Chapter 2 - Cafe Nola

"Oi."

He spoke softly as he sat up from his slumber, not sure how close the foursome was to Frederick, MD. "We're close. Just a couple miles." he heard Ross say from the seat in front of him as if Ross already knew the question had been circling around in Hank's head. "Can I make it?" Hank thought to himself. "Yes." he replied, almost victoriously.

Minutes later, eight eagle eyes laboriously peered through tinted glass panes for the words "Cafe" and "Nola." Circling the city blocks, Hank had forgotten he even needed to pee. It would have to wait; they had to unload the van. There was no back alley load-in-point-of-entry-access. It would be an in-the-lane-with-hazards-on-hoping-nobody-takes-the-side-mirror-off operation. Hank firmly grasped the handle of the accordion case and placed the handle-less trombone under his opposite appendage...

...Stephen and Matt returned from parking the GoodShip Owlbatross.

"Was it one block or two?"

Stephen grilled himself, responding to the ever so oft-uttered "Where's the van?"

"It'll be on your left after you go right." he resolved.

Patrick, Mike, and Hank stood off stage, only a few feet away, looking on at Ross' nest construction, considering configurations in their heads: variations of the placement of peoples on this pequeño-sized stage. "This is gonna be a fun night." the three thought to themselves like a sequenced melody jumping from ear to ear, from line to space, pumping certainty into the air. P.J. spoke first.

"Can you sit on top of that amp and play your keyboard?"

A solution was soon upon them. "Where did you park the van?" P.J. casually re-queried.

P.J. pressed in the direction he was told. "I really hope they're in there." he thought, restraining panic. He unlocked the front passenger side door with his key to find Hank in a familiar plot, horn in hand rattling the insides of the van.

"Whatcha lookin fer?"

"Bass strings" P.J. replied.

"They're back here." Hank happily answered.

Hank answered two more calls that night, both cellularly transmitted, both from Stephen.

Just as happily as before, Hank hurried a "Yes!" from his empty depths. He stowed the trombone and trekked the two (or was it just one?) block walk back to Cafe Nola.

Soon after, with food digesting in gratefully sated tummies, five of the group stood on stage as Stephen pulled his phone from his hip pocket once again.

"Ok. I'll see you in a minute." Stephen's phone snapped shut with gratification. Hank's phone was smarter, but it never required any physical manipulation after a call. He lightly tapped the simulated 'end call' button on his display and slid the phone into his side pocket, wondering what he would have done if he had been angry with Stephen. How could he have expressed himself without the ability to slam his phone down in anger?

..."Those are really out of tune." Stephen gasped for breath as he motioned to the brand new bass strings, looking to a sweat-dripped Patrick. With raised eyebrows looking down on the tuner Patrick confirmed his concurrence; these new strings were stubbornly unintonate. Stephen looked down in the same direction, peering at his own handwriting, consulting the order of songs. He turned to the microphone.

"We've got a couple left, folks. Thanks again for coming out on a Wednesday night... here we go!"

The hearty salads filled them, the cheers and whistles filled them, the encouraging words from smiling mouths filled them, they needed only to find room in themselves for a case Flying Dog.

And filled, our heroes were. They would need the sustenance for their trip to the big city, for they would find themselves missing a sustain pedal and running out of cash with many tolls ahead. Would they make it on time or at all? Would the weather hold off for them?

Their next show was an early one. Eight o' clock at the Mercury lounge. The Woes and The Defibrillators would join them. Be there, and you'll know the fate of our heroes before the story is even told.