7. Quinn
quinn
. . .
O ver the past few days, I’ve done everything I can to ignore my sister, and she’s done everything she can to not only drive it home that she’s not going to give up but to also annoy the crap out of me. Elle has even gone as far as not only telling Peyton that I’m being unreasonable but to send a singing clown to my door, who rattled off some jingle while making me a balloon animal hat. Honestly, I got a kick out of the hat and wore it around my apartment. The freaky ass clown I could’ve done without.
My home away from home, my sanctuary, is this little hole in the wall coffee shop turned dive bar called the Bean Song. I’ve never really understood the name and often thought about asking the manager, Zeke, the idea behind it, but it never seems to come up in conversation.
When I arrive for my set, Zeke is showing, who I suspect is the new girl, around. The turnover rate here is ridiculous, but honestly, that’s Los Angeles. Most of the people who stroll through are looking for their big break and most realize after a few weeks that working here isn’t going to pay the bills. Even for me, if I didn’t have my trust fund to rely on, I’d have to get a real job, and with no qualifications, that would be hard. That being said, I tend to stay away from the waitstaff. There’s no point in getting to know someone, only to have them leave. Most of them have been nice over the years, making sure I have what I need. That’s the extent of our relationship, oddly enough, I’m okay with it.
The woman Zeke is speaking with now looks scared. I’m willing to bet her eyes are wide open as she listens to him just by the way her hands are wringing together. I stand here and watch her for a minute, with her long brown and blonde highlighted hair pulled high into a ponytail. Thanks to my sisters, I know everything about high and lowlights. This new waitress is somewhat of average height and if I had to wager a guess, a bit taller than the twins. That’s not saying much when I stand well over six feet, thanks to my dad.
She looks over here, almost as if she knew I was staring. We make eye contact from across the busy kitchen before I turn and walk down the small hallway and into the green room, which is painted what Zeke calls a calming yellow.
Inside the room is our usual Friday night crew. Aside from me, we have a piano player, who once tried to play with me, but completely threw me off rhythm so I had to ask him to stop. Honestly, that didn’t go over very well. Also, there’s a poet who’s going to tell us about her week. Most of the time, she has it rough. She lives on the street, panhandling her way to a living. I’ve offered to help, but she refuses, says she’s going to make it on her own someday. That doesn’t mean I don’t have one of the waitresses slip her something extra in her bucket. Another performer is a one-man band. He has one of those contraptions where he plays a drum, strums his guitar, blows into his harmonica and sings. The dude has some serious talent. I’m not sure I could manage the multi-tasking it takes to pull that off. There are a few others in here, newbies, all pacing the floor or tuning their devices.
“Hey,” I say to the normal crew. Only Larry, the piano man, acknowledges me.
The little poet, who won’t tell us her name, makes eye contact quickly but turns away. It’s cool, we have a silent understanding. I don’t ask if she’s okay and she doesn’t bother me. I just hope she knows that if she were to ever need anything, I’d be there to help her out.
One of the newbies vomits their dinner in the trashcan, making the room smell horribly. We scramble to open the door and the window, but it’s hot outside and the air is stifling.
“Sorry, I’m nervous.”
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” I say, pointing toward the wall. “We’ve all been there. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“But for the love of all things holy, puke someplace else.” That’s another newbie talking, but by the looks of her get-up, this isn’t her first open mic night. She likely considers herself a professional. My guess is she moonlights in a band, does the occasional wedding and has probably played at the county fair. Way ahead of me, if in fact, I’m right about her. I usually am. I’ve been around the scene long enough to spot the veterans.
“Here’s the line-up for tonight.” Zeke tacks it to the wall. Most of the time I end up last. Not a problem, except it makes for a long wait, especially when I’ve been here for a few hours.
It’s like an audition sheet, everyone in the room is clamoring to get a look, all except the poet and me. We hang back, waiting. The diva, well she doesn’t much like her spot and is going on and on about how her fans expect her to take the stage at ten tonight. She pulls out her phone and starts typing. Between her nails and the sound of her keyboard, the noise is grating.
The poet won’t look as long as there’s a bunch of people in the room, so I look for her. We’re on back to back. She’s at ten and I follow her forty-five minutes later. It’ll be a nice set-up. I won’t be rushed because she never takes her fully allotted time.
Zeke returns with a plate of sandwiches. The newbies waste no time picking through what they want. It’s almost as if someone should teach them a lesson, let seniority go first, but I’m willing to bet they’ve never even been to open mic here, probably heard about it from a friend, so they have no idea who’s who. It’s fine. I pick my sandwich and grab one for the poet.
She smiles softly when I hand it to her. As tempted as I am to sit next to her, I don’t. She’ll only get up and move, deeper into the recesses of the room.
The new waitress comes into the room, she looks around and our eyes meet. She’s a bit closer now and her shorts show off her pale legs, a sure indication that she’s not from here, which just means in a few weeks, she’ll be gone, and that also means there’s no point in getting to know her, not that I would. Dating seems so… troublesome. I saw what Elle went through with Ben and I don’t want the headache.
