The Octopus on My Head (23 page)

Padraic tapped my shoulder.

“All the expenses,” the phone continued. “Gasoline, bridge tolls, speedball, potato chips
….
”

Padraic placed a tumbler of red wine in my free hand. “You can eat after the first set.” He waved at a large slate that hung over the cash register, covered with menu items in colored chalk. “Anything you like.”

“Curly?” the phone said. “You there?”

I held the phone away from my face.

“Well?” Padraic said.

“Curly…?”

As before any gig, including yours, I powered down the phone and dropped it into my jacket pocket.

“Those two guys that just came in,” Padraic said in a stage whisper, “with the three girls? They build web sites.”

I swallowed half the tumbler of wine at a draught, took time to breathe, and downed the rest.

“They rent that storefront where the cabinetmaker used to be,” he added significantly. “Right up the street.”

“Try not to gloat.” I wiped my lips with the back of my sleeve. “Out of all the grapes pressed in California, how do you manage to find such lousy wine?” I offered him the empty glass. “I'll have another.”

“The neighborhood is changing,” Padraic said significantly.

“Caesar salad with roasted chicken,” I said, not glancing at the slate but watching Padraic. “And another glass of red.”

Padraic glanced at the empty glass, then looked at me.

“I'd like the wine now,” I said, “before I start.”

He took the glass but I could see the outburst welling up. Before he could speak, I told him, “Charge me, Padraic. Run a tab.” I held up my hands. “Look.” They were shaking. Padraic frowned at them. Then he looked at me.

“Bring it.”

Padraic handed the glass to the girl behind the counter. “Another cabernet.”

I walked to the alcove next to the front door and hung my jacket on the back of the chair. I kept on the watch cap. Somebody turned off the CD player, leaving the room to its chatter. Nobody looked my way.

I stripped the gig bag off the guitar and sat down in the little wooden chair in front of the American flag. Two twenty-somethings at a little round table not three feet beyond the microphones looked at me uncomfortably. Without consulting one another they began to gather their things. I placed Padraic's list on the floor where I could see it and brought the guitar up to pitch in eight or ten strokes. By the time I'd improvised an introduction to the first tune on the list, the girls had moved to another table.

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ISBET
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OOKLIST

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