged it into the tuner again and sat down on top of his Carvin half-stack. He tapped out a cigarette and offered it to Clary, lit one for himself and held it in his mouth while he checked the tuning.

"Not too bad, I guess. Hey, I didn't know 'til last night you actually redid that 'Vette of yours yourself. That what you did before you started playing all the time?"

Mike nodded and picked the cigarette from his mouth briefly.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact it is. Can't tell you how many times I've been glad of it too, following Jerry in the van back from Dayton or Columbus. He doesn't know what routine maintenance is, half the time I end up doing an oil change or a flush and fill on the shoulder of the interstate halfway home from somewhere. I don't know what he thinks -- maybe he's convinced it'll just go on forever as long as he keeps putting gas in it."

Clary bunched thick brows together and laughed as if embarrassed.

"Most people think that way. If they don't have a repair and service schedule when they buy the car, anyway. Hell, I'm that way pretty much myself. I even resent having to put gas in my car sometimes. It's just supposed to run."

"It's a good thing you don't feel that way about everything. You wouldn't have a guitar in about six months at that rate. I guess I always had a talent for that kind of thinking. Not that it's any great achievement..."

"I don't know about that -- like I said, most people don't seem to realize it's true. Maybe it is something of an achievement."

"Common sense ain't an achievement. You probably grew up in Dayton, you know, in the city. I grew up down in Clermont County. Most of the girls I grew up with knew how to put a quart of oil in their cars. Hell, most of my girlfriends knew just like I did what was wrong with a car, if something was wrong with it. Big difference between the women and the men down there was, most of the time the men went ahead and fixed it, most of the women found somebody who could. Usually a guy like me."

Clary grinned and slugged on his beer.

"You make it sound like some hill community down in Tennessee."

Mike laughed and reviewed what he had said. Clary was right.

"I didn't mean it to sound that way. The girls I grew up with weren't dumb by a long shot. Most of them were a hell of a lot smarter than me. The reason they knew what was wrong with their cars like I did was they wanted to be more independent. They didn't always want some guy telling them what to do with their cars or their hair or their money. By god, when I was working at the garage in Batavia there were very few high-school girls who brought their cars in there who didn't have a pretty good idea what was wrong with them. Maybe it has to do with the fact if you know what's wrong with your car, you won't get screwed by the garage. Not very many stupid girls in my neighborhood, put it that way. Or ugly ones either, now I think of it. Knowing about their cars didn't mean they were butch or anything. It only meant they were as smart as me about their cars and smarter than me about everything else."

He plucked harmonics on the guitar's six strings one last time then set it back in its stand, satisfied. He'd have to tune it again before he played but it wouldn't have to be tuned after every song like it would if he hadn't come back early and restrung it. No harm done saving the time later, saving himself hassle during the show.

He'd left the shirt he planned to wear for the night on a hanger in the back seat of the 'Vette. Might as well get it now he thought, crushing out the cigarette in the nearest ashtray on a table near the front of the stage. After that he could put a little buzz on and keep it going until SofaKings started. If he stopped then, he'd be sober enough -- almost completely -- before time to play.

He pulled his jacket back on and rustled in the pocket for his keys as he trotted back out to the parking lot. Another thing he hated to admit was how much he enjoyed dressing the part of a rocker. It embarrassed him a bit -- had, at least, until a fellow guitarist had advised him he worked in a store in the mall near Mike's apartment. Now, it wasn't half as embarrassing and he could get an informed critique without feeling vain.

Most of the guitarists in Cincinnati and around were wearing washed silk shirts, this year. It suited Mike -- you could throw it in the sink with a little bit of shampoo and hang it to dry in the bathroom while you showered, iron it fast and put it on. But it still looked expensive and flashy when you performed in it. The shirt he lifted out of the back seat was white with red stripes about an inch wide. It was cut, like most of them he had, almost like a smock. Thank God, Mike thought, I'm not any taller. I'd look more like an ogre than a slave to fashion...

He looked up at the street as he locked the car and started back for the door, halted and waited for a dark green certified vintage Ford Mustang to roll to a stop beside his Corvette. It was Jeremy -- and Mark, Second Nature's drummer and Jeremy's true companion. Jeremy had recently married but his wife was pregnant and usually refused to go out on the weekends. Jeremy had confided being pregnant and going to see bands play made her feel old, he wasn't about to force her into it.

A third man pulled himself out of the back seat of the Mustang, but it wasn't either of the other two members of Second Nature. Mike studied him for a moment, recognized him and blinked in surprise. The distinguishing characteristic, and it vaguely embarrassed him he'd missed it, was the fall of fine, blue-black hair that even though caught in a wrapped elastic band brushed the middle of the man's back.

Michael Barton was the lead singer for a Canadian band doing music much like the music Mike himself wrote, though less guitar-oriented; charting frequently in both Canada and the United States. Barton's career was strong; sometimes seemed to have been strong from the time Ice Trust first started releasing albums ten years before. In some ways Mike had idolized him for a time, early on -- though less idolized and more respected, as his own success slowly but surely came through.

"My God -- you know these living examples of misspent youth?" he laughed, stepping around the Mustang to offer Barton his hand. Barton laughed too and shook his head.

"I confess I don't always admit it. So, you're Mike Stretto."

"The last thing I would have expected is that you, of all people, would recognize me..." Mike admitted. "I am. And you're Michael Barton. I can't possibly tell you what it means to have an opportunity to meet you."

Barton's clear, sea-blue eyes fastened on his intently and he nodded.

"Jeremy has... made me aware of the fact I should consider meeting you an opportunity, as well."

"So, Attitude Problem -- how is this place to play, anyhow?" Jeremy asked, cavalier and smug, slipping an arm over Mike's shoulders as they continued toward the door.

"Okay. They have a full house monitor setup, it's not too bad. The stage is great, it's huge for a place this size. Ventilation's better than most of the places down in Cinci."

