A/N: Something I wrote a long time ago, and dug up recently. Ironically, it is the source of my penname. I don’t feel it’s that great, because I kind of build up to something and then the end is a letdown. That happens a lot in my stories, and I’m having a really hard time working through that. I might rework it and put it up in a different form. Please read and review.

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Music Man

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He’d earned himself a gig. He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, since at the time it was just this disconcerting blur of handshakes and unsure smiles and compliments regarding the make and upkeep of his guitar. But then he’d played a couple of songs – there were exactly three missed notes – and, by varyingly small degrees, the businessman’s smile had become more sincere. “Friday night. We’ll give you the mike for half an hour, unless you don’t have enough material.” The guitarist had, for the last two years, written a new song every week, and he made sure to say so. “That’s wonderful. Count on about thirty to forty people.”

And it was miraculous. Everything was miraculous, actually. Life sang. On the drive home, his car started to make strange sounds again, and all he could think was that it must be a cleverly disguised symphony. And when the sun glared in his eyes, it was unquestionably a spotlight. Because, maybe, just possibly, this was his big break. Maybe, in a year, he’d be playing sold-out concerts in stadiums, his face plastered over a million posters, the pale pockmarks digitally remade into something vaguely handsome. Rock and roll and soul would reign supreme, and goddammit if he wasn’t the one holding the holy scepter.

But then he got home, and remembered. He remembered the three mistakes during his initial performance, and he remembered that he had a fear of crowds, not much aided by his fear of people in large groups. Generally, he feared. As clearly as a scene set on video, he could see himself climbing up onto that stool, sitting behind that mike, and freezing, playing all the wrong notes and alternately singing keys of his own creation. The newly purple-faced businessman would throw him out, using classic lines such as, “You’ll never work in this town again!” and “I’ll ruin you!”

At this unavoidable fate, the guitarist began to wonder what had compelled him to pursue an audition, to voluntarily become involved in something that could go so wrong so easily. In search of an answer, he retrieved his guitar from its position near an open window, shaking off dust motes and the sunburned feel that had settled into the wood grain. He sat out on the patio, and as spring tittered all about, began to work out a melody. Then…magic. Or at the very least, some closely related subgroup.

Because, like always, it fit. He was wrestling meaning from something indescribable; the music managed to move the mercury in his blood. Humiliation – was worth it. It was all worth it.

So Friday night inevitably came, bring with it the all-too familiar neuroses. The guitarist tried not to care, even though thirty-three moony faces were watching him from above the white rims of their coffee cups, their eyes analyzing and their ears well tuned. He sat behind the mike, and began to play.