by Jeremy Warach

 

The band was between sets, and Meg, the singer, worked the crowd at the mid-sized club.  She knew that part of her job was keeping patrons in the club, buying drinks.  And one of the ways to do that, besides being part of a killer band, was to work the crowd.  Be accessible, be personable, let people buy her drinks (but don’t get drunk). 

 

The other members of the band tried to do the same thing, but she was the star of the show, and aside from a few younger girls flirting with the guitar player (which the keyboardist clearly resented), Meg attracted the bulk of the attention.  It was not something she desired or was entirely comfortable with, but she accepted it as a necessity when performing music.

 

She checked her watch. Break time was just about over. She looked around the place, and one by one, she caught the eyes of the other members of her band, silently signally to one another that it was time to get back to playing.  She put down her empty bottle of water (she only drank water when she was singing), and turned toward the stage, when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder.  She made sure she had on her winningest fan-friendly smile and swiveled her head around.

 

“Hi, Meg!” said the woman, her face one big fake smile.  The singer was momentarily confused, because this woman’s expression clearly said that she knew Meg and expected Meg to know her.  Then in a flash, Meg recognized her..

 

“Barbara, Hi,” Meg said to Barbara Tannenbaum, president of the PTA for the elementary school her daughter Julia attended.  “It took me a second to realize it was you.  I didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

Barbara laughed too enthusiastically.  “I know!  It’s a school night, and I’m being bad.  Hey, it’s great to see you, but I know you have to get back on stage, and I have to go say Hi to some people.  We have to get the kids together for a play date!  Your band sounds great!  Talk with you later!”  She said it breathlessly, without pausing.  Before Meg could respond, Barbara gave her a quick toodle-oo flutter of the fingers and scurried off.  Meg shut her mouth before anyone could notice her gaping.  She chuckled silently.

 

The rest of her band was already back on stage, getting ready for their next set.  The guitar and bass players tuned their instruments; the drummer twirled his sticks and adjusted his cymbals, and the keyboardist just stood there, doing nothing much at all.  Meg asked the bartender for another bottle of water.  While she waited for it, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and knew that she should be wary of something.  Then she saw the staring guy on the opposite side of the bar from her.  Late thirties, maybe early forties, dressed like he had come straight to the club from his corporate job.  Something familiar about him, but he was staring at her in a completely drunken and creepy fashion.  His eyes fixed on her, watery and unblinking, his mouth half open, not aware or not caring how obvious he was.  Meg suppressed a chill deep down inside.  Grabbing the water when the bartender handed to her, she turned and walked slowly and deliberately up onto the stage.  She took the microphone in one hand as she looked left and right at her bandmates.  They nodded imperceptibly, ready for her cue.

 

“Thank you,” she said, filled with warmth and energy.  The people in the crowd were more concerned with their own conversations and paid the band only polite attention.  The guitarist began the intro to the first song of the set, and the rest of the band joined in, launching into an energetic cover of a well known rock song.  Meg sang forcefully and melodically.  If anyone could catch this audience’s attention, Meg could.  And she did.  They stopped their conversations, turned away from the ballgames on the many TVs throughout the club to listen to the searing, extended high notes and throaty, raspy mids and lows that seemed too strong and full to come from her small frame.

 

They segued into a song which was not as well known, but was a band favorite.  Meg emoted less, but sang from her heart, looking around into the faces of the audience, trying to connect with people and gauge their feeling so she could adjust her performance.  As she scanned left and right, she again caught the gaze of the creepy guy.  He had found a table close to the band and sat there, holding a beer bottle in one hand, his eyes not moving from her.  She did her best to put him out of her mind and concentrate on the song.  But it was difficult.  She had past experience with a couple of drunken guys who tried to hit on her during or after gigs.  The offers were never appealing.  At times like that, she was especially glad to have bandmates who were very protective of her.

 

As the second song ended with a cymbal crash and final chord, the audience responded with enthusiastic applause and cheering.  She checked the song list taped to the floor by her microphone stand, just to make sure she hadn’t lost her place.  The drummer tapped a four-count, and the band launched into a high energy pop song.  Meg adjusted her voice to the song’s needs.  During the chorus, as her voice reached the uppermost limits of her vocal range, Meg saw her new best friend, PTA mom Barbara, making her way through the crowd.  Barbara waved at her, and Meg smiled back.

 

Meg continued having fun with the pop song and watched Barbara thread her way through the sea of tables and people, stopping to say hello to a few people, and finally reaching her destination, a table right near the stage.

 

Meg’s eyes nearly burst out of her head, and she had to seriously suppress the urge to laugh out loud.  Barbara sat down next to her husband, Miles Tannenbaum.  When she did so, he quickly ceased the creepy staring routine he had been doing since standing at the bar and gave his wife a loving kiss.

 

Meg finished the song on a long, high, fading note.