like he minded too much.
James, sitting sideways in an armchair, said, “Twitter’s blowing up. The fans loved it.” He swiped at his phone again. “They loved Leah. Direct quote: ‘New bassist for Saving Graces just turned me gay.’”
O’Connor laughed. “Does Leah know about this?”
“Not yet,” James said. “I’m making a list for when she gets out of the shower.”
“I think we should keep that change with the setlist,” Andrew said. “I like playing ‘Morning Glory’ right after ‘Troubled Heart’ because it leads so naturally into ‘The Fear of God.’”
“Sure,” O’Connor said. “I agree.” For the last few months, this had been the best part of his life: the couple of hours right after a show when Andrew was his old self, psyched up from the show, chatty and enthusiastic, bubbling over with ideas and insight. It never lasted, of course. By morning, he would be back to normal. The new normal.
“And maybe we can swap out ‘Mise-en-Scene’ for one of the songs from the last album,” Andrew said. “I dunno, I’m just tired of playing that fucking song for some reason.”
“We could start playing ‘Gravity Well’ again,” James suggested. “The fans love it.”
“Done,” Andrew said. “Make it so. Where’s Rushani?”
“Supervising load-out,” James said. “I’ll make a note. We’ll print out new setlists before the next show.”
O’Connor let out a contented sigh. Really, aside from Andrew’s ongoing spiritual collapse, his life was pretty damn good. He got to perform for adoring fans several times a week, and then instead of having to clean up after himself, he got to kick back, drink beer, and stuff his face with all the food left over from dinner.
The whole spiritual collapse was sort of a downer, though.
His phone buzzed. One of his sisters had sent him another cat picture. The O’Connor siblings had an ongoing group text message that went through various phases of absurdity; cat photos were the latest iteration. He would have to find something good to send to them later.
A door opened, and O’Connor looked up, hoping Leah was back from showering. It was just Timory, though, and her drummer. “What’s up, guys!” Timory said, bouncing over to one of the couches and plopping herself down. “How’d the show go tonight?”
They didn’t usually watch each perform, although O’Connor was a little surprised that Timory hadn’t stuck around to watch Leah’s first show. “It was great,” he said. “Went really well.”
“That’s so awesome,” Timory said. “Ooh! Mini cupcakes!”
O’Connor stood up. Timory was a great musician, and the audiences loved her, but she wasn’t his favorite person. She was fine. A little too chirpy for him. They didn’t have much in common. He tried to limit his exposure. “Any of you remember what time bus call is?”
“1:00,” James said, without looking up from his phone. “It’s on the schedule.”
“You know I don’t look at those things,” O’Connor said. “Thanks. I’m gonna take a shower. See you guys later.”
Showering was just an excuse to leave the room, but as soon as he was out in the hallway, he realized it wasn’t a bad idea. He always sweated like a pig on stage, and he wouldn’t have another chance to shower until they got to Portland tomorrow afternoon.
Plus, there was a chance that he would run into Leah, maybe fresh out of the shower, maybe still in her towel…
He had promised to be good, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look.
The showers were just across the hall, in what looked like a locker room—and probably was, when the stadium was used for sporting events. Thick white towels were stacked on one of the benches. O’Connor didn’t have any clean clothes to change into, but it wouldn’t kill him to put his smelly shirt back on long enough to get a new outfit from the bus.
He pushed through the swinging door that led to the shower area. It was lighter on its
James, sitting sideways in an armchair, said, “Twitter’s blowing up. The fans loved it.” He swiped at his phone again. “They loved Leah. Direct quote: ‘New bassist for Saving Graces just turned me gay.’”
O’Connor laughed. “Does Leah know about this?”
“Not yet,” James said. “I’m making a list for when she gets out of the shower.”
“I think we should keep that change with the setlist,” Andrew said. “I like playing ‘Morning Glory’ right after ‘Troubled Heart’ because it leads so naturally into ‘The Fear of God.’”
“Sure,” O’Connor said. “I agree.” For the last few months, this had been the best part of his life: the couple of hours right after a show when Andrew was his old self, psyched up from the show, chatty and enthusiastic, bubbling over with ideas and insight. It never lasted, of course. By morning, he would be back to normal. The new normal.
“And maybe we can swap out ‘Mise-en-Scene’ for one of the songs from the last album,” Andrew said. “I dunno, I’m just tired of playing that fucking song for some reason.”
“We could start playing ‘Gravity Well’ again,” James suggested. “The fans love it.”
“Done,” Andrew said. “Make it so. Where’s Rushani?”
“Supervising load-out,” James said. “I’ll make a note. We’ll print out new setlists before the next show.”
O’Connor let out a contented sigh. Really, aside from Andrew’s ongoing spiritual collapse, his life was pretty damn good. He got to perform for adoring fans several times a week, and then instead of having to clean up after himself, he got to kick back, drink beer, and stuff his face with all the food left over from dinner.
The whole spiritual collapse was sort of a downer, though.
His phone buzzed. One of his sisters had sent him another cat picture. The O’Connor siblings had an ongoing group text message that went through various phases of absurdity; cat photos were the latest iteration. He would have to find something good to send to them later.
A door opened, and O’Connor looked up, hoping Leah was back from showering. It was just Timory, though, and her drummer. “What’s up, guys!” Timory said, bouncing over to one of the couches and plopping herself down. “How’d the show go tonight?”
They didn’t usually watch each perform, although O’Connor was a little surprised that Timory hadn’t stuck around to watch Leah’s first show. “It was great,” he said. “Went really well.”
“That’s so awesome,” Timory said. “Ooh! Mini cupcakes!”
O’Connor stood up. Timory was a great musician, and the audiences loved her, but she wasn’t his favorite person. She was fine. A little too chirpy for him. They didn’t have much in common. He tried to limit his exposure. “Any of you remember what time bus call is?”
“1:00,” James said, without looking up from his phone. “It’s on the schedule.”
“You know I don’t look at those things,” O’Connor said. “Thanks. I’m gonna take a shower. See you guys later.”
Showering was just an excuse to leave the room, but as soon as he was out in the hallway, he realized it wasn’t a bad idea. He always sweated like a pig on stage, and he wouldn’t have another chance to shower until they got to Portland tomorrow afternoon.
Plus, there was a chance that he would run into Leah, maybe fresh out of the shower, maybe still in her towel…
He had promised to be good, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look.
The showers were just across the hall, in what looked like a locker room—and probably was, when the stadium was used for sporting events. Thick white towels were stacked on one of the benches. O’Connor didn’t have any clean clothes to change into, but it wouldn’t kill him to put his smelly shirt back on long enough to get a new outfit from the bus.
He pushed through the swinging door that led to the shower area. It was lighter on its
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