"He's been at this long enough to know what to consider, huh?" Mark laughed. "The stage, the in-house equipment and the ventilation. What about the dressing rooms?"

"Dressing rooms?" Mike sighed, rolling his eyes. "We take turns changing in a broom closet right offstage. Of course it's a big broom closet, it even has a forty-watt bulb and a full-length mirror on the door."

"If they don't put you in with the empty beer bottles it's an improvement over Brad's..." Jeremy reminded.

"Hell, Ryan -- I never played any of those Clifton shitholes and you know it. The college kids wouldn't let me get through a set at Brad's, I'm too mainstream for that. I'd think you are too, with the record you put out."

"You're right, I guess we're a little too pop for that now. Except Bogart's, of course."

"You never really got to play there as a headliner, did you?"

"Yeah, we did. We played it five times as Aces High," Mark answered, pulling the door open and waiting for them to pass through. "Not as Second Nature, though. It'd probably make Jason more nervous than the stadium in Toronto did. It's got a reputation in his head."

"It's got one in mine too, don't make fun," Mike said. "I grew up in Cinci too. Some of the best shows I ever saw were there. I've done a headliner there but it was a radio station showcase gig -- I've never got Martinize in there myself, you know, just for the sake of playing there."

"You've got plenty of time. Looks like a good place, Mike, you're right," Jeremy said, studying the interior of the club as they walked toward the stage. "What have they got on tap?"

"Probably Budweiser Light, Miller Draft."

"Oh-oh. Looks like you'll have to drink Moosehead tonight, Michael."

Barton cringed.

"Any possibility they've got Moerlein?" Mark asked.

"It's possible -- it's probably not draft, though."

"I don't care -- it's better than Moosehead, and I think Michael would probably like it. I need to start a tab on my AmEx for the night, anyway," Mark laughed.

"What are you guys doing in town?" Mike asked as they settled at one of the tables near the stage. "Thought you were doing The Scotsman's tour of Canada."

Jeremy slipped his cigarettes from the pocket of a black tuxedo shirt. It was piped in silver and had silver buttons. Mike was impressed -- usually when he saw Jeremy dressed other than for the stage he wore a jersey T-shirt or the same royal blue cotton sweater.

"We're between its legs, so to speak. Taking a break, then we're back out again for a couple months. We're going to Europe for six weeks with Michael some time after that, if he doesn't find anybody else he wants to take over there more. He's here for the weekend with his manager, Darren and Roddy are getting all the kinks worked out of the contract. We've got a ten-day break before we start playing the rest of the stuff in the states, that'll last about eight weeks. Second week of May we do our first gigs outside the Americas. We never even did that as Aces High except that one Christmas show we did at that airbase in Frankfurt."

"That's great, Ryan. You and Mark look pretty spiffy tonight. Since when did you start dressing like that to see bands in town? Last time I saw you, you had on an NKU sweat shirt with axle grease on the collar..."

Jeremy laughed and lit a cigarette, set it in the ashtray with the filter tilted toward what Mike presumed would be Mark's chair, lit another and held it.

"Since I married Lia. She does all the clothes for our road stuff. Now she's pregnant and hates to leave the house, she's starting to show, she stays at home and makes us clothes. Came back from Canada and she said she'd given everything but my Levi's to Goodwill. I wear what she puts in my closet. It's not so bad, I guess -- I shouldn't let people see me wearing the garbage I buy for myself anyway. She's about as good as it gets, I can't complain."

"I'll bet not."

Mark returned to the table toting a pitcher of beer and four glasses. Without remark he picked up the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, set glasses before everybody at the table and began filling them from the pitcher.

"Bullshit, Ryan -- you complain incessantly and you know it," Mark accused.

"The only thing I complain about is those midnight trips to Aberdeen so she can get a Philly from Rax."

"There's still a Rax in Dayton, that might actually be closer," Mike advised. "Just ate there before I came here."

"I'll check on the way out, I told her I'd do that. How's your love life? Still takin' chicks home to sleep in your bed, or did you finally buy an electric blanket?"

Mike grinned but it was embarrassing. Jeremy and Mark didn't draw any boundaries as to what constituted polite conversation. If it didn't hurt too much it wasn't impolite in their book.

"Yeah, and what the hell's wrong with it? I don't have a girlfriend or a wife, I'm not having sex with them, what's wrong with it?"

"A dog would be cheaper," Mark advised.

"But good-looking blondes don't shit on your pillow. Not the ones I take home, anyhow."

He smirked at Jeremy, and Jeremy relented.

"Okay, sorry. I shouldn't tease you about it. I guess I'm just jealous. It would have been a nice thing to have, for me, before Lia came back -- but girls never propositioned me."

"You don't seem very approachable, admit it."

"You got me there -- I'm sure I don't. Hey, she's got a fine pair of stilts on her..."

Mike turned to look back over his shoulder, toward the door. His eyes fogged as he caught sight of the woman Jeremy had appraised -- it was the girl he'd stood up the previous night, he knew. Laura made it after all and in spite of his expectations she wouldn't.

"I stood her up last night, forgot we had a date. I'll be right back..."

He nearly tipped his chair getting up from the table, righted it and forced himself to breathe evenly on his way back to the doors.

"Hey, I didn't figure I was worth the drive up here from Loveland! God, thanks for coming up..."

He offered her a hand, and she leaned toward him and kissed his cheek.

"You're sweet -- now I remember why I thought I should drive up here to see you. Oh, my God -- is that Michael Barton?"

"Yeah, it is. Come on, I'll introduce you. That's Jeremy Ryan and Mark Bridges, too."

"Shit, Mike -- you keep high company."

"I took guitar lessons from Jeremy a couple years back. You're not gonna dump me for Barton, now, are you?"

She stopped, touched his cheek and kissed him again, this time on the lips. It was a familiarity Mike never encouraged, seldom permitted -- but she seemed so sure she wanted to do it he couldn't have stopped her and wasn't particularly sorry he hadn't when it was done.

