Tulsa is one hell of a way to spend a Tuesday. The clapping had barely stopped when I got up from behind my set and started shaking hands. Henry, the bassist, balding and looking much older than he acted, flashed a quick smile and thanked me, leaning over his massive instrument.
"Man, it was just like you weren't even there. I mean you fit in just like a puzzle piece." Chet said in his deep, engulfing tone, guitar swung around to his back.
"Well thanks, I had a great time. You all be sure and give Steph and I a call if your boy needs more time to heal." I said, shaking his hand in earnest. Chet was obviously a beautiful creature in his youth, with his James Dean hairline, chiseled face and lean body. He looked good even now, especially with the sweat sheen of a job well played. I had snuck glances at him during the set. Admired his hips. His ass.
"Will do buddy. Where to next?"
"I don't know. Hopefully there's a message on my phone and I'll go from there."
"Ok, well thanks again." He says, turning away with a quick smile. I put my head down and start putting my drums in their cases. This is a pretty typical weeknight for me. Or any night, for that matter. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Setting down a cymbal I pull it out and see that it's Steph. She is my "agent" if that's what you want to call her. Basically we met in middle school and became what some might call best friends. We fought like hell and still do, but whatever. Anyway, she went on after high school to be the office manager at a communications company and I hit the road with bands. Long story short a couple of years ago I found myself without a gig and offered her a cut to put her wonderful communication skills to good use and help me get some jobs and, being a sucker for any extra cash, she did just that, Keeping me busy for the better part of those years.
"Say words"
"Ok, you're going to need to get an oil change for this one."
"Where?"
"Seattle."
"Excellent. Call you later."
"Kisses"she says, in a tone of self confidence. I flip the phone shut, letting out a tiny sigh while doing so. Having a new job waiting for me always makes me feel better. I am lucky to have gotten this gig and only did so because their drummer got a hairline fracture playing softball and they had heard of me through a blues outfit that I had filled in for in Oklahoma City last year. The club is clearing out and the bar has settled down into the slow mulling of the real drinkers, those there for a reason other than live music and a good time. I walk past a young couple discussing politics and make my way to the bar where Levi raises his eyebrows and hands me light beer, which he had given me a hard time about during load in, but that was ok. Any attention from him is good attention as far as I'm concerned. Levi is tall and lanky with dark hair gelled into a 50's replica. His chin is pronounced and he is clean shaven. Young. His jeans are sexy in that they are not very stylish, but rather plain giving the impression of an innocence. His ass looks great in them, not to mention his buldge.
"So where you headed to next?" he asks, leaning against over the bar. I take a hard swallow from the bottle.
"Seattle, apparently." I remind myself over and over to keep my eyes on his. Or on the beer in my hand. I have to remind myself of this often.
"Oh yeah? I went up there with a friend a few years ago. We went in the summer, it was beautiful." I wonder what "friend" means. I had gotten a tinge of a signal from him when I met him earlier and am getting it again. A mic stand is knocked over on stage and I turn to see Chet bending over to get it while feedback blasts through the joint. Squinting my ears for the high pitch I look back at Levi and catch his eyes coming up from my crotch. That is what I wanted to see. The couple behind me are discussing their opinions on torture. I can relate.
