Page 95 of String Boys
Seth could deal with him as a musician, but he made Seth nervous.
It wasn’t that he was unfriendly or threatening. He just stared at Seth from the corner of his eye, like he expected Seth to do something super excessively interesting or something.
But he played. Together they played three nights a week, and oh, thank you God, this was their last gig until after Monterey.
“You looking almost happy there, Fiddler,” Guthrie said as they were setting up. “All excited about Christmas?”
Christmas? Christmas was three days away, and Seth would be alone in the dorms, mostly. Everybody else got to go home.
But the day after….
“I see my family the twenty-sixth.” Big breath. Kelly. But he didn’t talk about Kelly at the Stomp, because why would he?
“Mom, Dad, kid sister?” Guthrie prodded.
“Dad. Family friends. Going to the ocean.”
Guthrie blinked slowly. “Girlfriend?” he implied slyly. “Boyfriend?”
Seth could feel the blush rising to the surface of his skin and couldn’t fight it. But it was dim in the bar, and he was pretty sure he could hide it. “Friend,” he replied, his voice as mild as soap.
Guthrie let out a frustrated sigh. “Fiddler, I’m trying to get to know you. Do you mind?”
Seth shrugged. “I’m very average,” he said with no irony at all.
Guthrie burst out laughing, so hard he dropped the power cord he’d been hooking up. Seth ignored him and Butch’s irritated, “Goddammit, boy, get your ass in gear!” and continued to work doggedly at his tasks.
He played well that night. He knew it in his bones, and even though he didn’t care for the music or the venue—too loud, too much shouting—and he hated the now-familiar smell of beer, the thought gave him pride.
When they were done—“The Devil Went Down to Georgia” being their finale—the crowd was silent for a moment and then rose to their feet. Someone in a sentimental mood called out, “Christmas! Christmas music! Christmas!”
Butch grimaced because they hadn’t worked up any Christmas music—they’d had a tough time putting together the forty-five-minute set they had, given everybody had a day job—and Seth spoke up quietly.
“I know some,” he said, because he’d pretty much cut his teeth on the school Christmas program. Nobody here would mind that it was simple. They wanted… sentimental.
Butch nodded at him. “Go ahead, boy.”
Seth played “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” and “Carol of the Bells” and, in the end, “Hallelujah.”
The crowd held their breath through three songs—not moving, not twitching, not even breathing—and Seth closed his eyes and thought of Kelly. Thought of home.
When he was done, there was an awestruck silence, a lovely, peaceful blanket of quiet, like snow, and then sincere and heartfelt applause.
Seth bowed deeply once and smiled shyly, before turning around and inviting the band for their final bow too.
Someone passed a Santa hat around, where it ended up full on the corner of the stage.
It was a luminous moment, transcendent, and Seth was lost in the haze of it as they packed up and people emptied out of the bar.
He found himself alone in the parking lot, in the thinning traffic, circling around behind the bar toward the bus station.
“Hey! Fiddler!”
Seth pulled his windbreaker up to his ears, cold because he didn’t really have a cold-weather coat, and turned toward Guthrie as he came out with his last drum case.
“Don’t take off so fast. We’ve got some money for you. I can give you a ride if you want one.”
“It’s an hour away,” Seth said, eyebrows raised, and Guthrie half laughed.
