This is an excerpt from a journal I'm keeping between now and the New York Marathon. Its been a while since I posted anything new on Sloanthology and I figured I'd put up a quick journal entry I wrote. Enjoy

May 10, 2010

I told you I’d forget. Well, at least I meant to tell you that I’d forget, but I think I forgot to do that too. Anyway, I forgot about adding more entries to this “Journey to The New York Marathon/Do I have a Heart Condition/Disease? Journal,” the last few days.

Updates? Sure.

Today I woke up and it felt like I held my breath all night again. Sometimes I’ll wake up and my head hurts because I breathe inconsistently when I sleep. They call it sleep apnaea –I’m not sure if that’s how you spell it – and I was diagnosed with it when I was almost ten years younger and at least seventy pounds heavier. (I also had tonsils at that time, which were later removed in an effort to alleviate the difficulties brought on by said condition). I would think after losing a significant amount of weight, quitting smoking, quitting drinking, and having my tonsils removed that any obstructed air paths would be only be brought about by food that I had eaten too fast or drinks that “went down the wrong tube.” However, I still have mornings like today’s when I wake up with a big gasp as if I had just broken the surface of the YMCA pool after challenging all my friends to a “who can stay under the longest,” contest.

This morning, however, was a little different. I sprawled out on the couch after a few minutes of stumbling sleepily between our room and the living room. My heart rate had begun to accelerate noticeably. The breath in my lungs was cold and my chest ached mildly. I decided not to freak out, but sit still and watch SpongeBob with Taylor. My hand rested in a pledge of allegiance position, feeling the pace of my heartbeat eventually slow to it’s normally low 46 beats per minute while Mr. Krab’s decided that The Krabby Patty restaurant would make more money by being open 24 hours – much to Squidwerd’s chagrin and Spongebob’s delight.

After a few minutes, everything returned to normal and I was ready to start the day.

It is weird and probably abnormal, but I can assure that it sounds a lot worse than it is. I’ve dealt with a version of that feeling off and on for the last four years (I can say “four years” because in the years prior I’m sure that those elements were there when I would wake up, but they were typically accompanied with a symptom-covering hangover).

Anyway, even though it has been almost a week since my last entry, I don’t feel like writing a whole catch-up story right now. However, I will throw down a brief summary. The latest on the marathon and heart mystery front is this: I’ll see the cardiologist on Monday to find out what is going on and if I can be cleared to run/train for the marathon, my ankle is still a little tender so the time off is probably a good thing, the job hasn’t changed so Saturday long runs will be out of the question for a while. Despite these challenges (and a few other small ones), my life is full of incredibly supportive people and my attitude remains unhindered. I know that everything is going to be fine. I will be at the start of that race in New York this November.

Count on it.

Switch

Part Two

As expected, Lynn Lee and The Spastic Sirens played an amazing show. The instrumentals were dead on and the crowd fell even more in love with the woman they came to see. Throughout the set, Lynn Lee effortlessly commanded the attention of the entire venue.

At one moment between songs, she was explaining how it felt to be liberated from a toxic relationship - which made me wonder if she knew I was there - and some drunken concertgoer yelled, “Shut up and play!” The crowd booed loudly and the people nearby began pushing and swinging at him. Lynn shrieked like a wild animal and dove fearlessly into the crowd. The sea of loyal followers made way submissively, allowing her to quickly get to the heckler and beat the shit out of him with her microphone. The scuffle ended with Lynn jumping back on stage and two large bouncers dragging the bloodied shit-talker outside. The crowd cheered as their rock goddess took a bow and said, “Fuck that guy,” just before the opening riff to their newest song, aptly titled, “Picking Fights.”

At the end of the show, the band stood together and graciously applauded the audience before staggering off the stage. They had played their asses off. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t equally amazed and envious. Despite our little tours and handfuls of groupies, the band I was in never played shows like that – not at that level of intensity or to that large, or devoted a crowd. Lynn Lee and The Spastic Sirens were clearly a force to be reckoned with and I was not ready to interview them.

The gravity of the situation finally hit me full force.

My hands began to shake as I glanced around nervously. My eyes wildly darted around the venue before settling on the bar near the back of the building. I had been sober for almost three years, but nothing had made me want to take the edge off as badly as having to interview my ex-wife, who, despite my unapologetic indifference and emotional abuse, had become what I longed to be for so many years: an incredibly talented and successful musician.

