11. Mickey

The static buildup made a spark jump from the guitar into the patch cord as Mickey plugged in. The pop was as loud as a gunshot. 'Electric frustration,' he thought to himself. 'Builds up when it's not connected to anything. Guess I can relate to that.'
Mickey strummed a few barre chords and decided the guitar wasn't too badly out of tune. He took a swig from his beer and set it down on the amplifier, then turned to the mic. He scanned the rows of empty tables, the few patrons lingering by the bar with their eyes fixed on television screens. He checked his watch; the show was scheduled to start. He looked to the bartender, who gave him a shrug and went back to filling a glass. Mickey turned to his bandmates and twirled a finger in the air.

The first time they'd played a real show, Mickey had screamed 'Are you ready to rock?' and meant it completely. This time, he leaned into the mic, said "We're Downtown Meltdown" with indifference in his voice, and started strumming the same song they always opened with.

Meandering through the lyrics, Mickey realized he'd switched the order of the verses without meaning to. 'Nobody'll notice except for the band anyhow,' he thought. They'd had better nights than this and they all knew it. Irv was probably thinking about his new kid at home more than the drumming, and Ryan was sitting out of most jam sessions these days. He was pretty focused on his job. Mickey didn't think it would last a whole lot longer.

How did it get from there to this?, he wondered. When they started, the three of them would play in the garage until three in the morning was a distant memory. All of them were writing songs, or at least parts of ideas for songs, and somehow a debut album never materialized. The first few shows were packed with their friends, beer was on the house, and it was easy enough to take a girl home most every night they had a set.

"This next song, it's a new song," Mickey said, his eyes panning the room. "It's called, 'All You People.'" He tossed his head back so that the snort of a bitter laugh wouldn't reach the microphone. He turned back, smiling, and nodded to Irv. He nodded back. Mickey thought he looked tired.

They went through it, and in the middle, some new people walked in. They were young, Mickey couldn't place their ages, but the group looked about as old as their fans had when the band first got together. Mid-twenties somewhere. The group stayed for a minute or two and went out to find a different bar. 'What the hell,' Mickey thought, and played very hard on the guitar solo that ended the song. He leaned into the mic and said, "Thank you, everyone. That was our last show. You've been great."

He turned around and put down the guitar. "Thanks," Irv said.

10. Nancy

Nancy microwaved the coffee left over from the day before, fed the cats, fished her keys out of the crumpled receipts and subway transfers piled in her purse, and left for work.
"Fuck fuck FUCK," she shouted through gritted teeth as the traffic light went from yellow to red. She stood on the brake and reached for the mirror, turning it towards herself while reaching for the tube of lipstick in the cupholder.
She was only fifteen minutes late. She stormed towards the corner office without acknowledging her intern, Laura. The first thing she noticed was that, reflected in the immaculately dustless glass frame of her niece's graduation photo, she could see the blinking light of her desk phone. She'd missed a call already; there was a voicemail waiting. Nancy did a one-eighty. "Hell," she grumbled, setting down her half-finished grande vanilla chai frappuccino on a filing cabinet.
"Looks like I'll have to call you back," Laura said as the thumping heels came back around the corner. "Yeah, more parakeeting. Thanks, hun."
"Laura!" The screech drowned out completely the sound of the cellphone clicking shut.
Laura swiveled in her chair. "Yes?"
"I hired you to take my messages! Tell me why there's a call waiting -- do you expect somebody else to be minding the phones? Have you got something more important to do than your job? It shouldn't be too hard to find someone to perform this simple task..."
As her boss continued the tirade, Laura subtly twisted the ring on the third finger of her left hand, ensuring that the light from the diamond sparkled all the more belligerently.