More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,3
Sunday-afternoon crowd warrants.
The Loud Lizard is an institution. In the early ’90s, Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins played here. The bar sits at the midpoint of the dance floor, and there’s a small raised stage at the front for bands. Along the sides and over the entrance sits a balcony that fits in a half circle facing the stage. It’s VIP seating, but I like to call it the “old folks’ lounge.” It’s where you go if you want to listen to live music but don’t want to stand. I can’t fathom it. I can’t not move when music is playing.
Anyway, this is my happy place. Sticky, sour-smelling, loud, and crass. These weirdos are my people. We speak a common language of lyrics and chest-thumping beats.
And outdated, ska-music dancing.
I slouch against the ice chest, another rag discarded, eating a maraschino as Phil rounds the bar and closes the flapping door behind him. He runs a thick hand through his receding hair and slumps next to me, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“I should have called the police on him last time.”
I grunt, rolling my eyes, and take another stab with my straw. Phil’s lips twitch under his whiskers at my sullen display. We’ve been through this before. I would’ve called the cops the first time Marcus showed up, reeking of Jim Beam and self-righteousness, and I certainly would have called them any number of times since. Phil’s the holdout. For all his grousing, he’s too pure when it comes to my mom and her skeevy ex, a.k.a. Marcus, a.k.a. my dad. I suspect it’s out of affection for my mom. They’ve been dating for over a year, but he claims he’s been in love with her since high school. It’s why I can’t give him shit about being her boyfriend. That level of Captain Wentworth pining deserves a break. Besides, my mom’s a catch.
“No one ever dates the drummer,” he always says. Instead, my mom fell for the redheaded lead singer, got pregnant out of grad school, and is forever tied to a narcissistic insurance salesman with a fondness for free whiskey and making everyone around him as miserable as he is.
“You going to reschedule your dinner?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure it matters. He’s not giving me money.”
He straightens. “But you’re going to ask him.” The music blessedly changes as the band on deck cues up their set.
“Yes, Phil,” I respond dryly. “I’m going to give him the chance to break my heart and ruin my dreams. He deserves that much.”
He presses his lips together, and his eyes glint behind his frames. Phil’s what would have happened if Kevin Smith hadn’t made his fortune making cult slacker films. Thick, dark beard and smudged glasses, Red Wings jersey paired with faded jeans. He’s as revered as this venue in the eyes of the locals. Phil has what’s known in the music industry as a “knack.” He can tell from one listen if a group is going to make it big.
He’s my mentor and one of my favorite people. Some kids have an old soul. I have a middle-aged, overweight, receded-hairline soul.
“Where’s Kazi?” he asks, wisely switching the subject.
I grunt again. “Running late. Called an hour ago to say Whole Paycheck was getting in a shipment and needed all hands on deck.”
“And you offered to stay.”
I sigh, tossing my cup in the garbage. “I couldn’t leave Captain Hook on his own with the ruffians.”
Phil huffs, eyeing the skankers like they’re something stuck to the bottom of his Vans. “They aren’t even doing it right.”
I narrow my eyes, following his. “Is there a right way to do that?”
He snorts. “Just ask,” he insists, back to Marcus. He’s lucky I speak fluent Phil and can follow along. “You have a plan B.”
Yeah. Plan B. See, I have this plan. When I was sixteen, I begged Phil for a job. I couldn’t work in the bar yet since it was illegal, so Phil let me hang around his office as an administrative assistant of sorts. I took over his music review blog, Behind the Music, and sometimes, we snuck me into shows on a strictly “journalistic basis.” When I turned eighteen, the real work began. I still blog, but I also work the bar, so I’m here for the shows. Phil’s teaching me everything he knows and lets me tag along to meetings if I’m not in class. Which, high school is pretty inconvenient, but whatever. Three months left. This summer, Phil is even allowing