The band had already gone up to the green room on the closed off, second floor of the large club when the bouncers began yelling at everyone to get out. I stepped up to the bar and looked over the rows of old friends that lined the mirrored walls. Wild Turkey was always my favorite. “One shot would be just enough to kill the nerves,” I thought. I began to salivate as I remembered the sticky, sweet burn of the whiskey that was within reach - the liquid courage and solace that could ease the tension when I faced her for the first time in years.

I held my Press Pass up in the air and the bartender ambled in my direction in cinematic, slow motion. “Hey man,” he said as he smiled and coolly waved his arm toward the impressive selection, “whatever you want is on the house.” Small beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I licked my lips.

My voice cracked when I finally said, “Water would be great.”

When the water arrived, I received a text message from Bruce Tussler. The unexpected vibration in my pocket startled me and caused me to knock over the half-empty glass I had just been given. The bartender laughed and got me a replacement as I sheepishly looked down at my phone. The text read, “5000 words by next week. Blow me away and you’ll be guaranteed more work. Good luck!”

Bruce was the relatively new editor at the magazine, but everyone wanted to work for him. His track record for launching writers’ careers was unmatched in the publishing industry. During his tenure at a major publishing house in the nineties, he had made household names of dozens of authors and poets. After becoming the best eye for talent in the literary field, he decided to take on a new challenge by crossing over to the world of entertainment journalism. It didn’t take long for him to deliver the best content in the business.

It was strange to get a call from him out of the blue, but I didn’t want to question my luck. He said that he had read some of my stories and a bit of my new manuscript, and that he wanted me to write something for him. I couldn’t believe it. Writers killed for two minutes with Bruce Tussler. He was a literary giant. But, on that particular day, he called me.

He wanted to generate some new content about certain up-and-coming bands and said that he liked my style and the musical experience that I could bring to the table. I desperately wanted to write for the magazine, so I concealed the shock that I felt when he gave me my first assignment. I couldn’t tell him that Lynn Lee was actually my ex-wife, Evelyn Godlee, and that the two of us hadn’t spoken since she punched my lights out. I couldn’t risk losing the offer. If I wanted to take my career to the next level, I had to deal with the uncomfortable moment that was rapidly approaching and get the interview.

I slammed the water back and fought the increasing urge to order a real drink. The text message had sent an extra shockwave of adrenaline and anxiety through my body. If I didn’t get the story, then I could kiss working with Bruce Tussler and the most famous music magazine on the planet goodbye. After that, my book editor could hear that I was unreliable and pull his offer off the table. Then, if all of that happened, I would be finished.

My thoughts were snowballing out of control and I knew that I had to step away from the bar before I made a bad decision.

A no-neck, mass of muscle and testosterone stood menacingly between me and the stairs that led up to the green room. The bouncer glared down at me as I timidly showed him the Press Pass dangling from my neck. He frowned, disappointed that he had to let me by, but waved me through anyway.

The stairs behind him seemed to go on forever. It became harder to breathe as I made my ascent. I was getting closer. The door at the top was propped open and led into a dark, narrow hallway. A yellow-orange light stabbed at the darkness below the solitary door at the opposite end of the hall and my heart raced as I quietly approached it. I didn’t know if she had been told that I was the one coming, but I couldn’t avoid her any longer. I wanted, more than anything, to become a successful writer and this was the story that would set things in motion.

Outside the door, I forced a deep breath into my lungs. There was no sound when I finally exhaled. No more waiting. I closed my eyes, balled up my fist, and knocked three times.

Switch

Switch

Part One

It was eleven-thirty when I walked into the dark, smoke-filled music venue downtown. The place was packed. I carefully worked my way through a sea of apathetic, heavily made-up girls and faux-hawked boys that had borrowed their sisters’ pants for the evening, and found a spot near the back of the club.

The crowd huddled together as one gigantic mass of excitement and swayed rhythmically in unison to the “in-between bands” music that blasted through the massive PA system. A thousand people moved together, pulsating and breathing collectively as a single entity. The palpable energy of the place rose steadily as they eagerly waited.

The mob appeared to be mostly made up of guys, and it was clear why they were there: to drool over the infamous and beautiful, Lynn Lee. She was the underground rock singer that every girl in the scene wanted to be, and every guy desperately wanted to fuck. As the front woman of the increasingly popular musical powerhouse, The Spastic Sirens, Lynn Lee epitomized rock and roll intensity. She was, by all accounts, on her way to becoming a musical icon.

