Spark

by S. L. Scott

  He’s right. It’s worked for me many times.

  I try not to harass him too much about playing the drums, but we’re getting desperate.

  Right when he gets comfortable on a ripped vinyl recliner, the bar manager comes in. “C’mon. We need to wrap it up. We’re behind tonight.”

  Tulsa’s shoes hit the ground. Rivers pops a mint and follows him out. The bar is elongated, and there’s a good crowd considering it’s a Tuesday off 3rd Street. I grab my guitar and sling it over my shoulder. Tulsa takes his spot, back left. Rivers to my right, the guitar strap settling on his shoulders. I nod to the drummer, a fill-in we hired, and count. “Four. Three. Two. One.”

  We’re supposed to hit the first note together, hence the countdown, but the drummer misses it for the second night in a row. Fuck it. I was pissed last night, but tonight, I’m over it. We need to find a steady drummer. In the meantime, the show must go on.

  This bar is small, but I like it. Ten tables deep. Five wide at the most. One spotlight hits just to the left of me. I could shift, but I don’t mind sharing with my brothers. I can see better when it’s not directly in my eyes anyway.

  I turn around and start singing into the microphone. Never let the audience in on the screw-up. We recover, but the feedback from the speakers is throwing my rhythm. One shitty mess up after another. We keep playing, praying it comes together.

  Our sound guy graduated from college with honors in computer science a few weeks back. He got offered a job out in San Jose he couldn’t refuse, leaving us high and dry ever since. I’m about to hop the stage to get rid of the reverb when some guy gets up from a table and steps behind the board. I’m about to warn him not to fucking touch it, but then I see who it is.

  Johnny Outlaw.

  He’s back.

  Fuck, yes!

  I’d fist pump, but I’m not screwing up this second chance.

  He puts his hand up and mouths, “I’ve got this.” Two turns of some dials and the quality of our indie rock sound returns. When I see him nodding to the beat of the song like he’s enjoying it, I ease back into the rhythm and do what I do best—play guitar and sing.

  Our last song wraps, and if I didn’t have to clear the stage, I’d hop down and talk to him. I should play it cool anyway. If Johnny wants to talk to us, he will.

  And he does.

  When I come back in from loading the Bronco, he’s winding a cord like he’s a roadie. “Need some help?” he asks.

  “Always. Free help is hard to come by.”

  Laughing, he says, “I bet.”

  I try to keep it casual, though I’m kind of freaking out inside. He’s a master guitarist, lyricist, and all-around musical heavyweight in the industry. Cool is my MO, though. I pick up my guitar and glance over. “You know your way around the board.”

  “I’ve had a little practice.”

  His friend, who is sitting on the edge of the stage, laughs. I set my guitar down and make the introduction. “I’m Jet Crow.”

  “Jack Dalton, but you can call me Johnny.”

  “So you’re looking for a job, Johnny?” I tease.

  “No. I’m pretty set right now.” He’s a big guy, not a typical build for . . . well, for anyone. Looks like he would take most guys in a fight. Lean and tall, but not scrawny. Works out. I stand to my full height and hit his. He says, “We heard if we were to see one band while we’re in Austin, it was The Crow Brothers.”

  “Our reputation precedes us. In a good way, for once,” I reply.

  This time he laughs, and I start to relax. He asks, “Are you really brothers or is that just a name?”

  “Some days, I’d like to disown them, but they’re all mine.”

  “It’s cool that you formed a band with your brothers.”

  “As hard of a time as I give them, I wouldn’t want to play with anyone else. Unless you’re hiring?” I start laughing.

  He gets my humor and volleys back, “We’re set for now. How long have you guys been performing?”

  “We’ve been hitting it steady for seven years now.”

  He nods, analyzing me and then turning his attention to the guys packing up on stage. “Why don’t you have a crew?”

  “We’re saving money.”

  “For studio fees?”

  “Something like that.”

  Signaling back to his table, he says, “Once you’re done, we’d love to buy you guys a round of drinks and discuss your music.”

  “Our music?”