"Mike. I came up here to see you, I won't do that to you until after I've heard you play. After that, I can't promise anything..."

She ruffled her short, red hair over her eyes and winked at him, a large, round sky-colored eye. Mike wanted to sink his fingers into her wrist and drag her out, to the Corvette and away to God-knew-where, at that moment. Instead he grinned and nodded toward the bar.

"Let's get another pitcher of beer. It's at least another hour before the opening band starts. Is Christian Moerlein all right?"

"Better than I get most of the time -- you're quite a gentleman."

All three sets of eyes fixed on Laura as they returned to the table, another pitcher in Mike's hand. Laura folded her coat in her lap as she sat in the chair across from Jeremy. Mike reached for another chair and held it in his hand, frowning.

"Gee, I don't know whether I oughtta put myself between you and Barton or you and Mark. I know Mark's reputation, but..."

"Don't worry about Mark. He has a girlfriend..." Mark advised.

"Fine. Laura Gentry -- Mark Bridges, Jeremy Ryan and Michael Barton. Would you like me to toss your coat into the dressing room? They don't really have any kind of coat room..."

"Sure."

"I mean, that is, if you're planning to stay for the night. If you're not, I'll take it out to your car..."

"Put it in the dressing room," she grinned, handing it up to him. He nodded and grinned back at her, then jogged toward the stage.

"If you'd told me at seven o'clock last night I'd be sitting at a table full of the best musicians on the market right now, I would have thrown a beer on you," she confessed, pouring a glass for herself and pulling a pack of menthol long cigarettes from her pocket.

"Jesus Christ -- I thought the percentage of smokers was going down, not up..." Barton insisted. "Might as well go ahead and put mine out there, too."

He tossed down a black and gold box of Canadian John Player Special cigarettes along with Laura's menthols, Jeremy's and Mark's shared pack of Marlboro Mediums and Mike's Camel filters.

"We've got enough nicotine on the top of this table right now to kill the fifth fleet. Nice to meet you, Laura. How well do you know Mike?" Jeremy asked.

"Not very -- this is the first time I've actually seen him. He's embarrassed -- he can't remember the date we didn't actually have for last night. We have a mutual friend, he's a musician too, he works at the Webster clothing store out at Eastgate mall. I'm a regional salesman for a record distributor, I've known Matt a while. Matt thought Mike and I would get along, but Mike didn't open up to women easy. He said the best way would be to make him think he'd broken a date with me, then he'd feel guilty and be a lot more receptive. Seems to have worked..."

Mark grinned and turned to Jeremy.

"Wish I'd thought of that one -- would have been a lot fewer cold nights for you before Alicia came back."

"You're not that devious. You never had to figure out how to get women, you were never good at figuring out how to get women for me. Not that it matters now. Well, I guess you've seen our faces a few times, if you distribute records around here..."

"Yeah, I have. I do independent releases, mostly and imports, so Second Nature is purely by market exposure. I've seen a lot of you, Michael, and a lot of Mike's disc too. No offense, right now he's outselling all you guys around here..."

"None taken -- we've been in Canada touring. We're going to play a few vanity gigs around here to stay in practice, we're on a break right now. Figure that'll help a little. You going to tell Mike what you did to him?"

She sipped at her glass of beer and blinked at Jeremy curiously.

"I hadn't really thought about it. Should I?"

"Probably. And probably fairly soon -- Mark can't keep a secret worth a piss, he'll probably pop out with it after he's had about three beers and embarrass the hell out of both of you."

"I'll be right back."

She stood up, tugged at the hem of her brief black skirt and started for the stage. Both Barton's and Mark's heads bobbed with the rhythm of her steps as she approached the stage. Jeremy shook his head.

"You're lost boys, both of you."

"We can look. Especially me," Barton defended. "I'm not promised. Or even recommended, for that matter..."

Laura stepped into the coat room and closed the door.

"There's something I have to tell you," she said, leaning her shoulders against the door. Mike turned to face her, his show shirt draped over his shoulders and not yet buttoned. His Levi's weren't zipped or buttoned, either.

"Sorry, I was getting this out of the way now. Tell away."

"You didn't actually have a date with me last night. We only talked on the phone. Matt at Eastgate Mall gave you my number last week. You called me like he said you would, but we only talked on the phone and said we'd hold last night open. We never actually planned anything. I was feeling guilty about it, I thought I'd better tell you."

He grinned and nodded, tucking the shirt into the waistband of the jeans. If she was brash enough to walk into a musicians' dressing room, she could pay the price of seeing his BVD's.

"I remember now. I did talk to Matt about you Thursday, at the store."

"He told me I should trick you. He said you weren't very good at letting women get close to you."

It struck a raw nerve when someone made that sort of judgment on his social behavior, but Matt was right. Mike turned away from her embarrassed.

"He's got a point. I'm glad you did, a little. I don't think I would have wanted to make it as difficult for you as it could have been."

"You don't know me very well. I'm a salesman, I can be pretty persistent."

"I'm paranoid about women, I can be pretty seamless," he confessed, slipping a white leather belt through the loops on his jeans.

"Looks like I found a crack in the armor."

"Maybe. I think I hope so."

He stared at her for a moment, reached for her hand.

"I'll say it again -- thanks for coming up tonight. I really didn't expect you to."

Her hand closed over his; molded to it like their fingerprints were matched.

"It wasn't that big a deal -- I drive up here three times a week anyway for the record distributor I work for. I handle all the regional record stores, I even handle your record. It's kind of strange standing here with you now. I..."

They stared at each other, his left shoulder pressed against her left, oh hell perfume and hairspray and faint scent of cigarette smoke and wind from the drive up in the car. Mike felt something yawn wide open inside that hadn't been this eager to swallow a woman in at least two years. It scared the hell out of him; refused to be stuffed back in the trunk. He leaned toward her, forgot where and why and how soon before a show already dressed for it... halted with his mouth half an inch from hers.