At midnight, the lights went out and the entire crowd went into a frenzy. The monstrous roar of their screams and catcalls were eventually quieted when a single blue light shined on the guitar player stage left.

Sporadic outbursts of “Fuck yeah!” and high-pitched whistles sprang from the black mass of heads in the sweaty darkness as he quietly played a twinkly melody. A minute into the solo, a red light slowly illuminated the guitar player on the opposite end of the stage as she played a beautiful counter-melody. A third light turned up behind them as the bass player joined in and made the walls and floor vibrate.

Kids began clawing at themselves and convulsing with sheer desperation as they shrieked incoherently – the agony of anticipation was overwhelming. The three musicians played progressively louder under their assigned lights. At the moment they reached the peak of their crescendo, everything stopped except for the guitarist that started it all. He looked out at the crowd and smiled as he played. Pleased with his visual survey, he strummed four ascending chords.

One. Two. Three.

The moment he struck the fourth chord, the entire stage lit up and Lynn Lee materialized in front of the Sirens bombastic drummer. Driving, angular guitars loudly and violently collided with intense drum hits while everyone in the place jumped around uncontrollably. Lynn screamed at her adoring followers and then recklessly threw herself on the floor as she began to sing, “This is why we’re here; this is why I hate you,” the opening lyrics of the band’s recent single, “Love Like Lies.” The song she had written about our marriage.

When I knew the woman that was furiously screaming her hatred for me in front of a legion of devoted fans, her name was Evelyn Godlee. She was the polar opposite of the high energy, in-your-face maniac that was singing her guts out on stage.

Years before the formation of the Spastic Sirens, or the very idea of Lynn Lee, the two of us met at a show I was playing. We were young and naïve, which led us to a quick and ill-advised marriage. At that time, she liked music and going to shows, but was obsessed with literature. She was a voracious reader and a highly dedicated writer. When her nose wasn’t in a book, she would quietly sit around our place filling spiral notebooks with her poetry and short stories. I was typically in my own world with a guitar in my lap, ignoring her and trying to write hit songs.

The band I was in didn’t do much more than small tours that we financed ourselves. We hardly sold anything and we never played to more than a hundred people. Despite a lack of musical success, I easily fell into the lifestyle of playing late, playing loud, and partying like a rock star. I regularly chose staying out and getting wasted, or fucking some no-name groupie over going home after shows. Whenever I was around, I treated Evelyn like a piece of furniture – a lifeless fixture in my apartment to which I was completely indifferent. It didn’t even matter if she knew what I was doing.

As my dreams of rock stardom began to crumble, my favorite drugs became heroin and self-sabotage. I was constantly out partying and being a horrible husband, while my neglected wife sat at home crying and writing. I was sinking rapidly and failed to notice that Evelyn was making significant changes: She began putting the books and notebooks aside, started listening to my records, and taught herself how to play guitar.

On the night that she finally left me, I came home from a gig and was greeted at the door by a surprisingly forceful punch in the face. She’d had enough of my shit and decided to let me know by knocking me unconscious. I never saw her again. My diminutive, bookworm wife had completely transformed herself into the badass, ball-of-rage, rock goddess that was baring her soul in front of a thousand adoring fans.

Since that punch, and the sickening realization of what a truly lecherous bastard I had been, I slowly began my own transformation: I switched places with her. I quit the band, checked into rehab, and picked up the books and what little writing she had left behind. She had an amazing way with words and I never even knew it. It was fascinating and devastating to see all of the wonderful things that had been right there in my living room the whole time I was wrapped up in my own narcissism.

I fell in love with writing. I began reading incessantly and decided that I wanted, more than anything, to be a writer. It turned out that, despite coming up short when it came to performing music, I actually had a knack for writing about it. Evelyn, over the same period of time, used her diary entries from our marriage and her newfound passion for music to adopt a new persona. She evolved, by every definition, into the quintessential rock star.

Over the past couple of years, Lynn Lee had become notorious for: getting into drunken fights, having her way with male groupies and then throwing them out of tour buses in shady parts of whatever city she was playing, destroying gear and hotel rooms without apology, and, most significantly, writing amazing songs that deeply resonated inside the hearts of an ever-widening audience. The power of her words beautifully articulated intense emotions that we’ve all experienced: anger, love, heartbreak, sadness, and disappointment.

