Tim starts countdown, and Mikey stills.
Tap. He's got this awkward stance. Tap. Limbs bent all wrong. Tap. Staring at the floor so hard his- Tap. -glasses are just barely hanging on and,
He's a damn deer in the headlights. Me and the other guys try not to pay too much attention. He's clearly got stage fright. We wait for him to start.
He starts to shift around, like he's about to do something. But nothing happens.
"Wait–" Tim stops. "Wrong song?"
Mikey clears his throat. Shifts again. Stares at Tim's crash.
I swear, he looks like he might puke.
"Um," he says. Flicks his eyes around the room.
I begin to wonder if he's blanking.
The wind picks up, and the dead tree outside starts to scratch. It's an awful sound, but it seems to snap Mikey out of it.
"No, no." he says, "Just got a little– Sorry."
Some deep breaths and of all things a breathmint later, he looks a little less queasy.
He nods to Tim, who starts countdown. This time the kid actually plays.
I'm already dreading the call.
We should've just started with Neil. Yes, he's good. But he's also got the know-how. He's been in the game longer than even I have.
We should've just started off by asking, but this isn't my decision to make alone. I know that.
"He's in!" Shaun announces.
And I no longer care. I'm too damn jazzed to care.
For a second, at least. Then: hello, reality. Hello, the reason I didn't want to hold auditions to begin with.
"Who's up first?"
You'd think we're about to chop limbs off the way the room goes silent.
None of us want to call at all cause none of us like to do this cause none of us are social-sadists. But I'm not about to be first.
"Fuck, fine." John says, grabbing the phone off its hook.
Mutters "Someone's gotta do it."
After the first call, it's easier. Half because that's how it always is. Half because of the shit beer. Because, well, who the hell could do this dead-sober?
"Yeah, yeah." Shaun goes, "See you then."
It's second-to-last but I'm happy to be last, 'cause calls like these are shit, but when they're made to friends? God, that's different.
He hangs up and hands the phone (read: gun) to me.
"Your turn."
Last one up is 'MikeyWay'.
I punch in the number and wrap the cord around and around until my hand turns blue. It's going numb and I can't tell if it's my circulation or the nervous hum of the phone ringing.
"You trying to murder your hand?" someone says
Thank God someone picks up before I can finish my hands off for good.
"Hello?"
And now I've entered the Twilight Zone. This isn't Mikey, but it sounds like him. Almost. It's fucking uncanny.
"Is Mikeyway there?" I ask.
NotMikey calls out his name.
A couple seconds of silence pass and I'm tempted to chat up NotMikey but for fucks' sake this is a bad-news call. I'm far too sober for that sort of stumble.
"Sorry." NotMikey says. It's weird. Like he's laughing – that weird sort of silent laugh. "Just a minute."
And I wanna know why but the phone makes this clunking noise and I know he's already walked off.
And it's quiet. Eerie. Like he's just made me a voyeur. And I'm just listening to the footsteps and doors of this NotMikey's (and I guess, Mikey's) home. Listening to the motions on linoleum and carpet and the time ticking by on one of those smaller grandfather-clock-ish clocks. I know the sound of those well. The tckk-ck-ttkk-ck.
Listening to shuffle-y footsteps. On carpet, then linoleum, approaching.
"Hi." One Mikeyway says, before he's even picked up the phone, "Who's this?"
"Frank." I say, hesitant.
It feels like a confession, but I'm not about to be absolved of jack-shit.
"From Pencey." I clarify.
"Oh," he says, like he's a little surprised but not really. Like it's some other person's sock in his laundry.
"The band thought that you were good," I say – it's not entirely a lie. "but we think it's not the best match, of the band and you,"
Then I'm tongue-tied and all awkward, and the guys look at me funny while I've got no idea what to say. I'm no good at this and they know it. Maybe even worse than them.
"right now." I spit out, like it'll soften the blow.
In all honesty, it's not even for him, it's for me. No one's dreams are gonna be crushed by this. I just hate having to do this.
"Oh." he says. A little more certain this time around. Plainstated.
"Okay." he says, "Thanks."
He doesn't sound sad or disappointed. Just cordial. It's pretty, odd.
"No, Thank you." I say, making it even odder, but thank fuck the line cuts out halfway through and I can rest easy knowing he never heard me.
Unless he was on speaker.
But who the hell would do that?
The guys look at me like they're gonna piss themselves laughing.
"Fuck you." I say, but I can't help laughing too.
We toast the end of calls with more cheap beer. For the moment, we're cleansed of that guilt. Baptized by beer.
And maybe it's only appropriate that when the noise moves on that I keep wandering back to the guy who'd picked up the phone.
