Page 56 of Dear Pink

Homer watches me pass his tank for the hundredth time, his eyes tracking me. “I can’t do this one, Homer. No way in hell.” He slides his head inside his shell. “If I had a shell, I’d hide too.” Does he hear me in there?

I eyeball my guitar leaning against the wall. “Fine.” Grabbing it, I plop heavy onto the sofa and strum. Two hours later, I play a few chords resembling music, but I still sound rusty.

When I search for Café 210 on my phone, “Open Mic Night Tonight! All Performers Welcome,” blinks on the home screen.

“Really, Libby? Tonight?” Libby’s roaring with laughter in my head. I guess there’s no time like the present to humiliate yourself.

I walk over to Homer’s tank. “Fake it till you make it and all the other mumbo jumbo shit,” I tell him as I sprinkle fresh kale in his tank. I chuckle, imagining the Kale Queen eating this turtle snack.

Thinking of work gives me an idea. Inviting Maude and June to the bar might be smart planning. I’d have support at least. Two people cheering for me are better than none. June and Maude won’t boo me off stage.

I pop off a group text.

It’s last minute, but I’m performing at an open mic tonight. Café 210. Doors open at 8:00.

I wait for a minute. No response. I check the time, and it’s already 6:00. Should I text Gabe? Do I want him to see me perform? If I fall flat on my face, I might as well fall hard.

Before I change my mind, I text him.

Hey. Tonight Café 210 has their open mic at 8:00. I’m gonna perform if there’s availability. Maybe see you there?

Hovering my finger over send, I stop. Should I add a scared emoji? A happy face? I can’t decide what emotion to project, so I hit send and throw my phone in the guitar case. No sense in waiting for a reply. I need to find my lucky Betty Boop T-shirt which possesses the positive voodoo power essential for tonight.

***

The crowded bar closes in on me. I’m next in line and my leg won’t stop jiggling. I swig my glass of whiskey and focus on the performance.

The man currently on stage plays an emotional violin piece. His bow flies across the strings with fantastic melody, but no one listens. Classical music doesn’t inspire this beer-drinking crowd. If this bar were any other space, he would have the audience’s full attention.

I watch him wrap up and cheer loudly. He gives me a headshake and a grateful smile. Maybe he’ll stick around and give me a reciprocal pity cheer.

They call my name, and I trudge onstage. My feet move forward, but the ground transforms into a heavy swamp. Damn you, Libby. I want to run and hide, not stand in front of a crowd letting my freak hang out.

I scoot a stool in front of the mic and peer at the mostly drunk faces. I don’t recognize anyone. Damn it. My friends didn’t show.

I shake off the gloom and speak into the mic. “Hi, guys.” The feedback creates loud pops and screeches. The entire audience collectively moans, clasping their ears. Son of a monkey. Lucky for me, a hunky bartender runs on stage and adjusts the soundboard.

“Thank you. Not the tune I aimed to play.”

The mic projects my conversation, and the crowd cracks up. I’ve got their attention now. I strum my guitar, checking if it’s tuned, and freeze. Holy hell. I’m on stage in front of strangers, baring my soul. This is demented. Heat rises fast to my face, making a bead of sweat trickle between my breasts. The trickle of another one rolls down my forehead. Great. I’ll dissolve into an oozing puddle in no time.

Bar hoppers eye me from the floor. I must be beet red. My palms itch, and I’m immobilized for a full minute. The audience moves around in their seats, restless. They came here tonight for entertainment. Will they throw tomatoes if I don't play? Will they throw them if I do play? Damn it. Do I remember how to play?

Libby whispers in my ear.Hannah, you are a strong independent woman. You can do this.

I reposition my pick and strum the song for Libby. I’m four chords in when a cheer erupts from a table of women in the audience. They recognize the melody. A minute later, a whistle comes from a booth to the far left. I lift my head, and Maude and June have their arms in the air, sending me encouraging waves.

“Break a leg, Hannah,” June shouts.

I’m uncertain you say those words to a music performer, but I channel her support into my fingers. Before long, I play the song for myself, too.

I finish the opening and break into the lyrics to “Give Me One Reason” by Tracy Chapman. My voice is powerful and confident. Holy tacos, I might actually rock this performance. I forget the audience and fall into the chorus.

Suddenly, a man from the audience rushes the stage with an electric guitar in hand. He plugs into the speaker and begins playing. My entire body buzzes. The crowd stands and cheers us on. He plays like a pro, and we legitimately jam together.

“Encore,” a male voice shouts when we finish the song. It’s the MC.

Electric guitar guy flips his hair and says, “You lead the way.”

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