Page 81 of The Girl with No Name

The rambler went city to city

She’d been a fool for him just like many

Ooo, Ooo, she thought it was love

All she got was a broken heart

Ooo, Ooo, she thought it was love

She’s an old soul from Chicago

She likes Sinatra and the opera

He’s a rambler from New York City

He likes lyin’ and goodbyin’

When I’m done, cheers of applause erupt.

“You wrote that shit?” Henry says, giving me a slap on the back. “Fuck yeah, man! Where can I listen to it?”

“Nowhere,” I shrug.

“Well, you better get that up on Spotify. Like, right now.”

“I’m not great with recording,” I tell him, rubbing the back of my neck. “More of a live performer.”

“Nah man, you just need a producer. I know a guy in Nashville where we recorded one of our albums—and in Chicago, for that matter.”

“I’d love to get his info.”

He nods. “I’ll shoot it over to it to you.”

The jam session carries on into the wee hours, and it’s legendary. At one point, Dunn comes over and hands me another beer.

“Man, you’ve really come out of your shell this weekend.”

I nod. “Thanks for making me come.”

“I feel bad. You’re not gonna get any shit at work come Monday, are you?”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Legendary, man! I’m tired, though. Like, I think I might pass out.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna head out. You good?”

“Oh, I’m gonna stay until we’re done playing. I can’t leave this scene.”

“Understood. See you back at the hotel in the morning. We leave at oh-nine hundred hours.”

“Roger that.”

Eventually the night fizzles down, and finally it’s just Violet, Henry, Luna, and me sitting around playing.

“I’ve been telling him he needs to believe in himself,” Luna says, pointing to me.

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