More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,42
from his tea. “The kind who listen to music and the kind who live inside it. The kind who listen to it come to my bar, have a drink or five, and leave with a friend. The kind who live in it never really leave.”
“Well, I’m only on until ten,” I joke.
“And I’ll probably kick you out before then. It’s a school night.” Phil slips his drink onto a storage shelf under the counter and pulls a rag out of the bleach bucket to wipe down the bar top. I should be the one doing that, but he waves me off before I can protest. “But that’s not what I mean. Even when you walk out of here, finish school, drive across the country for college or whatever, you’ll carry the music with you. It’s in your bloodstream. I can tell.”
I nod because he’s right. I don’t know how, but he is.
“So, tell me something. How’d Charlie Greenly’s son end up here? I thought your dad was overseas making a fortune producing.”
“Eh,” I say, turning the hard liquor bottles so the labels face outward. “He was, but he … lost interest? I don’t know. Mum was offered a position at U of M, and they decided to give her dreams a shot for a bit. They’re ridiculously in love. He sold off his portion of the label and moved here, barely batting an eye.”
“Taking their twin sons with,” he concludes for me.
“Well, they could hardly leave us behind. It was fine, though. We were always moving around as kids.”
“You interested in following in your dad’s footsteps?”
“Not really, no.”
“Not a punk fan?”
“More like a not-performing fan.”
Phil points to a photo behind the bar. “Me neither. I hid behind my drums, but when the rest of the band branched out, I decided behind the bar was more to my liking.”
“I didn’t know you played.”
“And sang, believe it or not. We were more Alkaline Trio to your dad’s Bad Apples, but we did all right for a garage band.”
I stare at the photo, taking in an action shot of a younger, thinner, hairier Phil behind a gleaming drum kit with the name Loud Lizard emblazoned on the front. “You were the original Phil Collins, dual singer and drummer,” I say.
“Eh, Phil Collins is the original Phil Collins, but I did all right.”
“Where’s the rest of your band now?”
“Insurance agent, high school teacher, mortician.”
“You’re not serious.”
Phil grins. “Completely.”
“You’re the only one who stuck with music? That’s sort of depressing.”
“Depends how you look at it. Objectively, they’re making more money. Well, not the teacher, but that’s not his fault.”
“Music is a fickle arsehole,” I say without thinking.
Phil laughs. “Indeed. Though it served Charlie well. I’m glad. Did he ever tell you he played here? Had to be around ’92. Bad Apples were a fine group of randy gents.” I grimace at the mere picture of my father as “randy,” and Phil whoops. “You look like him, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Not so much your brother,” he says. “He must take after your mom?”
“He got all the Greek.”
“Can he sing, too?”
“How’d you know I sang?” I ask, because that’s what he’s really asking.
“You hum to yourself.” He taps his ear. “It’s a gift.”
I shake my head. “Nah, he wishes. It’d be better if he did. It’s wasted on me.”
“Says who?”
“Guess.” I sound sullen, and I bite my tongue before I can say more.
Phil lets out a breath, his eyes skimming over the still-quiet bar. I move to the dishwasher and start to empty it in preparation, careful to not meet his eye.
“There’s more to music than singing, you know.”
“I like to write,” I say.
Phil helps me with the dishes, removing one that’s still covered in condensation and drying it with a clean rag.
“Do you play anything?”
“Piano.”
“You any good?”
I shrug.
“So, yes. Is this a stage fright thing or a general wish to play behind the scenes?”
“The second one.”
“Fair enough. And Charlie doesn’t love it?”
“Hates it.”
He leans forward on his forearms. “Sure he does. It’s hard to understand when you live for the crowds, and Charlie Greenly sure as hell worked a crowd in his day. Have you ever seen it?” he asks suddenly.
“Footage of my dad? Not in years, actually. Though I’ve seen him in the kitchen, so I can imagine.”
Phil is already shaking his head. “Nah. It’s not the same, I guarantee it. He was like a fucking firecracker up there. I thought for sure he was on speed, but he said he avoided the hard stuff.”
I turn red.