  “Business. Maybe recording music on my dime.”

  “Okay,” I reply. “We’ll hit up your table when we’re done.”

  He asks, “What do you drink?”

  “Whatever’s on draft.” I take another amp and start for the back. Tulsa is coming inside from the back door when I stop him. “Don’t leave. Outlaw’s here again and wants to buy us a beer.”

  “Johnny Outlaw?” he asks, trying to look over my shoulder to the crowd in the bar. “Fucking right, he’s back. I’ll go park and meet you guys.”

  When the pedals and last bits of our gig are in his truck, Rivers and I head inside.

  Some asshole is homing in on our opportunity. Ripped jeans, baggy shirt stretched out at the collar, and leaning over the table Johnny’s sitting at as if he had a personal invite. The guys don’t seem interested in whatever this punk is peddling. Johnny says, “Good to meet you, Hunter. We’ll keep your band in mind.”

  “Cool. Cool. Yeah. Come see us play,” he says again.

  From their body language, they’re done with the intruder. Rivers and I take the available seats at their table and pull a spare from another for Tulsa when he gets here. Rivers rests his arm on the back of a chair and asks, “Who are you guys?”

  This Hunter guy starts to laugh like he’s a part of the conversation. The other guy stands, becoming a barricade between Johnny and Hunter. “We got the information. Now if you don’t mind, this is a private conversation.”

  “Yeah. Cool. Cool. Come see us play before you leave town,” he repeats.

  When he’s gone, Johnny looks around, side to side and over his shoulder before the other guy—lighter hair, familiar to me from photos only—asks Rivers, “Have you heard of the band The Resistance?”

  Rivers laughs. “Who hasn’t?”

  Johnny says, “We haven’t met.” Sticking his hand out, he says, “I’m Johnny.”

  As if you can see the pieces fall together all at once in Rivers’s eyes, his mouth falls open.

  Johnny.

  The Resistance.

  I nod, already mocking him for not figuring it out sooner.

  “Oh, fuck,” Rivers exclaims. “You’re Johnny Outlaw.”

  Johnny’s nodding in response but lowers his head again and tugs on the bill of his hat. “Yes, if you could keep it down, that would really help us out.”

  The other guy sits forward. “We don’t have security detail tonight. We’re just out scouting covertly. We’d like to keep it that way if possible. I’m Tommy—”

  “The band’s manager,” Rivers says. “You’re a legend.”

  “Hear that, Outlaw? I’m a legend.” Turning back to Rivers, he asks, “I like you. What’s your name?”

  “Rivers Crow.”

  “Rivers is a unique name. So is Jet. What’s your brother’s name?”

  Rivers responds, “Tulsa. Cheesy as it sounds, we were named after the places we were conceived. I was made in Twin Rivers, California. My parents took a road trip that summer. Nine months later, they got a surprise.”

  By the grins on their faces, they’re entertained. The manager asks, “So your parents joined the mile-high club on a jet?”

  “Yeaaaaah, let’s not talk about that.”

  Johnny says, “We don’t have much time. We’ve heard you play twice now. You’re good. Really good.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tulsa replies, spinning the chair around and sitting.

  The guys laugh, and Johnny says, “You don’t have to call me sir. I’
m a guitarist like you.”

  “No, you’re Johnny fucking Outlaw is who you are.”

  Our laughter doesn’t compete with the murmuring in the bar. Looking around, I’m still trying to reason through how in the world I’m sitting across from the legendary Johnny Outlaw, when he asks, “What do you think about continuing this conversation somewhere more private?”

  Maybe Tulsa’s in as much shock as I am because we just stare at him. The other guy asks, “Would you be interested in meeting tomorrow? Maybe we can have a meal.”

  “Yeah, sure. We can do that.” Then to Johnny, I say, “I taught myself how to play guitar listening to The Resistance’s debut album. Man, that album was fucking brilliant. So strong. Heavy notes and the lyrics—poetry.”

