Chapter 1 - The Open Mic

December 2016

Hunched over in a corner by the pillar, I’m looking into my cell phone, while stealing glances at the patchy crowd in the arena, that's making its way towards the cafe. I'm being discreet; I've already spent the better part of my evening jamming with a band I didn't know, didn't like and didn't want to run into again.

I admit I shouldn't have said yes to the drummer boy—a skin-and-bones teenager—when he came to ask me if I wanted to play with their band. Convincing me along the lines that ‘it would be fun', and I even believed as much, until after a couple of minutes when it just kind of… stopped being fun.

I recall how the skinny boy, barely visible from behind the drums, smashed away with a look of sheer pleasure. The lead guitarist with expensive shoes was ahead of everyone, and seemingly bent on exhibiting all the skills he had ever learned in the past—today. The older guy on the synth, probably a late bloomer who found his true calling after some sort of middle-age crisis, nodded at me in consolation, like it would all be over soon. The real bummer was the guy clenching the

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mic and screaming about some obscure dream he’d had, which sadly turned out to be a nightmare for all of us there. Open mics are supposed to be fun—more fun if I were part of a band, which I am not. More fun if I were a regular performer here and friends with the guy in the café, who would serve me complimentary drinks. More fun if I had purple hair with piercings all over my face, a fancy guitar and an attitude that said, piss off. So you can guess why I wasn't

having the best time.

After the ‘performance’ is over, I unstrap my guitar and scurry away before anybody tries to engage me in small talk. The evening has already reached the height of awkwardness, even by my low standards.

After wasting the first hour, I am getting edgy. I search for Adam in the scattered crowds but can't find him and when the waiting starts to get unbearable, I dial his number. I have no idea why he was so cryptic in his message, but since he taught me everything I know about music, I trust him enough to know that whatever it is, tonight will be worth my time. It has been a while since I have seen him, but then, it has been a while since I did anything real or met anyone real; I sometimes feel like I exist in limbo, with nothing but time to pass me by. Most days I feel lethargic and gloomy, waiting for someone or something to tell me that my time is over and I can now disappear.

I swipe my phone and gaze at my photo on my screen lock; I feel slightly unsettled because my feelings are reflected on my face. My eyelids look heavy, like I haven’t slept in ages, when the truth is that I sleep too much these

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days, not during the night but at odd hours during the day. Then I cuss and complain when a ringing phone, a doorbell, or gleeful chirping birds disturb me. I notice that my lips, which I have always known to have a nice bow shape, are pulled downwards these days, for which I have no justification except that I feel hollow and sore, and probably all of that weighs my face down in discontent.

I need a miracle or a potion for an instant remedy, an elixir of happiness.

I dial his number and look up, trying to shake off my gloom, and spot Adam at the end of the room where the cafe is, holding a can of soda, and immersed in animated conversation with two other men. They find a table at the end of the hall. I amble towards the café, but I am hesitant to reach out. It might be that the men with Adam have a work thing going on and wouldn't want me at the table. I look at the phone, the seconds ticking by. Adam picks up and I disconnect the call. I can see him searching the crowd for me. I walk up to the table and Adam is smiling expectantly at me.

Penny! Adam greets me joyfully as I approach.

I didn't want to intrude, I say, half embarrassed and half defensive. I don't know why I am both.

Not at all, we were just talking about you, says a paunchy middle-aged guy with salt and pepper hair tied in a small ponytail. He adjusts his thick black spectacles at me and gestures towards the empty chair at this table for four—a dainty wooden design with an arched top rail. I have no idea how they are even holding up the men sitting here. We are

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cramped together and there is barely enough space for Emo, my guitar.

Seeing me struggle for space, the guy next to me offers to put Emo in the corner against the wall behind his chair, which he pulls out, shifting it closer to me; my protest that it may topple dies in my throat. Something stirs in me at the way he instinctively holds on to its neck for a moment, checking its balance before letting go. It feels strange, seeing someone else fussing about Emo. While he's at it, I size him up: handsome as per modern standards, tall, fair skin, hair too good to be on a man's scalp, nails trimmed and clean. His strong jawline and light eyes have a strangely compelling effect. I realize I’m staring and look away hastily.

Hi, he says catching my eye, forcing me to respond, which I manage in spite of the strange lump in my throat. Embarrassed at my silliness, I say a polite ‘thank you’.

He is pretty well-dressed for a casual evening like this: crisp chambray under his leather jacket; I see that his clothes fit him to perfection.

