Page 18 of Caught in a Storm
Billy’s grandma taught him to play. She was a long-fingered natural, but a classicist, so she insisted Billy learn by playing the oldest, deadest, malest artists in the history of music. When he started Beats by Billy, he hung signs downstairs at Charm City Rocks and in coffee shops and bus shelters around the neighborhood. He included his tagline and general philosophy: “Because Music Should Be Fun.” He let his students play what they wanted to play—whatever they wanted to play—and it somehow worked. People liked it. They liked him.
When his grandma passed away ten years ago, she left him a modest sum of money. She labeled it “Billy’s Steinway Fund” in her will. It wasn’t quite enough, so Billy made up the rest by selling his old Yamaha piano and digging into his savings. The first song he played on the Steinway was “Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C Major” by Bach, in his grandma’s honor. The delivery guys hadn’t left yet, so they stood and listened, still sweating from hauling the gorgeous monster up the narrow metal staircase that ran around the side of Charm City Rocks to his door.
“Wow, man, you’re really good.”
“Thanks.”
He stares down now at the bass staff on his sheet music while his left hand struggles to produce something that sounds like rock and roll. Like most Burnt Flowers songs, “Power Pink” starts with drums. He’s been at it for nearly two hours, and his head is starting to hurt. This is work, technically, but what Billy’s really doing is thinking about Margot Hammer.
Is it possible to miss someone you only knew for five minutes? He figures yes, especially if you’ve also known that person for twenty years.
“Hey, Billy! Billy! Wherefore art thou, Billy?”
He goes to the window and finds Gustavo standing on the sidewalk.
“Hey, sexy,” his friend says. “What’re you playing? I don’t recognize it.”
“Oh, nothing,” Billy says. “Just working on some lesson plans.”
The lights are dim at Hot Twist. Gustavo has hung up his Back in 15 mins sign. “Come get a beer with me, then,” he says. “I wanna be at least a little buzzed for the nighttime rush.”
Billy looks at his notes sprawled across the lid of the Steinway.
“I think that cover band is playing at the Horse,” says Gustavo.
“Um.”
“Please?” says Gustavo. “It’s your day off, right? Saturday night. Your pretty piano can wait ’til tomorrow.”
Chapter 11
The beer that Margot is drinking isn’t good. It’s called National Bohemian, but the bartender called it “Natty Boh,” and she told Margot it’s the official beer of Baltimore. The logo is weird: a cartoon man with one eye and a big mustache.
When she sat down alone at the bar over an hour ago, the bartender gave her that look that people give her when they know who she is but aren’t sure they should say anything. The closest she’s come since to acknowledging Margot’s identity was when she asked, “So, what’s someone like you doing in a place like this, hon?” as she dropped off Margot’s second Natty Boh.
Good question. Margot wasn’t sure. Two Natty Bohs later, she still isn’t.
The Horse You Came In On is exactly as she’d imagined it’d be: stuffy, ordinary, a little sticky. She takes a sip of her beer and spies a sticker on the mirror above the bar: I Got Crabs In Baltimore. The nearby TVs are playing several different baseball games. The Baltimore team, the Orioles, are playing in Chicago, and they’re losing badly.
The fact that Natty Boh is kind of shitty doesn’t mean Margot doesn’t like it. All beer is kind of shitty, after all, like something you try on a dare—sushi or hot yoga. The reason people drink it in the first place, she’s convinced, is because of the associations they make when they taste it, and Margot thinks of going to rock shows with Nikki in tiny clubs before they were famous. She thinks of the early days of Burnt Flowers, huddling in back rooms next to hot water pipes with her bandmates while they waited to go onstage.
She left her hotel fighting back tears, but now she’s edging toward anger. This is often Margot’s emotional journey—an initial shock of sadness followed by a quick trip to rage—and she remembers how it felt when her drumstick cracked in her right hand all those years ago, just before she kicked her drum kit across the stage, live on MTV.
“Another Boh, hon?” asks the bartender. She’s a big lady, late middle age. Her name is Beth, and if Margot isn’t mistaken, she has a full-on perm.
“Yeah, okay,” says Margot.
Beth sets the bottle down. “You aren’t paying for any of these, by the way. My treat, hon. It’s an honor having you.”
“Thanks,” says Margot.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything before, because I was trying to be cool,” says Beth. “But I figure I’ll just go ahead and tell you. I think my first son was conceived to ‘Power Pink.’ ”
People have said a lot of things to Margot over the years, but no one’s said that. “Well, now I’m honored,” she says. “Short song, though. Like two minutes, thirty seconds.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” says Beth. “Enjoy the Bohs, hon. I’ll keep ’em coming.”
Margot looks up at the TV just as Baltimore’s baseball team loses. Someone on the other end of the bar shouts, “You bums!” A band is setting up on a small stage at the other end of the bar. Two guys and two girls, young looking, and Margot tries to guess who’s in love with whom, because someone’s always in love with someone.
