“Right. Thanks, boo. I appreciate it for true.” He shot Timmy a grin. “You want food too?”
“You know it. I’ll join you guys in a few. Just gotta wrap up here. Hank, you want to show the newbie where you keep your toys on the way out?”
“Oh, I suppose I can handle that. C’mon, Colt, I’ll show you the locker.” Hank hauled his ass off the chair like he was made of stone. Had to be seventy if he was a day.
“I’ll catch up, dude. Shake Shack?”
Little Mel nodded. “I’m in, honey. We’ll see you there.”
He followed Hank, a melody tickling around behind his eyes, something happy and old, something his granny had sang to him, once upon a time.
“There’s some sweet stuff in here. Trust me, your guitar will be in good company.” Hank opened a door, which looked like any other door, but the door behind that one had a handle crank like a bank vault. The old man gave it a shove, and it swung open the rest of the way by itself, opening into a large, brightly lit room. There was a double row of guitar hangers on the far wall, and shelves with just about everything else imaginable on each side. Percussion instruments, strings, drum kits, a couple of leather jackets, a pair of cowboy boots. “This whole place could burn down and this thing would still be standing. I keep a bunch of my gear in here. I don’t know who half this shit belongs to, but Timmy does.”
“Merci, Vieux. This is sweet. Never seen nothing like this.” They weren’t near so fancy, back home.
“Welcome to the Big Apple, friend. Check out the pictures on the way out, get a little perspective. This isn’t exactly a small operation.”
“Big, small—whatever. I just want to pick.” The Big Apple. Why an apple? Huh.
Hank waited for him to hang up his guitar and then followed him out. “You will, if you keep up like you did today. Something you may or may not already know? Make friends with Timmy. He makes it easy, so it’s not like you have to try very hard. But he sits at that console every day whether you’re here or not. And if you’re not but someone that needs someone like you is? Timmy’s your best friend.”
They met up with the rest of the band in the lobby.
He filed that away. Friends he could do. Shit, he liked folks. He loved music. He loved folks that loved to play. All good, so far as he went.
The Shake Shack was crazy as all get-out. Loud and busy, burgers and dogs, and since this was Times Square, everyone was there. Suits, little kids, hipsters, uniforms, you name it. Sorta felt like New Orleans, but with less blues.
They’d only just sat down when Timmy arrived. He gave everyone a wave and got in line to order, head down and texting.
“So your manager sent you up here to us?” Hank asked, pulling at his cheese fries.
“Yessir. I come up from Houston, last, laying down gospel tracks. Good work, that.” It soothed the soul, even if they’d all spent the late nights so fucked-up on grain alcohol that he swore he was gonna go blind.
Hank nodded and looked at Little Mel. “He’s working for me. You?” Colt reckoned this was Mel’s band, best he could tell. And he was pretty clear that today’s session was an audition of sorts. That’s how things usually worked out.
“You know it. We can finish this album out, if you’re willing.”
“Yes, ma’am. As you want. I’m easy, me.”
“He’s easy, him.” Mr. Bill laughed, poked Colt with his elbow. “Just playin’ with you, son. You can pick with me any day.”
“Hank, you remember that dancer we did a mix for a couple of months ago?” Timmy worked his way into the table between Mel and Hank.
“The bad-boy ballet kid?”
“Yeah, dude. Him. Kyle? He just texted me. I cut him a couple more CDs from the master. He’s coming to pick them up.”
“He was a trip and a half. I guess it did okay?”
“I think he’s going to let us know.” Timmy picked up a hot dog covered in vegetables. Something about that didn’t make no sense. “I guess they’re keeping you, dude? If not, you’d have totally split by now. This crew is pretty straight shooting.”
“I guess so. I like being kept okay.” He was easy that way.
Hank laughed, elbowed Little Mel. “He’s just like Timmy, all laid-back and whatever, dude.”
“Hey! Timmy!” A guy in a big sweater and a mop of dark hair waved from the doorway.
“Kyle. Dude.” Timmy waved his friend over.