Page 5 of Your Rhythm
“I don’t know how great your French is,” he tells me, quieter now that we’re far away from all the speakers, “but this means ‘closed for the season.’”
I scrunch up my nose, another one of Tipsy Kay’s habits.
“I know that. We’re just using the staircase, anyways. Come on.”
I set my beer down a few stairs up and duck under the sign. Everything’s going fine until I try to straighten up on the other side and start to tip backwards down the stairs again.
“Easy there, ninja.”
One of Matt’s hands comes to rest on the small of my back while the other grabs my arm, holding me upright until I can catch my balance.
“Real stealthy,” he jokes.
His hand’s still pressing into my back.
“I’m good now,” I tell him, reaching for my bottle and then continuing up the stairs. “You coming?”
We take a seat on a step about halfway up. Our faces are masked by shadow, with only the dim glow at the foot of the stairs shedding any light on us. The metal in Matt’s eyebrow glints, and the sudden intimacy of the moment strikes me. I can hear him breathing, feel the vibrations of his knee bouncing up and down just an inch away from mine on the narrow step.
“So,” he begins, voice pitched low, “what do you want to know?”
I try to speak, and end up having to swallow and clear my throat before I do.
“Let’s start with how you got your name.”
“Well that’s an easy one. On the day I was born—”
“Theband’sname.”
He laughs, and away from all the noise downstairs, I realize how deep and full the sound is.
“I know. Just thought you might be curious.”
“I’m curious about how fast we can finish this interview so I can finally get home to bed. Also, do you mind if I start recording now?”
“Be my guest.”
I pull my phone out and fidget with it for a minute until I get the recording going, then set it down on the step between us.
“So, the band’s name?” I prompt.
“Right. JP, our keyboardist, has an uncle who runs a big realty firm out of a house next to Sherbrooke Station. Back when we were students living with a million roommates and needed somewhere to practice, JP snagged us the house’s basement as a spot. We could do whatever we wanted with the place, as long as we didn’t make noise when the firm was working. We all sent each other so many ‘I’ll meet you at Sherbrooke Station’ texts that it just seemed to fit.”
“Very DIY,” I comment. “So tell me more about the rest of the band. JP’s the only French Canadian, right?”
Matt chuckles. “Oh yeah, very much so. He’s about as francophone as they come. His full name is Jean-Paul Marc Joseph Bouchard-Guindon. I said he’s our keyboardist, but really he’s also our xylophonist slash harmonica-ist slash whatever new instrument he just found in a yard sale-ist. He can play pretty much anything that makes noise.”
“And your bassist is Cole Byrne?”
“Our resident Man of Mystery. You’re lucky you didn’t have to end up interviewinghim. He lets his bass do most of his talking for him.”
I nod. “And then there’s Ace Turner.”
Matt’s knee stops bouncing and the tendons in his forearms stand out as he squeezes his hands into fists.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice flat, “and then there’s Ace.”
My journalist senses are tingling.