I'm conscious of my own choice of clothing: a t-shirt with lemons on it; a denim jacket that does nothing to conceal it. I should’ve put on my new jeans or maybe some makeup. In moments like these, I feel I made the decision to marry in haste. I mean, I could have looked around a bit more before giving in and saying yes to Rafae. Though I’m not exactly sure I could have found a guy like this in my surroundings at that time—not that I could ever feel confident next to someone like him: I can feel my awkwardness like a tangible thing,

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hanging in the aura around me. He, on the other hand, has charm oozing out of him in spades.

We really liked you up there, the thick-black-spectacles guy says, rapping his ring on the table.

This brings me out of my head and the volume returns to the conversation.

A witness to my abysmal performance, I see. He seems intrigued. On second thought, maybe he is just being polite. I try to smile to show friendly gratitude, but it doesn't turn out the way I want and I end up saying, 'sure', instead of 'thank you'. I fidget with my hair and run my fingers through it needlessly.

Adam tells me you're one of his finest protégés, the thick- black-spectacles guy continues, with a hint of admiration in his tone.

Well, Adam's kind, I say, embarrassed.

I want someone to say something quickly; I'm getting uncomfortable being the focus of the conversation.

I’m Mashood Mudassir Sheikh, the thick-black-spectacles guy says in a crisp, professional kind of way—a tone of voice he must reserve for people he meets for the first time. After that, I am sure there must be a montage of crazy accents every time he talks.

Maddy, Adam continues, looking at me now. You can call him Maddy because you don't want the world to end trying to say his name, he jibes.

I chuckle lightly. Adam and his thing with long names; he never made a friend who persisted in sticking to more than

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two syllables. Nothing fetishist, just hard to remember, he would say. Fascinating how he could turn any name around.

With that thought, I turn to the other guy, the one who had my guitar behind his chair.

Kabir, he says and takes his hand out of his jacket pocket. I don't know why but somehow I think he wants to shake ?my hand and we end up doing a clumsy handshake. His long fingers feel warm and comforting against my thin cold hand.

He is a musician, I can tell.

Maddy needs musicians for a couple of gigs, Adam says, looking at Maddy, who takes the conversation forward.

We can hear you tomorrow at the studio if you have the time, he says, putting his cell phone down on the table and twisting one of his ear piercings. You seem to be a good fit, he adds.

A tryout, I mutter aloud. The men nod at me. I can feel my socks moistening with sweat. My problem: I am terrified of tryouts.

Possibly, I may have internalized a few rejections which left their marks on my soul. I get it that it's just business and people want the best game, and maybe I'm not the best game. I don't want to show this impossible side of me to Adam, who thinks the best for me. He's the only person who trusts my abilities as a musician. Which should make it two people—if I include myself as well. But I don't.

Nervous, and feeling like my hands lack purpose, I grab a water bottle needlessly and start tracing the marks on it with my thumb.

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So you guys are... I say, trying to form a question, but I don't quite know what I am asking. Also, I think no one heard me because Kabir asks me a question instead: For how long have you been playing bass?

Since I was ten, I answer. Because I am sure having a Disney princess guitar doesn't count, the one I played when I was six.

Maddy and Adam are engrossed in a grave conversation.

He takes out a cigarette and asks me if I mind him smoking or if I'd like to join him.

Maybe another time. I don’t like blowing smoke on people’s faces.

That’s fair, he says. Then he asks me if I assist Adam at the workshop.

I tell him I do, but only in the summer. I was a summer student myself, I chuckle in recollection. I've known him since then. Almost ten years now.

I twist the cap of the water bottle and add, It’s not my thing really; I find teaching exhausting. It's fun when Adam's around, though. He knows how to engage me in a classroom.

What's your best style? He asks.

I don't know if it’s my best but I love playing jazz, and I experiment with everything. What about you?

I’m a sound engineer… and Maddy manages the business, he replies, including Maddy’s role in the business as an afterthought, thinking I’d want to know. He waits for me to ask more questions but I don't.

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Maddy has ended the conversation with Adam and is now occupied with his phone, texting, tapping, swiping. He looks up and nods with a grunt.