It seemed that our stars were simultaneously on the rise, although hers was climbing much faster than mine. She was fronting an incredible rock band and I had just landed my first book deal. On top of the book, I had recently scored a position with a well-known music magazine. It was that very publication that sent me to the club for my first assignment: An interview with Lynn Lee and The Spastic Sirens.

Aching for an Audience

Kevin picked up the phone and called Walter the minute he read his ad in the Classifieds section of the local newspaper.

Quiet, non-smoking widower seeks tenant for second bedroom of fourth floor walkup on tree-lined block. No central air, but bedrooms have window A/C units. Keep to yourself and we won’t have any problems. $800/month.

Despite the air conditioning situation and the offer’s mildly standoffish tone, the affordable rent and amazing location seemed perfect for the aspiring young musician.

The two met at Walter’s front door the very next day.

The old man stood perfectly straight and pressed his shoulders back sharply as if standing at attention before going into battle. He glared down at his potential housemate with a wrinkled brow that appeared to be permanently plastered on his face from years of scowling.

“Kevin?” He grunted and stuck out a huge hand. “Walter.”

The greeting was accompanied by a piercing stare and a conspicuous visual survey of the items that his new roommate had brought along. “What the hell do you plan on doing with that?” the old man asked gruffly as he pointed to the acoustic guitar case in front of him.

“I’m a musician, sir.” Kevin answered respectfully. “I’ll be playing around town.”

“Not in here, you wont.” Walter protested. “This is my home, not a damned concert hall. I don’t want that thing played in here.” He moved within inches of the young man’s face and grimaced. “Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes sir.” Kevin replied fearfully.

“Good. Now, come on in.”

He followed the old man passed the spotless living room’s seventies-era recliner and sofa, over to the narrow hallway where a tiny bathroom divided two small bedrooms.

“Yours is here and mine is over there,” Walter said as he pointed at the door across from where the two men stood. “Stay out of my room, no showers after eleven, and keep the noise to a minimum. Here is your key.” The old man grabbed Kevin’s hand and firmly placed the cold metal into his palm. “Do you think you can handle that?

“Yes sir. No problem.” The young man replied with a smile.

Walter looked at his new boarder suspiciously and grunted. “I certainly hope so.”

After a few weeks, Kevin adjusted to life in the city and managed to get some gigs nearby. He went to his temping job in the daytime and played open mics at night. The shows kept him out late, but he had become quite good at stealthily entering and exiting the apartment without waking Walter.

As time moved on, the old man seemed to become mildly interested in his roommate’s musical endeavors. He would ask things in passing like, “what exactly do you play?” or “do people actually come watch you?” Kevin invited him to a set and even offered to play him a song one day before work, but Walter refused. He said he wasn’t that interested, but was glad that his tenant had something to keep him occupied. Aside from the occasional morning chitchat, the two rarely crossed paths.

On one particularly hot afternoon, Kevin got off work a few hours early and headed home. Despite the midday hour of his arrival, he quietly slid his key into the lock and slowly opened the door. There, on the couch, in nothing but his underwear and playing a perfect rendition of, “Stairway to Heaven,” on Kevin’s guitar, sat Walter.

Time stood still as the two stared at each other awkwardly. A light breeze from the open windows provided the only movement in the apartment for a short eternity.

“Hey,” Kevin managed to say softly as he stared at the ground. “That sounded really good.”

“Thanks.” Walter exhaled, his eyes glued to the instrument’s frets. “I guess I have some explaining to do, huh?” Despite the embarrassment he surely felt, Walter proudly stood straight up, placed the guitar against the wall and marched into his room.

When he returned, the old man sat on the sofa in freshly pressed khaki pants and a navy blue cardigan. He placed his hands on his lap and told Kevin to have a seat.

“Okay, son. Let me tell you a story.”

His face began to soften.

“I played guitar for about twenty years. Truth be told, it’s what I did for a living.” Walter’s eyes twinkled as a smile slowly raised the wrinkled corners of his mouth. “I was in different bands that toured the country and one of them even opened for Zeppelin once.”

Kevin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I met my wife at that very show.” The old man sighed and rested his hands on his chest near his heart. “She was so beautiful. I met her outside that venue and I just knew she was the one.”

The perpetual scowl that his tenant had come to know so well was almost completely gone.

“I invited her to join me on the road and, to my surprise, she accepted. Now, that doesn’t mean that she was some groupie slut, you understand?” Walter’s face tightened again briefly, but relaxed when the young man nodded in agreement.

