Page 30 of Waiting for Gilbert

I circle half of today’s list and mark them for later. Then I snatch my phone to take care of the easiest one.

Cordelia: Marky Mark! Busy day. I’m determined to meet my deadline because I’m a freaking boss. Sorry I bothered you last night. Hope you get a nap today.

I cross off number nine.

Mark: Glad you’re alive.

Cordelia: Why were you so worried? I can take care of myself.

Mark: I’ll ignore that you call in the middle of the night on a weekly basis.

Cordelia: *GIF of Ash throwing a Pokemon ball with “I choose you!” along the bottom*

Mark: Get to work. In a meeting, and my boss is throwing me dirty looks.

Cordelia: Tell him it’s a family emergency

Mark: Her. She’d tell me to clock out and take care of it on my own time. Ciao.

Cordelia: Chow.

Before I become distracted by doom scrolling, avoidance research, or randomly texting more friends, I turn my phone off and hide it in the silverware drawer. I punch the air a few times to increase blood flow and decidetoday is the daythat I start writing blurbs for this cookbook… after I write a new item on my list.

19: Ask Gilbert to marry me.

Haha. Just kidding. I cross it off. Scribble scribble scribble until the whole line is covered in ink and nobody will ever know that I’m a crazy person.

13

GILBERT

SURVIVOR—EYE OF THE TIGER

“Pivot! Pivot!” John directs from the stair landing below. He’s been yelling random instructions since we hauled the mattress out of his Grandma’s upstairs bonus room. I set my end on the toe of my boot and rest my bandaged forearm on the mattress. A strumming pulse of a bass guitar has taken residence in my arm, but it’s still wrapped tight from last night—er, this morning—so I’m not worried about pulling stitches.

“Gil! What’re you doing?” John’s question comes with a laugh before he drops his corner. “I’ve got thirteen minutes before they send out the dogs. Let’s go.”

“You don’t get the full hour for lunch?”

“Manager training videos. They keep trying to promote me so they can have someone else open and close, and I don’t have the heart to turn them down.”

“Come with a pay raise?”

“Yeah, but then I’m awarded the curse of inventory. I hate every minute of inventory. Now, what we really need to do is record?—”

“At least it’s steady work.”

“Steady work at the grocery is great for paying bills.” He sighs. “You’ve got to look at our numbers on the website, and our YouTube channel is on the cusp of going viral. I won’t have to stock shelves for long.”

John records our practice sessions and has a number of our original songs on file somewhere. Thanks to his work, I gave a CD to Aunt Jewels last year for Christmas. He’s got bigger plans though. He wants to schedule regular gigs in the city. He wants to sell our music and get merch and tour coast to coast. John thinks a few uploads to Spotify will have us set for life.

I’m not willing to bet anything on it. I love the shows we’ve done so far. But when he starts talking about opening for other bands, or following some kind of promotional schedule across multiple states, I don’t know what to tell him. What’s so wrong with playing at local events, church, and family gatherings? A few weddings here and there, a few events in the surrounding cities. I love writing and playing music. But I don’t trust it for a living.

Maybe flipping houses isn’t any more reliable than selling my music. For some reason the work with tools and lumber feels more secure. People always need their houses fixed. Music? It’s for the dreamers—music could never support a family full-time unless you make it big in a city. I’m not cut out for that kind of life.

I jerk my chin to signal John to pick up his end. “Ready. Up.” We haul the double mattress into the bedroom and lean it against the wall.

John whistles in approval. “You’ve been busy.”

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