"Please open the door. I'm going to rape you, if you don't," he pleaded.

"It wouldn't be rape..." she admitted, her grin only slightly ironic and much, much too close to his face.

"Okay, but it would be embarrassing and inconvenient right now for both of us. Please open the door."

She blinked at him curiously for a moment, dropped his hand and reached back for the door knob.

"I always thought my friends were exaggerating when they talked about something like this happening to them... you know what I mean. When you get three feet from somebody and already feel..."

"For God's sake, Laura..." he pleaded, voice cracking like a kid's, god what an idiot, kneading the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Please..."

She laughed gently and opened the door.

Laura sat down first and eyed Jeremy in silence for a few moments.

"Well, did I steer you wrong?" he asked.

"No, as a matter of fact you didn't. You were right."

"What was Ryan steering you about?" Mike asked, reaching for his cigarettes.

"Whether or not I should tell you what I just told you. I didn't go into great detail or anything, but I told Jeremy what Matt did. He said I should tell you about it as soon as was reasonably possible."

"I didn't think you'd be upset. Not the way she thought you would, anyhow. I thought I knew that much about you," Jeremy ventured.

"I don't doubt you do. You seem to know a whole lot about everybody they don't tell you, Ryan. It's one of the most frightening things about you," Mike said, winking at him.

"I'm a scary son of a bitch, I know. Scared you right out of your guitar lessons didn't I? Not that you seem to need them anymore, from what I saw last time I saw you..."

"I guess I do okay. Lessons made it about ten times faster to write a song and get it across to everybody. I always credited what you taught me with making the difference between playing on the weekends and playing full time."

Jeremy's face reflected surprise, disconcertion.

"Well, I'm glad I was able to do that for somebody. Crossing that line made more of a difference in my life than anything else that's ever happened to me, probably. How about you, how do you like being able to afford to play for your living?"

"Haven't been doing it that long, to tell you the truth, Ryan. I haven't settled down with it yet but it feels pretty good, so far. I think I'm writing better songs now, I'll ask you to make a judgment call later tonight, after you've heard a few of them. By the way, we're not doing any covers any more. I still do an acoustic version of Mississippi Queen once in a while, just for the hell of it, but for the most part we don't. Thanks to you, we don't have to..."

"Where are the rest of the dry-cleaning crew, anyhow?" Mark asked.

"Not here yet. We left the equipment set up last night, all they have to do is walk in and tune up; pick up their shit and start playing at ten o'clock."

"Ever consider getting a real name for the band?" Jeremy asked.

"How many times have you asked me that question?"

Jeremy grinned and spouted an answer that could, for all Mike knew, have been exact. He knew Jeremy's memory was eidetic, maybe he remembered.

"Three hundred and forty two. Answer me."

"You really don't like that name?"

"I really don't. Mike, I wouldn't have said it as many times as I have if I didn't think it was important. I think you should go back to your given name and get a real name for the band that isn't reactionary. You know what I mean, without me getting any more specific."

"I don't know what you mean," Laura said.

"He means I should go back to using Mike Stretto. I figured that's probably what Matt told you my name was, but I don't know. Did he?"

"No, he didn't. He said your name was Mike Martin. Why did you stop using Stretto?"

"Because my father never married my mother, I never met him, Stretto is his name. That's what Ryan means by `reactionary' -- I started using Martin because it bothered me to use Stretto when I was younger. I don't care that much now but we don't have another name. Unless you want me to go over to using 'Attitude Problem' -- that's what you always call me."

"Actually..." Mark, Barton and Laura said, at once.

"You guys like that?" Mike insisted.

"Well, for what it's worth -- I do," Laura admitted.

"I've been thinking about it for the last six months but I didn't want to admit you were right, Ryan..." Mike confessed. "The other guys in the band like it better too. Old habits die hard, that's all I can say."

He studied Laura's face; the jawbone dropping sharply away to her long, fine neck. It was Matt who'd described her to him; he'd thought it would be rude to ask her to describe herself so he'd taken Matt to lunch in the mall Thursday, grilled him about her appearance. Matt's expression had gone kind of soft; he'd rambled for five minutes without halt, not even touching his food. Everything he'd said matched, yet even at that Mike thought he'd understated Laura in almost crude fashion. She was as good as Clermont County ever produced.

When it came right down to it he'd never wanted anything other than that. He'd never wanted a city girl, or one from another part of the area, let alone another part of the country or another part of the world. Mike wanted a woman who'd gone through the same school system, grown up in a relatively small town in the same basic neighborhood as his.

"If I had to lay a bet it'd be you're from Bethel," he said. Laura started and blinked at him in surprise, grinning.

"As a matter of fact, yeah! How'd you figure that out?"

"I graduated from Williamsburg. Probably three or four years before you, maybe more than that. It's a wonder we didn't run into each other. Well, maybe not -- I went to St. Bernadette in junior high."

"A Catholic boy -- oh-oh."

"Not anymore. I went to Grant my last two years, took auto shop. We probably have some of the same acquaintances. But you probably want to forget you came from Bethel."

"Um -- not really, not these days. I felt that way at first but not so much now. And I bet I'm not that much younger than you, either."

"Don't tell me unless you want to -- I don't really care."

"You don't?" she insisted, one brow high over one eye.

"Why should I care? I don't care if you're a few years older than me if you look that good and don't mind coming to see me play in a bar somewhere..."

"Are you all like that?" she asked. It seemed a sincere enough question.

"You'll find out a lot of musicians who've been around as long as us are. My wife's three years older than me..." Jeremy said.

"And I don't have any idea how old Marta is," Mark added. "I don't really care that much, I haven't given her the hard interrogation about it. I suppose she'd tell me if she thought it really mattered. On her way out the door, if she thought it really mattered to me how old she was, so I don't care."

