He was a complete mess. Right from the first song, his lyrics were slurred and barely understandable. He kept hitting wrong chords on his guitar, then would stop and restart like nothing had happened.
When he tried to play “Hotel California,” he completely forgot the second verse and tried to cover by yelling, “You all know the words!”
The crowd started getting restless.
I watched from behind the bar as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. A few customers exchanged worried glances. One couple near the window was already reaching for their coats.
“This is painful,” I heard someone whisper.
Soon, it got worse.
Liam stumbled over his guitar cord and nearly fell off the stage. When he tried to hit a high note, his voice cracked so badly that several people actually winced.
Then the booing started.
“I paid for this?!” someone shouted from the back.
“Get him off the stage!” another voice called out.
By then, Todd’s face was turning red.
But not the embarrassed red you’d expect from someone whose friend was bombing on stage. This was the blame-someone-else red. The find-a-scapegoat red.
My heart skipped a beat.
I knew that look.
Sure enough, he marched straight to the kitchen.
“This is your fault, Kleo!” he hissed, getting right in my face. “You threw him off!”
I stared at him. “What?
“Don’t give me excuses!” he snapped. “You gave him attitude earlier.
You messed with his head!”
Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, he pointed toward the dining room.
“Since you’re so smart, go entertain the guests! Sing, dance, I don’t care. Just fix this mess!
Or you’re fired!”
I just stood there, staring at him with wide eyes. Did he just threaten to fire me? And that too because his friend can’t perform?
My mind was racing.
I needed this job. Dad’s medication costs were going up again, and we couldn’t afford for me to be unemployed.
So, I took a deep breath, walked out, and picked up the mic.
The remaining customers looked up hopefully. Maybe someone was finally going to salvage this disaster of an evening.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“Do we have a guitar handy? Jake?”
Jake was another server who secretly played blues guitar on weekends. His eyes went wide, but he nodded slowly and grabbed his case from the back office.
I glanced at Liam, who was slumped in a chair, looking like a toddler who’d been told playtime was over.
His sunglasses were crooked, and he was glaring at me like this was somehow my fault.
The room held its breath.
And then I sang.
I’d trained classically as a kid. Spent years in voice lessons, dreaming of concert halls and standing ovations. But life got in the way.
Rent payments. Double shifts. Reality.
Until that moment.
I chose “At Last” by Etta James.Continue reading…