“We were so in love,” he continued. “I was already beginning to feel old and burnt out before we met, but she reignited my passion for music. The lights and the large crowds all seemed to disappear around her as I played on stage. She was the only audience I needed.”

He quietly chuckled to himself and continued to reminisce. “She made me play for her all the time. I’d serenade her here in the living room, out in the park, over the phone…” His smile gently faded and his eyes began to water. “In her hospital room those final months… You know, no matter how bad she got, she still smiled every time I picked the damned thing up.” The old man closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’m really sorry, Walter.” Kevin said sympathetically.

Walter nodded and exhaled. “After she was gone, I just couldn’t play anymore. It felt like a forced, joyless effort. It… hurt too much.”

He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and then met Kevin’s eyes with his own. “I apologize for using your guitar without asking, but it had been so long and I just wanted to see what would happen.”

“No, no, no,” the astonished young musician protested, “anytime you want to play, please feel free. You’re amazing!” He picked up the instrument and placed it back in the old man’s lap. “Maybe you and I could even jam sometime.”

Walter leaned back on the sofa and began playing a beautiful melody – her favorite song. For the first time in a long time, feelings of comfort and solace replaced heartbreak and loss as his fingers glided delicately along the fret board. Each note gracefully danced around the tiny apartment and floated out the open windows. The old man smiled and returned his attention to his new audience.

“You want to jam with me?” he asked as he continued to play.

Kevin grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you think you can handle that?”

The Fire

It has been too long. I’ll bet you thought this blog was dead, huh? I’ve actually spent the past month losing my mind and participating in the incredibly insane, yet undoubtedly fulfilling NaNoWriMo event. The good news is that I’ve been writing like a madman. The bad news (depending on how you look at it, I guess) is that the project I’ve been working on will take a really long time to be released.

However, amidst a November full of novel-focused literary recklessness, I still had to come up with another short story for Backbeat Magazine (an awesome problem to have, by the way – no complaints here). The deadline for the second entry kind of snuck up on me because I’d been forcing my way through NaNoWriMo, but, after quickly writing and hating a couple of other short stories over a day or two, I came up with something that I think is pretty entertaining.

I’m looking forward to sharing more ideas with you in the coming months and, as always, I appreciate you reading. Also, I have to apologize for the inconsistency of the appearance of these blog posts. I've tried messing with the layout of these entries a dozen times, but the alignment constantly comes out weird when I copy and paste out of Word. Thanks for bearing with it.

Enjoy!

The Fire

I was seventeen years old when I burned my house down.

If you lived here at that time, I’m sure that you read all about it. Its true that we lost everything and, yes, I was severely punished, but I’ll never forget the moment of bizarre fascination and awe that I shared with over a hundred people on my front lawn that night. None of us said anything. We just stood there, mesmerized, as the wail of the fire truck sirens grew louder and louder. There was something strangely satisfying about watching my childhood home disintegrate before my very eyes – I can’t really explain it. By morning, it was all destroyed. The insurance adjuster later told my dad that it was what they call in the industry, “a total loss.” From my point of view, however, it was the perfect ending to an incredible night.

I was born and raised in that house. My forced piano lessons began taking place in the extra bedroom that was just off the kitchen when I was six years old. The asshole instructor that my Julliard alum father enlisted to teach me would show up twice a week expecting to hear perfect renditions of, “Moonlight Sonata,” and, “Clair de Lune.” She, per my father’s insistence, demanded technically precise and proficient performances every month.

All I wanted to do was play the guitar.

By the time I was twelve, I could burn through several Mozart, Chopin, and Beethoven pieces blindfolded. In fact, I actually did that at a recital once to show my father that I was, as he liked to say, “taking advantage of the musical gift I had been given.” He complimented my technique, but couldn’t resist informing me that my performance was, “a little too showy.” Despite his mixed reviews, I figured adhering to his musical expectations would serve as leverage for me to get my first electric guitar. It worked. He told me that I could “play that thing” in my free time as long as my piano playing didn’t suffer.

I played it every day.

When I was fourteen, I joined a punk band. The first few songs we wrote were horrendous. We played power chords over and over through shitty amps, but we didn’t care. It was loud, it was raw, and I loved every minute of it. It felt good to abandon the rigid form of expression to which I had been forcefully accustomed. There was no sheet music or needle-nosed, musical know-it-all peering over my shoulder as I recklessly shredded.