"Believe it or not it matters even less where I come from," Barton said. "A lot of the women I've cared the most about have been older than me."

"Like your mom?" Mark suggested.

"Yeah, right, Bridges -- my mom," Barton laughed, shaking his head.

"And I just put my foot in it big time," Mike realized aloud, a little sick at himself. "I just said something offensive. Tell her what it was, Ryan."

"Oh, 'if you look that good' -- way to go, Attitude Problem."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"We never do. We're all assholes, just in case you didn't know."

"Most men are -- I'm not bigoted about it. There's good ones and bad ones. Most people are, as a matter of fact -- just depends on the company you keep, I guess. By most standards, what you said to me wouldn't have been considered offensive. Most of the men I've gone out with wouldn't have thought that was offensive -- they'd have thought it was a compliment."

"I'm sorry. I thought it was offensive. Most important, though, Laura... did you find it offensive?"

Maybe for the first time in his adult life, Mike actually cared what the answer to the question was.

"I guess I did a little, but not nearly as much as I found it impressive that you recognized it could be."

"Surprise -- I am a little more sensitive than that."

"It's a pleasant enough surprise, don't feel too bad," she laughed gently. It felt like she'd touched his shoulder, Mike glanced down just to make sure she hadn't. She hadn't. He was nuts.

"Got the conjugal Ovation up there, A.P.?" Jeremy asked, pushing back his chair. "We've been home three days, I haven't had a guitar in my hand since we came back from Alberta. I've been sitting in Roddy's office for three days..."

"Sure, it's behind my amp up there. You'll have to tune it."

"Okay."

"As a matter of fact, think I'll go up and get Jerry's other one -- I need to warm up my voice anyhow. I started the show cold last night, ended up with a headache like you wouldn't believe. If I start out breathing wrong it throws me off the whole night..."

Both Mike and Jeremy returned with the acoustics and sat tuning them at the table. Mike waited for Jeremy to tune the first string on the Ovation then tuned to that on the beat-up Yamaha. Jeremy's ear was as near perfect pitch as anyone's he knew, though Jeremy claimed it was about half a tone flat. If both guitars were tuned to it, it wouldn't matter.

"You guys doing some acoustic stuff now?"

"Yeah. There's a couple of songs where one of us plays acoustic and the other one plays electric. Then there's one ballad we both play on acoustic, Joel and Eddie sit out all together. It's a little frightening but it seems to work. We haven't played it out much."

"Give me the changes, I want to hear it."

Mike recited the chord changes for Jeremy; Jeremy played through them once, nodded to Mike to start the song.

"I'll follow you on the breaks, go for it."

The song wasn't about anything, really -- didn't meet the strict definitions of a ballad -- but that was what people called anything with a verse-verse-chorus structure played on acoustic, anymore. Honestly Mike was proud of the song. He'd written it by himself mostly, though Jerry had added a couple of changes and suggested he lengthen the chorus. He'd written all the lyrics himself, the song was mostly his.

Jeremy added a harmony vocal on the second chorus, once he knew it. Mike wanted to watch Laura while he played the song but he didn't know it well or feel confident enough with it yet to look away from his hands or Jeremy's while he played it. He sang the words and when the long break came he played the solo he'd been working out. They'd played the song live but he'd always nodded to Jerry to play the solo since Jerry was better at making them up on the spot; he'd never composed one for it himself. He liked the one he played this time better than the ones Jerry usually played, he realized; decided if they played the song tonight he'd do the solo himself. When they finished he waited for Jeremy's appraisal.

"Your songs are always a lot of fun to play, Mike," Jeremy said. "I like that one a lot. My stuff's never much fun for anybody but me to play."

"I don't know -- I kind of had fun comping Wisdom."

"But it's not fun for you, is it, now you know it?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's more fun for me 'cause I know you, Ryan."

"Maybe. I don't hear too much about bands covering our stuff, other than Surfacing, and the covers I've heard of it don't do much for me. Barton here is the king of the covered version. People are always ripping his stuff off."

"Yeah, but they pay me for it most of the time, I don't mind it."

"Nice to be so well-heard everybody knows when you're being ripped off. Wish I knew how often it happened to us and we didn't even know it," Mark muttered.

"Think you'd make a tidy retirement pension off it, Bridges?" Mike asked.

"He's dreaming," Jeremy answered. "Our shit's too weird. Who's gonna rip off that stuff?"

"Maybe you've got a point," Mark admitted; it didn't seem to worry him unduly. "As long as it sells well enough to put food on the table..."

Mike turned to face the door as Jerry, his rhythm guitarist and sometimes fellow songwriter slammed in, black leather jacket already half off his shoulders. His face was flushed from the cold; frizzy blonde hair haloed his fistlike face. He glared at Mike from across the room. All the alarms went off at once. Jerry was the dictionary definition of laid-back.

"That dumb son of a bitch," Jerry growled. The composure for which Eddie had nicknamed him 'Ice' was absolutely wrecked. Mike felt a little sick -- that meant major disaster.

"What is it, man? What the hell happened?"

"Eddie. That stupid sod finally flipped his bike."

"Jesus Christ -- is he okay?" Mike insisted, dropping back into his chair while Jerry gritted his teeth and slapped his jacket against his thigh angrily.

"I think he will be. Joel's sitting it out with him, he ripped a big hunk out of the muscle in his calf. Says he'll be okay by next weekend but forget both of them for the night."

"Don't tell me -- Joel was with him. Shit. Little Brother okay?"

"Right behind him, he was on Eddie's other bike. He's okay, he didn't go down. But there's no way I'd put him on a stage tonight, he's too shook. Wonder if we're too late to cancel this... Oh, hey Ryan. Hey Mark."

"Don't mind us, Jerry."

"I don't. You're Michael Barton, aren't you? Excuse the mess."

"Hey, what mess? I'd be screaming and kicking the walls."

"Already did that on the way up here. What we gonna do, Boss?"

