Page 73 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Twenty-Six

Small children race around the old park, squealing and laughing in the distance. It’s hard to believe it’s the same equipment I played on as a child. I would’ve thought that the council would have replaced it by now. The see-saw squeaks with the same up-and-down motion that saw me skyrocket to the ground, and break my wrist when I was seven.

“This is some picnic,” he says on an exhale as he settles himself amongst the pillows.

Breaking thoughts of my childhood, I cross my legs, straighten my back, and give my full attention to Sam. Now that I’ve pepped him up with sugar and caffeine, it’s time to talk. I want to know more about Sam outside the four walls of his room. I want to know what makes him tick. What used to drive him. What he hopes for now.

“Do you wanna talk about your music?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, relaxed. “I used to play acoustic guitar, and—”

“What do you mean, ‘you used to’? You say it like you won’t play again.”

His brows pull together. “I had to admit to myself that that was the way it would be. My hands may never be the same again.”

I know he continues to have issues with his hands, but surely that won’t be forever? Maybe I should change tack. “Did you have a band or play solo?”

“Most of the time I was solo, but I had a friend, Felicity, who played violin. She used to do gigs with me occasionally. Otherwise, it was just me.”

“Where did you play?”

“Here and there, but I had regular gigs at this Irish pub in the city, not far from Chinatown. It was such a good joint to play. I had a following, and had my own music for sale on CDs after the show. Ten bucks a pop. I would always sell out.”

Only ten dollars? He might as well have been giving them away for free. “I’d love to listen to one.”

“I’ll see if Ben can get his hands on an album next time he goes to the storage unit.”

I clasp my hands in front of my chest and grin. “I can’t wait.” I wanna hear his music so bad. “Tell me what it was like. Everything: the crowd, the setup, the people who would buy your music.” I nod like an eager student.

Sam angles his head back and gazes up at the clouds. His eyes flit about as if he’s remembering every little detail. A smile slowly curls at his lips before he shifts focus to my face. “Thursdays and Sundays—they were the best days to play by far. You’d get a mix of people, but most of them were pretty laid back—tradies having an after-work beer, backpackers and tourists making the pub their local for however long they were in town. I’d set up late arvo and continue on after dark when the dancing would start. I used to love watching people let loose, set themselves free. Music is so powerful like that.”

“I love to dance. It’s good for the soul. You know, after I sawDirty Dancingwhen I was a teenager, I wanted to take dance lessons.”

“It wasn’t the whole Swayze thing that made you do that?”

I shrug. “It might’ve been. May he rest in peace, but he had some pretty incredible moves.” Who wouldn’t want to bump and grind with that?

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam grumbles, shuffling his legs as if he’s uncomfortable. Oh god.Have I put my foot in it with talk of dancing?

“What was your favourite part about performing?” I say, to shift focus back to him.

A wide smile meets his eyes. “When I’d pick up my guitar and sit on the worn leather stool in the corner. The publican, Damo, used to call out across the pub, ‘Sing it, Sam’. The crowd, no matter how small, would clap and whistle, and then I’d start playing.”

My hand rushes to my chest as a chill runs through me. “Oh my god, Sam. I just got goosebumps.”

I picture it now: the atmosphere and rumble of the pub in the evening filled with jolly and eager patrons, wolf-whistling and cheering him on. There’s Sam, sitting on a stool, ready to gift the crowd with his music and angelic voice.

He shakes his head from side to side and sighs. “God, I miss hearing those words. Talking about it, and remembering what it was like on the stage, I realise I miss it ... more than I thought I did. It feels like a lifetime ago.”

I reach out and squeeze his shoulder. “Would you sing for me?”

He blinks a few times in quick succession before he opens his mouth. “What would you want me to sing?”

“Anything. I’m sure you’d make a gold record singing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’.”

“You’ve never heard me sing, though. My voice ... it isn’t the same as it was. When I had the tube”—he motions towards his throat—“it did some damage.”

“I have heard you, remember? That first day we met. Your little Katy Perry rendition.”

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