We began playing around town and actually developed a following over the next couple of years. I constantly had to sneak out of the house to go play shows. My piano playing was beginning to slip, but my father’s career was starting to take off and, thankfully, he hadn’t noticed.

The day that he was invited to perform a concert with the New York Philharmonic, I was ecstatic. It meant that I could stay home and put on a “concert” of my own while he was miles away. He was hesitant to leave me home alone, but I assured him that I would spend my time studying and trying to master his old book of Bach preludes. He smiled and said that he expected to hear them when he got back the following week. I returned a sincere smile because I had mastered that book the year before and could easily play any of those pieces from memory.

He left on Thursday and said that he would be returning on Monday.

The turnout was unbelievable. Friends, friends of friends, and complete strangers were crammed into every inch of our ranch style home. I don’t know how that many people fit in my house, but they did. The crowd drank, chatted, and watched in anticipation as we began to set up in the living room.

Over the previous year, our band had become increasingly adventurous with our stage show. We were constantly breaking things, hurting ourselves as we thrashed around, and even getting into fights. We were young and embraced our youth by putting on the loudest and wildest show in town every time we played. The latest addition to the “Oh shit” moments of our performances was lighting our drummer’s cymbals on fire. During the set, I would spray lighter fluid in a circular motion on the top of the gold discs and ignite them with a cheap Bic. The desired result was a steady flame around the edges followed by a vertical fireball of at least three feet when the cymbals were struck. We made club owners nervous, but we knew what we were doing.

Or so we thought…

That night, during our best show to date, I was completely swept up in the frenzied energy of the crowd and accidentally went overboard with the lighter fluid. When the song demanded intense cymbal hits, the fireballs shot up, as usual, but a couple of smaller fireballs that leapt onto the floor near my amp went completely unnoticed. As we launched into the bridge of that closing song, coincidently titled, “Fire Fight,” my amplifier crackled, the drummer stopped playing, and the crowd began pushing and shoving - more out of panic than typical slamming. I turned around to see my amp, along with the floor-to-ceiling oak entertainment center behind it, completely engulfed in flames.

There are no words.

The growing fire was still small enough to allow everyone to get out safely, but just big enough to prevent us from putting it out. In a moment of collective consciousness, the crowd actually settled down and began to march out in a slow orderly fashion. It was as if they were quietly leaving a funeral while I, the dearly departed for whom they would surely be mourning upon my father’s return, unplugged my guitar and followed suit.

I thought about his piano as I walked outside and inspected my unscathed guitar. The thought of the disfigured ivory, snapping wires, and smoldering wood in that little room off the kitchen made me smile. It was surely cosmic justice for the years of my forced appreciation for that instrument – his instrument.

Despite the life changing repercussions that loomed on the horizon, I joyfully basked in the orange-yellow glow that radiated from the rubble that was once my house. When the firemen asked me what happened, I didn’t lie. I simply smiled and told them that I had burned the place down doing what I loved to do.

My father received rave reviews that weekend. I’m sure you read all about it. People still say that it was one of the most memorable concerts of his entire career. That piece in The Times makes me laugh to this day. The reporter decided to use a sports idiom to explain the incredible level on which my father played. She said that my dad “nailed every note of the perfect performance with poise, precision, and passion. To put it quite simply… he was on fire.”

Ritual

It never fails.

Its late on a Friday night, several hours after work, and you find yourself standing in front of a stage at a local music venue that reeks of stale cigarettes. The band you are watching - the band before yours - is loudly blasting through their last song while you nervously nod your head and tap your foot on the beer soaked floor. You’ve enjoyed the band’s set, but are now focused on absorbing their energy in order to play a good show.

That’s when it starts.

Your inner monologue of self-doubt begins describing all of the horrible and embarrassing things that are going to happen tonight: the broken guitar strings, wrong notes, equipment failures, forgotten lyrics, and the number of times your voice will undoubtedly crack when you take the stage. The voice in your head tells you that you are no good and everyone is going to think that your music is mediocre at best. Relentlessly, it informs you that you are just pretending to be a musician and nobody here wants to listen to your songs. It’s wearing you down.

