This is nothing, I tell myself. I’ve played in bigger places. I’ve played on the street and gotten crowds to gather. This is just a little restaurant in a little city and the stakes aren’t high. I’m not really going to stay. Even if Robert wants me to, even if Ethan does, I’ll probably still go back to Florida. I’m singing for my supper. I’m leaving in the morning. That’s all.
But when the clock over the door says it’s six fifty-seven and I’m supposed to start playing at seven and there are only two tables of people, and one of them has just paid their bill and is getting up to leave, I have to breathe really deep a few times to get my hands to stop shaking.
I start with a cover of Wild World. Because as much as I’d prefer to play my own stuff all the time, people like covers. They like to know the songs you’re singing. I always change something—sing it at a different tempo or do a new arrangement—but hold on to the heart of the song so it’s just familiar enough. The audience listens harder then, like it’s a quiz. Can they figure out the song before I sing the chorus? And then they’re invested, so I can slip in a few of my own songs too. I can only get away with playing a solid set of originals at places like Arnie’s where the crowd knows me. Even then, I’ll throw in a couple of covers, just to fuck with them. Something silly we can all sing together, like Girls Just Want to Have Fun or the theme song to Mannequin, because we’re all drunk and in it together at that point.
Here, I’ll stick to classics. The couple who stay are boomers: the man wears a really big shiny watch, and his wife has her hair cut into a sleek silvery bob. So I play the stuff they would have heard on the radio when they were in college. When they wore daisies in their hair and made vees with their fingers.
They don’t applaud after Wild World, but when I play the opening chords of Like a Rolling Stone, the man nods his balding head in approval. And by the time I play You’re So Vain, they’re singing along. They don’t leave, even after they finish eating. They order more coffee and turn their chairs to watch me play. But no one else is coming in, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Ethan sits at a table in the corner by himself and orders a bowl of soup and a glass of wine. The waitress and the busboy stop to watch me. There’s not much else for them to do. At the end of my songs they clap almost as loudly as Ethan does and it keeps the applause from sounding painfully thin.
Finally, another couple comes in. Mid-twenties. Awkward with each other, like it’s a first date. He keeps watching me instead of paying attention to what she’s saying. I want to stop and tell him that the poor girl got all dressed up to impress him and he better damn well pay attention to her.
I play I Can’t Make You Love Me by Bonnie Raitt and then Alone by Heart. The girl even turns around to clap when I’m done. Ethan stands and whistles.
Robert comes over to see me. “That was fantastic! Want to take a break and eat dinner?” His face is shiny. It must be hot in the kitchen. His t-shirt sticks to his back.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m not big on eating between sets.”
“Alright,” he says. “But let me get you some tea or something.”
Before I can say anything else, he goes into the kitchen and comes back with a tall glass of iced tea and a plate of toasted bread with some kind of tomatoey stuff on top. “Just in case you’re a little hungry,” he says as he hands it to me.
Robert goes back to the kitchen, and Ethan comes over to sit with me at the table closest to the makeshift stage.
“You’re amazing,” he says, putting his hand over mine and giving it a squeeze. “I’m so proud of you.”
It’s a weird thing to say. Pride for someone else always seemed to me like it had to come from seeing the journey. You knew how hard it was for them to get there and you felt invested in their success. But Ethan says it with assurance. Maybe it’s enough to understand that there’s been a journey. Maybe he’s tricked himself into actually believing we’re already in the middle of our friendship. I don’t think I mind. It’s nice to have someone rooting for me.
I eat two of the toast things. The tomato bits explode in my mouth, kind of like that gum that has a liquid center. Only this is a pure, clean taste that makes me remember the little tomato plants Margo always tried to grow on her fire escape in the summer. I could eat forever. But I stop so I don’t get that dull, thick feeling in my stomach when I try to play my next set.