I wish I could concentrate on the conversation at hand rather than sink into my thoughts. It isn't that I am not interested in what they do at the studio, but the guy next to me, Kabir, is making it almost impossible for me to focus. There is something about him—not just a handsome face, there is depth in his moonly eyes, lit but marred—his pauses; his shifts, while he stops to take a sip, a drag, smoke rising from the burning cigarette between his fingers, moving with each gesture; the moment he takes before starting to talk. A thinker, a worrier. A little cautious, a little prudent.

So, we'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Maddy says to me. I turn in my chair.

Tomorrow? Actually, I won't… I have a thing tomorrow, I say hesitantly.

A thing is universal for nothing, everyone knows that. His eyebrows contract as if he misheard me.

Right, he says. He expects more words from me, which I did plan to add. An explanation as to what ‘my thing’ is, or to express regret, or ask him if we can reschedule. But I take a too-long pause and now I am wondering if I should tell him that I have to go out of town for a few days. Anything that sounds plausible.

I try not to meet Adam’s gaze when I deliver the last lie. Okay, when will you be back? Maddy asks.

Oh, there's no... Uh. I mean, we are visiting family so I have no idea how long I'd have to...

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Both of them look at me, expressionless, not knowing what to make of this conversation. I certainly wasn’t helping. The truth is that this sudden proposal has gutted me and I feel my intestines stirring inside me. There was a time when I would kill for an opportunity like this. But at the time, luck wasn't on my side and nothing worked out. Even though I've moved on, the rejections are still with me. Life has been stagnant for a couple of years and I've been so numb that I have stopped wishing for anything altogether. Sometimes in my ?more ?philosophical ?moods, ?even ?my ?rejections ?and failures have a cosmic meaning behind them. Other times I just cuss my guitar. Right now, I don't know if this should give me hope or if I should be prepared for yet another

rejection.

Kabir takes out a business card from his wallet and hands it to me. Madock Studios, the card says, in steely silver letters, followed by his name and number. I clear my throat and steal a glance at him, ignoring my heart’s reaction to his smile. I feel a blush creeping up at my inanity.

It was nice meeting you, Penny, they say with genuine smiles and cordial handshakes.

I watch them until they are out of sight.

Adam is eyeing me and I have a feeling that I have failed him somehow. I want to thank him for looking out for me. Thank him for thinking about me and not anyone else for today's opportunity, and thank him for making me meet them and not telling me the night before, because of how well he knows me. I probably wouldn’t have shown up at all. I also want to apologize to him and tell him I lied about going

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out of town tomorrow—though he has probably guessed that by now.

What happened there? He asks.

You always look out for me, I say, staring at the water bottle on the table.

Is that a problem?

Yes. Because then I feel bad about letting you down.

Adam looks bewildered, like some men do when they can’t figure out what a woman is trying to say. He shakes his head slightly, to shrug off his thoughts and tells me, You can only guard yourself so much, Penny.

He’s being cool about a situation that is pounding hammers in my head. I am anxious and feel like my brain is in a vise.

He is right, though. I watch him, looking at the crowd in the café in mild dismay, like? he found me? this amazing producer and I am not even considering the possibility.

So how come I didn't know these friends of yours? I ask Adam, swiftly changing the topic, making him even more suspicious of my mood.

You don't know a lot of my friends, he smiles.

He's kind of cute, I say. The words just slip out before I can filter.

Do you want me to pass on the word?

Sure, I laugh, embarrassed. He automatically catches on that I am talking about Kabir. I flip my hair, trying to salvage my pride by treating it as a joke. Then I add: And while we’re at it, do you think he plucks his eyebrows? He looks like he spends a lot of time preening.

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Penny, he says in his mock-disciplinary tone that he uses with me frequently, but there’s warmth in his eyes when he smiles. Then he looks at his watch and vacates his chair saying, I have to pick up Mrs. Peters from the sitter. It's already eleven.

I get up too.

Oh, the doggie. How is she? I say, feigning concern. The truth is, I've seen that dog maybe twice this year and couldn't even remember what she looked like until recently, when Adam posted a picture of her when she had gone missing. He found her after a day with a broken leg—poor thing.

Recovering, he says.

I'll come to see her, I say to him as we head out, suddenly feeling sympathetic towards the dog, for whom I initially had no liking.

Outside, cold winds slap our faces. I blink feverishly and fight hair off my face until vision is restored. Now that it is time to say goodbye, and we move in different directions towards our cars, I feel this strange mix of sadness and contentment. When I grip the steering wheel and shift gears, I feel like I’m leaving one world for another: the world where I really want to be, for the other world where existing seems like a farce, and requires so much effort.

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