Page 20 of Faux Real
She scoffs. “I’m just doing my job, Oliver.”
“Yeah, well you should quit,” I observe, kick-starting the bike. “Otherwise, you’ll graduate with no friends.”
“I have all the friends I need,” she says, her face falling slightly. “Everyone else is dispensable.”
I chuckle, mildly amused at her outlook. “A bit cold-blooded, aren’t we?”
“Sometimes you have to be,” she mutters, checking her watch. “Shit. I’m late.” She narrows her earthy eyes at me. “Take the sidewalk next time, okay? Last warning.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, saluting her before accelerating and riding away.
This is the second time she’s given me awarning. I’m starting to think she’s bullshitting and won’t actually nail me with an infraction. She can talk-the-talk but I don’t think she can walk-the-walk. Despite what she says, I’m sure being the most hated person in our class doesn’t feel good. But at least no one talks to her.
Maybe I should be an SLO.
“Hey man, can I help you find anything?”
“Nah,” I say, flipping through the records. “I’m just browsing.”
“Aight, well just lemme know if you need any help.”
I flicker my gaze to the middle-aged man with blond dreadlocks and glazed over red eyes. “Thanks,” I mutter as I move to the next section. They have some good shit in here, but I don’t even own a record player so buying a vinyl would be useless. I pause in front of a corkboard with various posters hung up. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s a community bulletin board,” he explains from across the room. “We post local shows on there and shit.”
“Oh,” I hum, scanning the posters. It’s mostly dad-rock gigs, at least based on the band names. My eyes land on a hand-drawn poster in black sharpie.
Drummer wanted for an alt-rock band
Influences: Nirvana. Soundgarden. Alice in Chains
Tryouts September 8 and 9
4 pm - 7pm
The Garage
“Oi,” I call out, turning toward the stoned associate. “What’s The Garage?”
“It’s a bar down the street,” he explains. “Just two blocks over, one block down.”
“Huh,” I hum, turning my attention back to the poster. They’re looking for a drummer. This might give me something to do in my spare time. They seem to have decent music taste. Maybe Mycroft County is more than just picket fences. I snap a photo of the poster and head out the door.
“Have a good one!”
“Yeah,” I mumble before jolting down the stairs. I didn’t bring my drum kit with me to America for obvious reasons but if they have one I can use then this might just work out.
I walk two blocks down toward The Garage, keeping my eyes open for the bar. Flashing red neon lights grab my attention and I pause in front of the grungy establishment, its windows graffitied. Maybe it’s part of the aesthetic. Opening the wooden door, I head inside.
“ID?” the bouncer asks, and I fish out my wallet, passing him an old copy of my brother’s driver’s license. Moron thought he lost it one night and got a new one. Little did he know I snagged it from his room. He’s five years older than me but we look almost identical. “Alright, thanks.”
“Where’s the band auditions?” I ask.
“Basement,” he says, nodding toward the hallway.
The bar is empty with only a couple of old fucks sipping Budweisers. I suppose it’s a weekday so it’s not peak drinking time yet. When I get down to the basement, I’m greeted by the pungent smell of weed and the hacking coughs of three college kids.
“Hey,” I say, sauntering toward them, tossing them a nod. “I heard you’re looking for a drummer?”