Mike pounded one fist gently, repeatedly on the laminated top of the round table. His options were slim but it could have been worse -- it could have been Jerry out of commission. It'd been way too long since he'd done the one guitar gig -- ten years now. He'd always depend on Jerry more than the other two. They could do an acoustic set if they had to, or he could pull a truly brave face. He opted for the latter.

"Hey, would you two work for scale tonight? Jerry and I can do a set of acoustic stuff easy, but I don't think we could scare up much more than that before showtime. I know all your stuff and Jerry fakes better than anybody I ever saw."

Jeremy turned to Mark and grinned, shaking his head.

"That invitation took brass balls the size of gallon milk cartons. What say, Tonto?"

Mike blinked at Mark in anticipation; watched his solemn, Oriental features resolve into a grin.

"I mighta' known I'd get into something like this if we came up here tonight. Hell, I need to play as much as you do, though. Three days is too long to sit on my ass and eat doughnuts in Roddy's office. And if you think we're gonna let you do anything more than pay our bar tab you're dreaming. Eddie's gonna need his cut, pal. I used to rack myself up all the time when I still had the Kawasaki -- I know what emergency room fees are like. Let's get a set list together."

"Wanna do sound check? I passed Tommy on my way off the exit, he oughtta be here any time now..." Jerry suggested. "Besides, you might want to run your hands over that Fender, Ryan. I expect it's a little different from what you're used to playing."

"You're damned straight it is -- I ain't played anything with frets in about six months, or a four string in at least four years. Let's go, we'll get the list together."

Jerry, Jeremy and Mark carried one pitcher of beer to the stage, drinking straight from its sides until it was empty -- about five paces beyond the table. Mike turned to grin at Laura.

"Well, guess I'll leave you to fall in love with this guy. Shouldn't take long -- most women are about half in love with him from the beginning."

Barton laughed and shook his head. Laura merely shook her head.

"I think you underestimate yourself. You don't seem to lack for feminine company. Besides, if I want to talk to you a week from now I can always give you a call. Him, who knows?"

"That could change," Barton advised, pouring the last of the beer from the second pitcher and sipping from the glass.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mike insisted.

"Hey, I gotta have somebody to fill in my opening slots on the west coast while these guys chase their ideals around South Carolina. Nobody told them you oughtta wait until after spring break to do research at beach resorts."

"Real funny, my friend -- the hair just fell out of my armpits. I don't think we're ready for that yet."

"How long would it take you to get ready?"

It was about then Mike stopped laughing and stared earnestly at Barton.

"You're serious, aren't you..."

Barton nodded and smiled at him -- an friendly, ironic sort of grin.

"As a matter of fact I am serious."

"Michael, you can't be serious. You haven't even heard us play. You have no idea what we sound like. You can't be stupid to have been around as long as you've been around -- why would you do something as stupid as considering a little nobody band from Clermont County to gig with Ice Trust out in California?"

Barton grinned.

"Fifteen years ago Ice Trust was a little nobody band from Ontario. If somebody hadn't given me the same chance then I wouldn't be here now, intimidating the hell outta you. It's Jeremy's judgment I'm going on here, and Mark's. And Roddy's, although he wagers you're too stubborn and proud to let anybody help you out at this point. I don't think you're stupid any more than you think I am. Jeremy remembers songs as soon as he hears them -- he's played a few of the ones you've written, he had some tapes you sent him a few months ago of the demos you used for the cassette and the disc. He bought me a copy of that a few weeks ago, had Alicia Fedex it to me where I was in Texas. The A&R man from my record company's interested. I'm interested. You're not exactly some nobody little band if you've got an album on the market, even if you did pay to press it yourselves -- maybe less so if you make enough money gigging to press one yourselves. I know you're not any more humble than you are stupid, so cut it out."

Mike laughed and realized he'd underrated himself, much to his surprise. Maybe his attitude problem wasn't as impregnable as Jeremy always accused.

"We'll see what you think after we've hacked our way through a few songs with those two. You may run out of here screaming. If you do, by the way, do me a favor..."

"What is it?"

"Take Laura with you. I don't want her to be killed in the stampede for the door."

He tapped a cigarette out, caught it between his lips and lit it, ambled back toward the stage carrying both acoustics he and Jeremy had carried down. Even if it wasn't a long night, it might be a scary one.

"How's it going so far?" Jeremy asked, tipping his head to touch Mike's.

The silence in the room made it difficult to gauge the audience's response to Jeremy's and Mark's presence, but the lack of audience response didn't intimidate Mike. He usually attracted a more than even share of guitarists who liked to think their talent and technical proficiency grandly exceeded his. The reason he knew was, he'd been one like that in his teens and early twenties, when his confidence in his abilities had been high enough but his confidence in his game plan had been at about its lowest ebb.

Mike shrugged.

"Who knows? Half the time I get no response. I think I attract a lot of guys like us. Guys who are pretty good musicians, who sit out there and critique me instead of listening to the songs."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Hell, no -- somebody's out there buying those cassettes and CDs we made, why should I care if a bunch of backseat guitarist pricks pays four bucks a head to sit out in front of me and think they're better than me once a week? It's all money in my pocket, I must know something they don't..."

He winked and Jeremy shook his head and laughed.

"And you wonder why I call you Attitude Problem."

"It's not a problem attitude with a crowd like this."

"Mike, I'll make a deal with you. Let me sing one and we'll see -- no, call Barton up here, I'll show you what you can make even this bunch of anal-retentive narcissists feel when you know what you're doing..."

Jeremy was angry. Every time he came up against the pillars of Mike's fundamental philosophy of playing, especially the one that said if they were paying for the music and the shows you were succeeding, Jeremy lost his temper and glared. It wasn't a glare to be ignored and it always managed to make Mike feel ashamed of himself. He wished every time he saw it he felt the way Jeremy did -- but it just wasn't in him.

"No, Ryan. No. You do it, you're such a messiah."

