“Glory, can I have a word before you head out?”
“Sure. Of course.”
He pulled her gently aside, and lowered his voice ever so slightly. “So, kiddo, I heard from the manager of The Baby Owls.”
“And...”
She kind of guessed from his expression. He wordlessly handed her his phone, which was open to a text.
Who the fuck is Glory Greenbean? I’ve never heard of her. No. No openers. The Owls get the full two hours and we’ll have someone on-site recording it.
She should have guessed Glenn wasn’t one to rip the Band-Aid off slowly.
She couldn’t look up just yet.
She hadn’t realized how very much she’d been counting on that until all the colors of the day seemed to desaturate at once.
“A douche, right?” Glenn said grimly. “I’m sorry you had to see this, but I thought I should show you. I did try.”
But she could tell he was genuinely both disappointed and angry on her behalf.
“Yeah. You did the right thing. I’m glad I saw this so I know what you’re dealing with. And I know it must have been a little awkward to ask that guy for a favor and I really appreciate it. Good use of the ‘D’ word, just now.”
He smiled wryly. And a little sadly.
She couldn’t move, though. It was like someone had yanked her batteries out. She hadn’t realized how very, very much she’d been counting on that. It had just seemed so... what was Bethany’s word?Kismet.
So much for Kismet.
“I don’t think Sherrie will be crazy about my new vocabulary, though. I really am sorry, kiddo. Your time is gonna come.”
He seemed unaware that he’d just quoted the title of a Led Zeppelin song to her, one of her favorites, one that she could play the crap out of.
She was struggling with this philosophy at the moment, however. If her family history was any indication, her time was not gonna come. She’d keep going around and around andarrrgh that effing song!
“Oh! One more thing.” He reached into his pocket. “A customer found this on top of his French toast.”
Glenn held out her dangly silver earring.
He dropped it into her palm.
“He made a joke about a prize inside the Cracker Jacks. He’s not litigious, but you might want to pocket both of them, eh? Maybe wear those little post earrings next time? Or none.”
She sighed, feeling a little more like Samson denuded of his hair.
By the time she got out the door of the Misty Cat, the cumulative roughness of the week was still clogging her own carburetor. She couldn’t shake an edgy sort of sadness, something that was perilously close to defeat, and she’d never accepted defeat in her entire life. So as she walked down the street toward home, she put just a little more swing into her hips. A little more swagger to remind herself that life itself could be a song and she could be the rhythm section. And that maybe this was just the minor-key bridge part of the song.
And then she pulled the pins out of her hair and gave it a shake and let the air move through it.
Tight clothes, loose hair. That’s how she felt most herself.
She began singing softly to herself.
Tight clothes, loose hair
Seems I can find trouble
anywhere