The saboteur inside continues to bang his negative drum by pointing out that you don’t fit the profile for this type of artistic expression. You don’t even look like a musician. You’re standing there, wearing what could best be described as; “business casual,” while everybody else appears to fit in perfectly. They huddle together in their painted-on jeans, perfectly wrinkled vintage button ups, thick black glasses, strategically mussed hair, cool tattoos, and ironic mustaches - appearances that say, ‘unlike you, I belong here.”

The band on stage finishes their set and tells everyone to, “stick around” for your band. A torrent of adrenaline wildly courses through your body.

Your stomach quivers as you wrestle your amp onto the stage. Your hands tremble just enough to give you away as you tune your guitars. Closing your eyes, you briefly run a mental checklist of everything you needed to bring to the show. You are positive that you have forgotten something.

“Two vocals,” you tell the sound guy as he passes by with a microphone and a web of cables clutched to his chest. He grunts a confirmation of understanding and it’s obvious that, after the five bands before yours, he is ready to go home.

You look up from your guitar and notice that the crowd is focused on the bar. The clinking glasses and loud conversations confirm that they couldn’t be less interested in what’s happening on stage as the thump, thump, thump, of the kick drum is sound checked. You swallow hard and barely spit out, “Check,” into your microphone while the silhouette behind the soundboard at the back of the room adjusts the levels.

Okay guys, we’re ready whenever you are…

Settling into your usual spot on stage, you take a deep breath and look at your band mates as your nerves hit their peak. You smile and nod to tell the others, “I’m ready,” then focus on the neck of your guitar. The music that has been pumping through the PA is turned all the way down and the crowd turns in your direction. You’ve reached the point of no return. It is time to ignore the nagging paranoia and insecurity that’s plagued you since you walked in the door and play your music.

As you strum through the introduction of your set and step up to sing your first line, something happens. The fear and self-doubt that you previously manufactured melts away as your voice booms through the tall speakers on either side of the stage. Surprisingly, it is clear, on key, and doesn’t waiver. As your lyrics pour out of you, a strange confidence grabs hold. You suddenly remember all the times that you played and sang your heart out in your bedroom as a kid. Back then you were dying to sonically share your thoughts and feelings with anyone that would listen. You were dreaming of this moment…

The entire band comes together perfectly on the downbeat of the first chorus and you immediately let go. You let go of everything: pride, heartache, judgment, fear, anxiety... all of it is destined to be left on the stage before the night is over. You are miles away from the insecure wallflower that showed up at the club an hour earlier. As you acknowledge this transformation, the atmosphere of the room changes and the crowd slowly begins inching forward.

People sporadically emerge from somewhere beyond the bright lights and reveal their faces as the intensity of your playing increases. You make eye contact with them while you sing and play even harder, inciting a two-way communication. The people that you assumed would write you off for petty reasons are completely engaged in the discussion. Like you, they are aching to feel something. You jump, you dance, you scream at the ceiling and they are right there with you. You are no longer just sonic decoration in some bar. You are a contagious force of musical intensity.

The longer you play, the more you realize that you do belong here. Clothes, cliques, and politics are irrelevant when compared to what truly brings all of you together. The nodding heads and dancing bodies collectively disregard ego for a few short moments as the band on stage - your band - is playing its heart out. Everyone in the place is linked by a passion for this age-old art form and addicted to the meaningful feelings it can invoke. Music, as demonstrated by this moment, is a powerful equalizer.

Before you know it, the show is over. You’ve struck your last chord, sung your last line, connected beautifully with the crowd, and its time to pack up and head home. You are a trembling, sweaty mess. Your shirt is soaked and your legs are shaky. At some point during the set, you cut your cuticles on your guitar strings as you wildly played with no regard for pick/string accuracy. You smile at the little pink flecks of blood splattered on the pickups as you place the guitar into its case.

You go on this intrinsic journey of self-discovery every time you play, but each trip feels more intense than the last. These moments teach you profound truths about yourself, this scene, and the universal power of music – lessons that shed light on what music can do to us.

Tomorrow you will go back to work wishing you had the ability to conjure this feeling at a moment’s notice. The dramatic and revealing nature of the whole process makes you laugh as you tear down the rest of your equipment. You’ve played long enough to know that this shouldn’t happen every time, but acknowledge and appreciate the fact that this same ritual will undoubtedly unfold again at your next show.

It never fails.

A New Record

This was my submission for Writers Weekly Fall 24 Hour Short Story Contest:

A New Record

It was time to go.