She smiles and breaks eye contact. “Zeke says it’s time.” She turns and walks out, but not before she glances over her shoulder, taking one last look into the room. Who knows if she’s looking at me, checking to see if I’m watching her or not. I was, but that’s all I’m doing.
Piano Man is up first. He’s not Zeke’s favorite but has a fairly solid fan base who shows up every Friday night so Zeke won’t turn him away. Standing in the doorway between the stage and the back hall, I survey the crowd. Right now, it’s an older bunch, mostly women. Some stand and sway to the melody coming from the piano, while a few others throw roses up onto the stage, turning Piano Man into a true Romeo.
The acts continue until it’s time for the Poet. I make sure she knows she’s on next and head out into the crowd while she performs. Tonight, she details, with such fluidity, the struggles she’s faced this week: the rain, followed by excessively rising temperatures, her starvation, and how someone tried to steal her belongings. She ended up cut in the melee but held onto what little possessions she has.
When she’s finished, she gets a standing ovation and people flock to her bucket, dropping money in there. I too, add money, when she’s not looking. She’s always nervous to pick up her bucket, so I slide it toward her after the last person comes up. It’s funny how she can completely express herself to strangers but can’t talk to me.
Once she’s off stage, I start my set-up. I sit on a stool, tuning my guitar, while people move around.
The lights dim, and I lean into the microphone, “Good evening, I’m Quinn.” I never tell anyone my last name. It’s not that I want to be a single-named artist, it’s because I want to be respected for my music, not because of who my father is. James is a common name, but all it takes is for one person in the crowd to type my name into the search bar and bam – my entire family history – right there at your fingertips. Elle on the other hand, has no qualms. Peyton is more on my level.
I have a couple of faithful fans in the crowd who hoot and holler, but it’s the one that goes on and on that grabs my attention. When I look up, it’s my mom and sister. Great. Any hope of having a peaceful set is long gone.
“Tonight, I’m going to do a few covers for ya. Lately, I haven’t been writing much because of some family events.”
“I love you, Quinn.”
I smile and thank whoever said it. I learned long ago from my uncle Liam to never tell fans that you love them. He says it sends them the wrong message, gives them hope, and while most understand you don’t necessarily mean it, not everyone does.
I begin to play, covering “Imagine” by John Lennon. For some reason, this song feels appropriate after the Poet told her story tonight. I look out into the crowd, spot my mom swaying, and imagine a smile plastered on her face. The perma-grin she has for the three of us is unrelenting. It never stops. The next song I give them is my version of “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton. I’ve changed up the beat, made it acoustic and slowed it down. Now if you listen, the song has a different meaning and is more of a love song than anything.
“Play Creep,” someone yells. I normally don’t take requests, but tonight I make an exception and start the riff to Radiohead’s song. It’s actually one of my favorites to play and am happy someone asked for it.
As my set continues, I find myself watching the waitress. She intrigues me. She doesn’t look flustered, but I can see that she’s struggling. This crowd is a bit rowdier than Piano Man or Poet’s, the people a little more demanding and probably a bit drunker. Yet, she looks determined to hold her own.
I sing three more songs before I take my bow and Zeke comes on to remind everyone that we’re all struggling artists, blah blah blah, and people rush to the stage. A few ask for my autograph, but I pretend not to hear them. Zeke doesn’t encourage fraternization among the talent and patrons. I sort of like his rule.
I’m storing my guitar when the waitress comes up to me. I was right, she’s frazzled and has beads of sweat resting on her forehead.
She hands me a beer. “Zeke said you’d want this.”
“Thanks.” I set the beer down on the floor and continue putting my stuff in my carrying case.
“I think I know your sister,” she says with a slight southern drawl.
“Doubtful and he’s not interested.” Elle butts her way in front of the waitress, effectively pushing her out of the way. She stumbles but rights herself quickly.
“That was rude,” I tell her as soon as we’re backstage. Zeke meets me there and hands me my bucket, which I almost forgot.
“She doesn’t know me or Peyton. She’s just saying it, so you’ll give her attention.”
“Hi, Mom.” I lean forward and kiss my mom on the cheek.
“You were the best.”
“Thanks, but you’re biased.”
“No, I’m not. Oh, but I do feel sorry for the young girl who did the poetry. I want to help her.”
I run my hand over my beanie while looking around for her, finally shaking my head. “She won’t take your help. I’ve tried, but she says she’ll make it on her own. In fact, those are the only words she’s really ever spoken to me.”
“But—”
I hold my hand up. “I put a Ben in there. I do it every week.”
My mom gives me another kiss on the cheek and tells me how proud she is of me, while Elle puts her arm around my waist. I glance over her shoulder and spot the waitress, who is watching everything unfold, looking dejected, which just adds to my earlier thoughts that, like the others, she won’t be sticking around for long.