a minifridge filled with snacks and drinks.
Wyatt told us the catering was ready and took us to a large rec room where a copious buffet was set up.
Cal and I got in line and filled our plates with poached salmon, steak, mashed potatoes, and salad. I grabbed a beer, Cal grabbed a bottle of water, and we sat at a round table with the sound engineer, a British guy named Simon, who looked like a young Steven Spielberg and showed us pictures of his two miniature schnauzers while we ate.
After lunch we went back to Cal’s private room to hang out until it was time for him to soundcheck.
“I have something for you,” Cal said, rummaging through his duffle bag.
He pulled out a moleskin notebook and shuffled through it until he located a photo stuck between the pages. “Found it when I was in Brooklyn a couple weeks ago.” He handed me the photo. “In a box of stuff my mom saved from high school.”
It was the two of us, taken during an open mic performance at the old Sweetwater. Cal and I were sitting on stools, sort of turned toward each other, guitars in our laps and smiles on our faces. On the back, Terry had written: Blood Brothers July 1996.
For a moment I was transported back to that performance, to a time when Brooklyn was still a possibility and what could have been wasn’t as concrete as the cinderblock walls of the room we were in.
“Wonderwall,” I mumbled.
“Right! That was the night we played ‘Wonderwall’!”
“Bonnie Raitt was there. Remember?”
Cal nodded, smiling. “She told you that you played guitar like a boss, and your face was red for an hour.”
I felt like I was blushing again just thinking about it. “She was hot. I couldn’t even say thank you to her.”
“Yo, I saw her at the Whole Foods on Miller last year. She’s almost seventy, and she’s still hot.”
I sat on the couch and stared at the photo. “Jesus. We look like babies.”
“We were babies.” Cal grabbed a bottle of unopened whiskey from the minibar and sat down beside me. “I don’t normally imbibe before shows, but this is a special occasion.” He took a drink right from the bottle, handed it to me, and we passed it back and forth a few times.
“Harp,” he said, once we were both on the verge of being buzzed. “I need to say something to you.” He turned slightly toward me, and I dreaded whatever he was about to reveal. “I want you to know that I know I wouldn’t be playing here tonight if it wasn’t for you.”
“What?” I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not.” His eyes were trained on my face, full of sincere effulgence. “You were the only person besides my mom who believed in me. From day one.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, bit the inside of his cheek. “I was a stupid kid with no father, no friends, and a bad haircut, but for some reason you thought I was cool, and that made all the difference.”
“You were cool. You didn’t need me for that.”
“Actually, I did.” Cal’s brow rose and I noticed three sharp wrinkles in his forehead, saw the small scar under his eye from where I’d caught him with the fishing hook. “I don’t think you ever realized how alone I was back then. You came along and made me part of your family, dysfunctional as it was. And after that I didn’t have to give a fuck about anyone else, because I knew you had my back. That was a fucking gift.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. “Harp, I wouldn’t be playing here tonight if I hadn’t run into you on the trail that day. I know that for a fact. And I guess I just want to say thank you. I’ve missed having you in my life. And I’m really glad you’re here.”
Cal stood up quickly, grabbed his wallet from his duffle bag. “One more thing and then I’ll shut up.” He slipped a piece of paper out from the billfold and handed it to me. “It’s obviously not the original. I made a copy for you.”
The paper had been folded in half twice, but as soon as I had it partway opened I knew what it was. I recognized Cal’s handwriting and could see my fourteen-year-old-kid signature alongside his at the bottom.
I felt myself getting choked up. “I can’t believe you still