The move would provide a fresh start in the quaint, middle-of-nowhere out in Butler County. The nearest city, Cedar Falls, was half an hour away and a far cry from being considered a booming metropolis. It was time for the city boy, Avery Barnes, to escape to the country. The big cities had way too many temptations, too many old demons, too much for him to handle. At that point in his life, moving would be the best thing to do.

Molly Schnaebel grew up in Butler County. She was a beautiful, well-liked woman in her mid-twenties. The little farm community that she called home near the edge of New Hartford, Iowa was the perfect place to raise a family.

Molly’s husband worked for the railroad. Late one night, when she was nearing the end of her third trimester with their daughter, she received a telephone call. Her husband, Ray Schnaebel, had an accident at work. By sunrise, she had become a widow.

Avery encountered his next-door neighbor a few times and he could tell that she did not like him. She was a single mother and, at first, he figured she was just stressed. He knew that infants were a handful. On several occasions he would be sitting on his porch when she drove up to her house and he’d offer to help carry groceries or get the door for her. He constantly offered to help around the house, run errands, and even to babysit sweet, little Julia a few times, but Molly would just give him a strange look and hurry up her front steps.

That wasn’t the only time he got strange looks. Eventually, everyone in town began pointing and whispering as he walked past.

When Ray died, the town rallied around Molly. She and Julia were brought to every church function, farmer’s market, and charity 5K that the town put together. They embraced the young widow. They listened to her. They looked out for her. They helped her raise Baby Julia. They were a tight-knit town of good folks that would do anything for those girls. And that’s why they snubbed Avery Barnes.

After months of cold shoulders, whispers, and odd glances, Avery became a shut-in and began collecting new hobbies. He desperately needed distraction. He wanted to be anonymous, not vilified. Alone in his old farmhouse, he started researching various arts and crafts in order to keep his idle hands busy.

Avery was the type of guy that would start up a project and quit halfway through. Anytime he became marginally good at one thing, he moved on to something else - a byproduct of perpetual loneliness. He couldn’t share his work with anybody. No one was there to say, ‘Wow, that looks great,” or “How did you do that?”

His house became a graveyard of nearly finished model planes and cars, half-empty jars of acrylic paint, paintbrushes, canvases, and used how-to books on just about everything. Each morning he would kick his way through various projects as he crossed the living room to the kitchen.

Feeling the need for fresh air, Avery tried on an outdoor hobby: Gardening. He had a large lot behind his house and plenty of room to grow whatever he wanted. The county held a big Fall Festival every year that included the crowning of a “Pumpkin King,” an honor bestowed upon the man that produced the largest pumpkin of the season. Avery Barnes vowed to be that man. He was determined to pass that familiar point of mediocrity. He was determined to show them all up with a new record.

His moment was so close, he could taste it. Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured him a Pumpkin King coronation the following weekend. His chest puffed with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of the townspeople, especially Molly, who always looked through him, not at him.

A cold wind blew as he admired his prize specimen under a darkening, autumn sky. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he instinctively turned his head toward the sound of a crying baby. Near the back of his field, under the old Maple, Molly Schnaebel was shielding a bundle from the wind and staring. Avery waved, “hello,” but she quickly turned and waved her free hand off to her left – as if she was signaling someone out of sight. Naively, he ignored the odd gesture and returned his focus to the patch. He smiled as he proudly looked down at his massive, prize-worthy pumpkin.

Thunder clapped loudly nearby, a distinct whiz sound came from behind, and his knees instantly weakened. Julia cried in the distance as Avery fell to the ground and watched the red splatter hit his last, unfinished project.

Everyone in town knew. Molly had told all of them. She said he seemed overly eager to “help” and the way he looked at Julia made her uneasy. She had a sneaking suspicion that plugging that city boy’s name into the appropriate online search field would generate a glaring red square right over his house on the website map. She was right.

Maybe it happened when he was a kid. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as the horrible things she imagined while rocking Julia to sleep night after night. Either way, Avery’s name was on the list. Molly had already lost a husband and she was not going to let anything happen to her daughter. The townspeople knew what to do. Molly belonged there and he didn’t. They were a tight-knit group that took care of their own. He wasn’t welcome and he’d ignored the many hints he’d been given.

The following weekend, after the men of the town loaded it onto a pickup truck and delivered it to the large, commercial scale at the Fall Festival, Butler County crowned its first ever, “Pumpkin Queen.” Molly Schnaebel’s pumpkin, the largest in county history, weighed over seven hundred pounds.