Sam stepped up onto the makeshift stage. It didn’t feel very solid under his feet, but he’d seen plenty of people use it. The band last week had three people, and they had plenty of space.
Sam walked over to the guitar amp. It was old, tattered, and smelled like an ashtray. The dials and speakers were all in the same box — a big crate. He picked up a guitar from a nearby stand, over a thousand dollars in his hands.
The strings tickled the palm of Sam’s left hand as he caressed them. He clipped the tuner onto the headstock, making sure the guitar would sing the right notes. He switched the amp into standby and put the guitar back onto its stand.
Turning around, Sam faced the crowd of empty tables. In a few hours, people would pour into this room. For now, he had it all to himself; it was quiet. For several moments, he imagined the faces that would look up at the stage. They would be busy, conversing and, most of all, they would be smiling.
A cable lay coiled up on the stage, in front of the guitar amp. Sam fetched it and plugged the guitar into the amp. He picked up the guitar and slung the strap over his neck. He cycled the amp to on and strummed the guitar. The amp sounded better than it looked.
Sam worked his way through the beginning of a blues song, and he welcomed the oncoming exhilaration. He worked his fingers up the neck and played fancier and fancier until there came a loud clicking pop.
The room was quiet. Sam put the guitar back down and went to the back room. He unlocked the door to the electrical room. The breakers were always popping in this old place.
