ENCORE
A short story
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The band tears through the last chord change and pounds the ending with one sharp: WUNGH!! Before the crowd can even react, the guitars are off, and they are down the stairs, off the stage. No “thank you”. No “goodnight”. No nothing.
When the crowd realizes they have been abandoned, the roar is deafening. The sound follows the band members into the dressing room. Whistles, screams, thumping feet: it builds, holds steady for several moments, fades slightly.
In the dressing room, there is a mad grabbing for beer, water, towels. The six or eight people hiding out there guiltily rearrange themselves, trying to help, wanting to join in the wild energy and adrenaline and excitement that the band brings off the stage with them.
And this isn’t some local club. This is the Olympic Ballroom. And the place is fucking packed.
Gavin grabs a beer from someone, drinks half of it, hands the beer back. He runs a towel over his face. The band members, the four of them, find each other, and huddle for a moment.
“What’s the encore.”
“West Coast?”
“How about the new one.”
“Can we do two?”
“Someone ask the fucking guy if we can do two!”
They break apart again. A moment of calm. Everyone drinks, catches their breath. The crowd noise is coming back, building up. They’re pounding their fists on the stage.
“They’re going apeshit,” says one of the hangers-on.
“What the fuck,” says someone else. “You better get back out there . . . !”
Gavin’s bandmates find each other again and commune without speaking. This is a new level for them. This is a height they have not previously known. The adrenaline sharpens them. The moment fuses the four musicians in an absolute bond.