  Johnny chuckles, looking down as if the compliment actually means something to him. “I like you, Jet.” He stands and hits the back of his hand against his friend’s chest. “This is Tommy, by the way. He’s our manager.” Tommy drops a card on the table, and then Johnny continues. “We’ve drawn more attention than I prefer in my off hours. I’m launching a label and I like your sound. We leave town tomorrow afternoon. I’d really like to talk to you about a potential collaboration. Give Tommy a call and let’s meet up before we fly out.”

  I stand and shake his hand. “We will.”

  “Cool.”

  Turning to Tommy, I shake his hand. “Thanks. Nice meeting you.”

  Tommy shakes our hands. “Great set tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Rivers replies.

  Johnny says, “Good meeting you guys. Really great sound.”

  “You too, man,” Tulsa says, “Wow. You really want to talk to us.”

  Johnny laughs again. “I dig your music. Great set.”

  We stand there with our mouths hanging open, trying to process how we were actually sitting at a table with them in a run-down bar in downtown Austin on a random Tuesday night. They want us to call them, and even better, potentially collaborate. Flashes go off around us as they work their way out in a hurry.

  Tulsa and I face each other. He pushes me in that way he always does when he’s in shock. “What the fuck just happened?”

  “I think Johnny Outlaw just said he wants to work with us.”

  “Holy fuck. No fucking way.” He jumps, his arm in the air. “Yes, fucking way!”

  The crowd around us cheers, and he slams one of the shots the waitress sets in front of us. With a wink, the waitress asks, “Give Johnny my number, will ya?”

  Tulsa makes his move. “First, I’m gonna need it, honey.”

  Her hand presses to his chest with her tray tucked under her arm. “I gave it to you two years ago, Tulsa Crow, and you never called me. Even after the fun night we had.”

  “How about a redo?”

  Annnnd it’s working, like it always does for him. Rivers and I roll our eyes and watch him work his magic.

  First, her stance loosens, and then she smiles and begins to flirt right back. “If you can figure out my name, I’m sure my number is still in your phone.”

  I’m laughing too hard to help my brother out. I know for a fact he doesn’t know her name. “She’s got you there, bro.”

  Swinging his arm around her waist, he pulls her close. “I’m gonna call you tomorrow, Jen. Save a day this coming week and I’ll take you dancing on my night off.”

  Her smile is bright and wide, her eyes . . . I’ve seen that look before. She’s in love, or at least temporary lust. The Crow Bros have that effect on women. She leans in mighty close and says, “You got it, Tulsa.” She kisses him on the cheek and saunters off happy as a clam to snag a rare second date with the youngest Crow.

  “I don’t know how you do it, T, but you are the luckiest damn bastard I ever did know.” Rivers asks, “How’d you remember her name?”

  “I didn’t. Lucky guess.” He wipes his brow. “That was the easy part. It’s figuring out which Jen when I have about a hundred in my contacts.”

  I push the shot to Tulsa. “You need this more.”

  He takes another. “Dude, Johnny fucking Outlaw. Whoa. Tonight is everything.”

  He’s right. We’ve known for a while that our sound is good and we’ve paid our dues. We book consistent gigs, are known around town, and had a fairly successful EP release.

  We play cohesively and can write songs without too much angst most of the time. If we could find a drummer to fill our band, I’ve always thought we could go somewhere. And I want that for my brothers. I want it for myself. But the responsibility I’ve always felt toward making that happen only increased when Mom died. She’d be so proud of this opportunity. As am I. We’ve done the hard yards for a few years now, and I think we’re ready to be found. Ready to move forward.

  Wrapping my arms around their shoulders, I correct him. “Nah, it’s just the beginning.”

  “Damn right.”

  5

  Jet

  As much as I wanted to celebrate with Tulsa and Rivers, I have my judge-appointed meeting tomorrow to determine custody. I’m the only one required to be there, but they said they’d come for support. My brothers better not be late or hungover.

  Lying in bed, I look over at the time: 3:12 a.m.

  My body is exhausted, but my mind is too troubled to rest. I could lose Alfie and have him taken away before I even have a chance to be his dad.