"You got it. Wisdom, Mark."

Mark blinked at Mike, shrugged and shook his head, almost as if in apology.

"You do know it, don't you?" Jeremy asked. His voice mixed sarcasm and resentment in equal parts. The grin was almost malicious.

"You know I do, Ryan. I always learn your stuff. Jerry knows that one, too."

"Let's do it. Wisdom, Jerry, on three..."

Mike reached for his acoustic; Mark waited until they were prepared and counted out the cue. Mike brought up his voice to harmonize with Jeremy's, heard Jerry's baritone catch the lower harmony on the a cappella introduction -- a simple, unaccompanied recitation of the song's chorus. `We are all alone in our lives... we are all alone in the places we have been... we are all alone in our lives... why is it we don't show more wisdom from within?'

He stared at Laura as he sang the lyrics and for the first time really considered them. Mark was an admirably straightforward lyricist -- his attack on concepts was direct, almost raw. No, sometimes it was raw, no question. In this case the song was about his father; about fathers and mentors in general. Though he'd known Jeremy three years Mike at once realized he and Jeremy had been equally fatherless; Mike's bastardy no more or less difficult than Jeremy's being orphaned had been. Mark, who had written the lyrics he was now singing, had only had his father four years -- had been mistreated by him until his mother kicked him out.

Some of the most talented musicians he knew, in fact, had at best apathetic relationships with their fathers. At worst they had no relationships with them at all or, like him and Jeremy, no fathers at all.

In some vague way he knew his lack of father had brought Jeremy closer to him in a way nothing else could ever have done. After all, they had little in common so far as ethics and goals were concerned. And as a matter of fact, Mike knew he had a tendency to be philosophically lazy where Jeremy never could be. He also had a tendency to be lazy with his personal relationships where Jeremy never thought he could afford to be. He'd never lost his own father as Jeremy had -- he'd never had him.

He looked at Laura and knew Jeremy had asked himself the same question that was forming in his own mind -- 'how dare I drag that poor girl into this mess?' -- and that Jeremy had somehow managed to overcome the hesitation with Alicia. When Mike looked at Laura, sang to her instead of singing to himself, he felt something tighten inside. For the first time he felt a sense of urgency -- a need to get a message across, if only to her. All his life he'd been playing to himself. Jeremy had seemed to consider outright accusations of musical masturbation off-limits, though he'd frequently insinuated. Dammit, Mike thought, it was true -- he was an artistic Onanist from the word `go'. Had been until right now.

It wasn't getting Laura in bed that seemed important in this moment. Only making her understand. Only making her stop looking at anyone but him; only receiving her full attention.

He regretted it mightily when the song was over, but of course the audience responded and of course it was gratifying. Of course, it wasn't one of his songs. It was something of classic quality, written by somebody much more talented at the art than he. He wanted to crawl off into the dressing room and hide under the shelves. He didn't want to do this anymore. For him, though they had miles to go, the night was already over.

"Mike -- hey, you okay? That was great, man..." Jerry shouted, slapping his shoulder. Mike started and blinked at him.

"It's a great song, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah it is."

"I'll never write anything that great. I need to take a break guys, you ready to sit down a while? It's been about forty-five, hasn't it?"

"Two minutes shy of an hour. I'm sorry, Mike," Jeremy said, rubbing at a blister on the heel of the thumb of his fretting hand absently. "I didn't mean to start up."

Mike squeezed the tears back into his eyes. It was privilege and pain standing on a stage with Jeremy and Mark, they had to know it. Especially Jeremy. That bastard had no excuse not knowing it.

"You were right, man. I'm about as deep as a sheet of paper and we both know it. Right? I ain't good for much but bein' pretty. At least I do that well."

"Mike..." Jeremy sighed, head tilting left in that apologetic slant Mike had seen more than enough times to recognize.

"Leave it, Ryan. It's true -- I'm good at that, at least. I was telling Jerry I need to go ahead and take set break right now, if that's okay."

"It's your show, fella."

"Oh, fuck me, Ryan. Not after that it ain't and you know it."

Mike walked away from Jeremy and dropped off the front of the stage. Laura blinked up at him strangely, rolling her cigarette in the ashtray and tapping the unevenly clipped fingernails of her left hand on the table.

"What did he say to you?" she asked, her expression curious; vaguely sympathetic, somehow.

"Somethin' he's said a dozen dozen times. He knows it gets to me but it wouldn't mean anything to you unless you knew me better. Has to do with the reason he plays music compared to the reason I say I play music. He thinks I'm lying to myself. I think he gives me too much credit."

She pursed her lips, lifted the cigarette for a drag before she spoke again. It felt to Mike like she'd erected a soundproof bubble around the moment.

"Think it's remotely possible you underestimate yourself?"

"Yeah, sure. It's also remotely possible I'll win the lottery if I rush out and get a ticket right now too, or that I'll get struck by lightning, or hit by a meteor."

"Mike, if you care enough it depresses you this much to think whatever it is you think, don't you think you might be wrong? Maybe by trying too hard to feel something for it you think you should, you're not giving yourself a chance."

He wanted to believe it so much; wanted to believe her so much for the time he let himself. That intrigued, slightly amused expression on her face meant something Mike wasn't sure he understood; wasn't sure he'd ever understand. He reached for her hand.

"Thanks, and I'm sorry. I'm being an asshole. How do you like it so far? Are you disappointed?"

"I'm a little sorry I didn't get to see you with your band but I can't be too disappointed at getting to see you play with them. You seem almost intimidated by Jeremy..."

That was cold. True, but a mighty cold observation for her to make so casually.

"Does it show that much? You hardly know me, but you can see that so clear?"

She laughed and squeezed his hand in hers, drawing it to rest on her knee.

"It's oozing out of your pores. Not that I don't understand -- I can see he could be intimidating. He intimidates me a little bit."

