Page 60 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

It was at that moment I shunted aside my trepidation and found my gumption. I was Leo McCaslin. I wasn’t going to be pushed around. I took a breath, ready to rock.

“Thanks, Jimmy.” The roadie handed me a new mic. I walked to the center of the stage. “We’re all here to see The English Patients, not listen to speeches. Am I right?”

The crowd wasn’t sure whether or not to applaud.

“Well, my wonderful boyfriend Dusty challenged me to a bet.” Dusty’s name got some cheers, and I pointed him out in the crowd. “He said ‘Leo, even though it’s been a long while since you fronted your own band, you can still rock with the best of them.’”

A low rumble of curious cheers emanated from the crowd. That was enough wind to keep me sailing.

“Rather than say something boring like ‘Have a great show’ or ‘Thank you to our Chamber of Commerce,’ Dusty said I should pick up a guitar and play.”

The cheers got louder. Even though everyone was here for The English Patients, at this moment, the stage was mine; the crowd was mine.

The crowd went silent again, hanging on my every word. I found Dusty in the crowd and winked at him. “For those who didn’t read about it inThe Sourwood Gazette, I was in a rock band in college. Yep, before I thought about the law and government, I was thinking about trying to be the next English Patient.” I spun around to Jimmy. “Or pre-English Patient, since it was before your time.” Back to the crowd. “I thought I was the next Dave Grohl. We weren’t half bad. We played all over campus.”

“What was your band’s name?” Jimmy asked, his interest piqued.

“Because the band was made up of members of the Speech and Debate team—yes, we were that cool—we called ourselves…” I paused for embarrassed emphasis. “The Master Debaters.”

The crowd came alive with laughter. Barrels of it. Jimmy tried to resist, but he couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Are you serious, man?” Jimmy asked, failing at holding in his laughter.

“In our defense, this was the era of the Butthole Surfers. Anyway,” I spun on my heel. “Jimmy, could I play a song with you guys?”

“Play a song? With us?” Jimmy seemed caught off-guard, which was the point, but he seemed into it.

“I know you’re a big Foo Fighters fan. I already said I pretty much idolized Dave Grohl. Do you know ‘Everlong’?”

Jimmy threw his head back and laughed. “Seriously? That’s one of my favorite songs to cover.”

I tipped my imaginary hat to Vernita for quickly coming upon that tidbit in her frantic, last-minute research.

“Yeah, what the hell.” Jimmy checked with the other bandmates, who nodded in agreement. “Let’s do it!”

The roadie ran out with an extra guitar and plugged it into the amp. My hands were slick with nervous sweat, but adrenaline was going to carry me through. He handed the guitar and earplugs to me.

And once I put the guitar strap on, the crowd truly went wild. They could’ve heard us up in Canada.

“You ready, man?” Jimmy asked.

Rita grimaced from the wings. It was a glorious sight. Dusty mooned at me from the crowd like I was fucking Superman. Nowthatwas a glorious sight.

I leaned into his microphone. “Let’s rock.”

Jimmy smashed his lips to the microphone. “One. Two. One two three four!”

It turned out Dusty was right. Playing guitar was like riding a bike. I was the kid inE.T.riding his bike over the moon.

Muscle memory took over my fingers as they plucked the immortal first chords of “Everlong.” The music hurtled me twenty years back in time. There I was on stage at college shows, small crowds jamming out. Barely a cell phone in sight. The only space I knew was that stage, that bar. Each note I played unlocked more skills and made me more confident. My fingers zipped up and down the guitar, keeping up note for note with The English Patients. After circling the stage, Jimmy ran to his microphone to start singing.

I barely made out the lyrics over the music and the cheering. The crowd was aglow with cell phones raised in the air, even a few lighters for us older folks. Electricity crackled in the air. Sourwood was alive.

And I was immortal. I transcended space and time, playing in tune with my younger self, playing with The English Patients, singing until my throat went raw. Sweat soaked through my crisp button-down shirt.

I smooshed next to Jimmy’s microphone to join him for the chorus, something I used to do at old shows. To say the crowd went wild was an understatement. Sourwood was losing its collective mind. I looked down at my fingers, amazed at what they could remember, calluses reforming on the skin, sweat trickling down my face.

Jimmy glanced back at me and gave a nod. He was asking if I was ready for the ending. I jammed out on the guitar, rocking the final chords of the song until my fingers wanted to bleed.

---