  I deserve the opportunity . . . no, not opportunity. Right. I have the right to be in his life more than some distant relative he gets to occasionally visit.

  I’m his dad.

  Nothing decided later today will change that. It will only change where he lives. That’s all.

  Scrubbing my hands over my face, I roll to the side, sit up, and sigh. There’s so much on my mind, but Alfie’s at the forefront with Hannah right behind.

  Grabbing my cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand, I park myself next to the window and crack it open. Our winter’s been mild, but tonight feels colder than usual.

  My worries come in degrees matching the weather. The meeting tomorrow feels a lot like the fate of our band is also going to be decided.

  One deal.

  That’s all it will take for us to finally get ahead. Maybe even enough to set aside for the upcoming expenses. I have some money saved, but is there a minimum required for me to win custody? Alfie’s had a hard time with losing his mother. I don’t want him to be miserable living with me because I can’t afford to buy him something he wants.

  I’m not sure how I’ll be as a parent. Being raised by a single mom meant my brothers and I weren’t spoiled, but I have six years to make up for.

  Time together is more important. A roof. Food on the table. Love. That’s what my mom always told us and showed us. Family. That’s most important.

  I stab the cigarette into the ashtray until the fire burns out, and then I wave away the smoky air so it slips through the open window. I’m tempted to leave it open. It’s only me to concern myself with these days because I’ve not had anyone in my bed since Hannah left. I couldn’t taint what we had by bringing someone home with me. It felt like a betrayal to what we shared. It was more than sex to me . . . My hang-up on this girl is getting really fucking old. I need to get over it, to get over her because she’s not coming back.

  Closing the window, I flip the lock and climb under the covers, forcing my mind to give in to the dark and try for sleep.

  I’m not sure what time I finally do, but I wake up just after nine, which is about three hours earlier than usual. This is good because when I check my messages, we have a breakfast meeting. This means I’ll still have time to put Alfie’s room together and get dressed for the custody hearing.

  New sheets and a blanket are in the washing machine, and I’m getting ready when I get a text from Hannah. Sometimes when I see her name pop up, my heart stops because I think the worst. I’m denied before getting my day in court, she’s found his real father, or she regrets ever meeting me. Relief washes over me when I read her message: No ma
tter what happens today, I want you to know that I think you’re a good person for stepping up as you have.

  I don’t need praise for being a decent human, a parent, a father, but I appreciate the sentiment. I reply: This has been hard on all of us. You’ve done a lot for us this week when I know it was hard on you. Thank you.

  She doesn’t send another, and I find myself feeling disappointed. I think we’re supposed to be enemies, considering we’re on opposing sides of this legal matter, but it’s hard to hate her when just the sight of her brings back all the feelings I was beginning to form months ago.

  Is that what that is? Feelings. Feelings for her?

  We lost a shot at something more six months ago. Now life is too messy for us to get involved. Fuck. Shake this off. It was only one night. I grab my shoes and shake my head. I managed to get this far in life without the ridiculous notion of love coming along, though Rivers might argue. He was always the hopeless sap out of the three of us. I’ve watched him go in and out of a relationship with the same woman for years. Since he’s single now, guess it’s not a good time for anyone, especially not the woman fighting me for custody of my kid.

  Nope. Hannah Nichols is a definite no-go.

  As a musician, I’m well aware that timing is everything or the whole rhythm is off. Doesn’t matter what happened between us before. All that matters is that we’re a song gone wrong.

  It’s best if I focus on Alfie and my career. Love can go bother someone else who has time for it.

  Since we get to the restaurant midmorning, it’s not busy. Sitting in the back dining room of Matt’s El Rancho, the waiter sets five glasses of water, salsa, and chips on the table. “Gracias.”

  Tulsa’s knee is bouncing, his tapping foot hitting an unbalanced leg of the table, causing it to wobble.

  “Dude,” Rivers says, glaring at him. “Stop it. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Help it anyway,” I add, on edge as well. “It’s just a meeting. We’re not auditioning for them. They heard us play. They liked the music. This is all preliminary stuff. We’re not signing any contracts, so fucking chill.”