"Does he? I'm sure he'd be upset to hear that. He hates to put anybody else at a disadvantage. Other than me, of course. He hates not to be perfect... but he is, so he doesn't have anything to worry about, right?"

Laura was remarkably patient, Mike knew the assholiness wasn't over yet but he had to get it out of his system.

"I don't envy his wife if he actually is perfect. It's hard to be God's wife. It takes millions of people to handle the job..."

Mike laughed in spite of himself, amused by the comparison.

"He'd consider that the ultimate blasphemy. He's more like John the Baptist. Running around converting people."

"And you're Saul of Tarsus? The one who won't be convinced? The pagan who refused to be touched?"

"Don't you start on me too... I feel inferior enough right now as it is. It's humbling to be onstage with people as pure as the two of them."

"It doesn't seem to be bothering your buddy there."

Mike turned to blink at Jerry, who sat on the edge of the stage going over chords with Jeremy. Mark joined them at the table and stared Mike straight in the eye, leaned across to squeeze Mike's shoulder gently.

"Hey, man, I ain't Jesus Christ either. Ryan only thinks he is. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm as lily-white-pure as he is about this shit. One of us has to have a bit of sense about the whole thing."

"Yeah, but the worst part of it is, dammit Bridges -- I'd give anything I have to feel the way about it he does! I'd love for it to be as rewarding for me, just getting up and playing, as it is for him. But I have to think about whether it's going to pay my light bill, keep my phone hooked up. That's distracting..."

Mark laughed and lit a cigarette, pulled on it gratefully and blinked at the empty beer pitcher.

"Listen, it's been years since Ryan's had to try and pay the light bill with it and even then we had an angel. He's forgotten what it's like to feel that. I haven't, though. Plenty of times I don't feel what he does. I live for the times I do, but don't think I feel it all the time. It's something worth working for, but I work my ass off for it..."

"No shit, Mark?"

"No shit. It's not easy for me to get above my body. It's easy for Ryan `cause he's always been able to forget he has one. I'm not that head oriented."

"Guess I just assumed it was as easy for you as it was for him, getting there. Not that I think he had an easy time of learning to do everything else. That's about the only thing ever did come easy for him."

Mark flashed him a glance under umbrella brows -- Mike had surprised him with the insight.

"Yeah. He forgets it's not easy for everybody. He doesn't deal with people very well, you of all people oughtta know that. You're the only one of all the students he had I thought ever learned anything over and above fingering positions and how to count time, and you only learned enough to torment the hell outta you for the rest of your life."

They laughed together and Barton stood up from his chair.

"Listen Mike, I am going to call you. Do you have a manager?"

"No, just a booking agent. And at that we book most of our own gigs, he's in Toledo, he just gets us an opening spot on somebody else's showcase now and then. I don't want you to think I'm not excited about the prospect, Michael -- god, if I could think about it I'd feel like there was an elephant standing on my chest. I'm just so wiped out right now... You really caught me on a rough night."

"Oh, come on -- you're out there playing with Ryan! I couldn't expect an ounce more of anything out of you than I'm seeing tonight. You've got enough to worry about right now -- save it."

Strange, but Barton seemed to understand at least the nature of the tension between him and Jeremy.

"Thanks," Mike shrugged. There wasn't anything more to say.

Mark stood up too; wandered back toward the bar with Barton leaving Mike alone with Laura. Mike studied her profile; not what the average man his age considered ideal, to his surprise. He felt an odd sort of pride in finding her clear, strong features attractive. He hadn't considered her looks in the context of the room filled with perfect, pouffed blondes with cosmetically bobbed noses, fake lashes and expensive makeup. She didn't seem to be wearing much of that, but her eyelashes didn't need coating -- they nearly brushed her brows, as high as they arched over her wide set irises. Her nose was long but not large; her cheekbones were high. She had a sort of exotic look for the Ohio Valley, in fact -- hardly the standard corn-fed Midwestern farm girl.

"You were a tomboy when you were a kid, I bet."

"Should I be offended?"

"No! You just don't look like the giggling slumber party type, that's all. You look like the riding bikes and rollerskating type. Were you?"

"I guess that's close enough, yeah. What about you?"

"Yeah. Well, bikes and baseball and cars. You look like you'd have made a hell of a tennis player with those legs."

`Ace,' Mike thought. The slightly embarrassed grin on her face told him he'd scored.

"I was third in the state my senior year, good guess. Do you play?"

"Used to, but I never played in school. I wasn't a very tactical player. Had a tendency to throw a nasty backspin on it and hit hard. The coach was always pissed off at me -- his best singles player kept skinning up his elbows going after my line shots. I was a right bastard on the courts."

She grinned knowingly. Mike thought she'd heard it before but he wasn't exaggerating.

"Once the weather warms up we ought to play some time."

"I'd like that. We've got a court out at the apartments but it isn't much. Most of the time the grass grows better on the court than it does in the yard in front of my building."

"I've got a really nice court over where I live. I think I'd like to see you in a pair of shorts. Looks to me like you don't have too shabby a pair of legs yourself."

"Wouldn't know. I know one of the critics from the Cincinnati Enquirer says I should play guitar with my back to the audience because my ass looks better than my face, that's about it..."

He laughed, she did also -- but she stopped before he did.

"I'd think that was cruel if you didn't seem so oblivious about it. Matt didn't tell me you had a soft spot, Mike. You seem pretty uneasy and not just with me. I know this must be a crazy enough night for you without me making it even more eventful."

The confidence in the cant of her shoulders and the tilt of her head; genuine sympathy that didn't seem to embarrass her made his elbows weaken.

"Frankly, I guess it hasn't been the best. I got caught in a traffic jam on my way up here tonight, felt bad 'cause I thought I'd stood you up last night... then Eddie laid down his bike -- it really hasn't been the greatest night. Could I convince you to give me a chance to have a better one with you in the not too distant future?"

"You could probably manage it before this one's over if you try real hard."