Page 7 of The Girl with No Name

After work, I head home to my apartment in Old Town. I change out of my suit and put the ring on top of my dresser, then grab my guitar and write out the rest of the song that sparked this morning. Once I’ve practiced playing it through a few times, I venture out into the living room where my roommate, Mason, is still working—or playing video games on his computer. I can never tell which.

He and I are friends from college, and he works from home full time, consulting for a big company.

“Ready to bounce?” I ask.

“Sure thing, rock-star boy,” Mason answers, shutting his laptop and getting up from his desk.

We’re going to an open-mic night together this evening.

We find where I last parked my car, and once we’re on the way, I throw the rough version of the song I recorded after work on the car stereo. “I think I’m gonna play this one tonight. I call it ‘Why So Serious?’”

Mason doesn’t frown, but he appears disinterested. After about thirty seconds, he says, “I’ve got a friend who’s a full-time musician. He comes on the boat with us up at Bobby’slake house, with our high school friends. And he was always all, ‘Guys, listen to my single!’ So we made a rule: no playing your own songs.”

Mason turns off my song, connects his Spotify to the car stereo, and switches the music. “See? This is his song.”

I balk slightly at the irony that Mason just turned off my demo recording in favor of this other guy’s crappier song to prove a point about not playing crappy music, but I nod. “Ah, okay. Doesn’t sound too bad, honestly.”

“Yeah. That’s what professional production will do for you.”

I park on a side street, and we walk over to the bar hosting the open mic right across from Wrigley Field.

We get some beers and sit down, watching the other musicians for a while. Then it’s my turn.

In my view from the stage, the crowd is sparse—not that it matters to me, since I’m an amateur. I recognize a couple of the faces as regulars. Mostly, though, the people in the bar are just spacing out and eating or drinking, probably thinking about what they’re going to sing once they get their five minutes on stage tonight. But I still give it my all. I perform what I have so far of “Why so Serious?”

Why so serious?

You’re thinkin’ way too hard

No one cares that much about you

Or if Elon will make it to Mars

Take a load off, hold up your torch

And let yourself go

Red sundress sways on the back porch

She knows how to feel the flow

“Yeah, the song is okay,” Mason says when I sit back down. “You’re not really a performer, though. No offense. Not your strong suit.”

“None taken.” I try to feign a smile, pretend like the comment doesn’t affect me. But the truth is, it does. “It’s not like I’m a professional, though.”

“Right. You’re just messing around.”

“Yeah. It’s a hobby.”

“Anyway, let’s enjoy the night. By the way, didn’t mean to barge in on you in the bathroom earlier. I didn’t think you were home.”

I shrug. “No worries.”

“Man to man, you’ve got a fine dick. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Mason speaks loudly, and I can see the women one table over stealing glances at us.

He goes on. “I’ve got a great one, though. That’s for sure. Have you ever seen it? You should see it. I forget if you’ve seen it or not.”

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