Ray massaged the sticky marijuana bud between his thumbs and index fingers, crumbling and collecting the pungent flakes in the fold of the Chicago Reader. He should have waited to dive into Melvin Drake’s fiery write-up of Viceroy Brown’s Tuesday night performance until the joint was rolled and half-smoked, numbing the burn. While mixed, the review’s cold truths had teeth, barbed and sharp, biting away at the chunks of positivity. When Ray was honest with himself, he agreed with the assessments.

He and his cousin had been chasing the rock ‘n’ roll dream longer than he cared to admit. Even with two albums under their belts and a faithful Midwestern following, Viceroy Brown’s only hit, “Wonderfully Wicked”, lasted just three weeks on the Billboard Top 100, peaking at #89—a detail Melvin Drake sandwiched into paragraph three. Blazin’ Ben Sanders from WXRT was a friend and long-time customer at Frye and Sons Automotive Repair, doing his best to keep the Brown’s one hit traveling over the Chicagoland airwaves and onto listeners’ radios. But obscurity was a station-change away.

Ray lifted a steaming mug of tea to his lips, peeling the invitation from his fifteen-year class reunion off the bottom and setting it back on his coffee table. The makeshift coaster grew more stained and puckered over the year since its arrival and repurposing. Ray and Kurt’s high school garage band saw several iterations since their graduation, as did the music scene.

The scene morphed yet again with the approach of Y2K. Ray grew bored with grunge. The more mainstream it got, the more formulaic it sounded—a blueprint he had to admit he’d followed. While blue-collar, Ray’s homelife was too stable and Norman Rockwell idyllic to pull off the authenticity and rage needed for Nu-Metal. He, Alma, and Kurt were hovering somewhere between Pop-Punk and Garage Rock Revival. Viceroy Brown’s sound was still undefined, exactly as Melvin Drake described.

Using the side of his pinky, Ray gathered the green flakes into a pile, then pinched and sprinkled fingerfuls along the length of a Zig-Zag. He twisted the rolling paper into a cigarette the width of a pencil, licked the edge, and sealed it closed. He laid the joint to dry over Melvin Drake’s headline, obscuring the adjective “predictable” and effectively changing the sentiment. Reaching over to the end table, he hit the play button on his answering machine, which blinked the number three.

“Tuesday. Nine twenty-seven p.m.,” the robotic voice said.

“Raymond, honey. Two things. I know you won’t hear this until after your show but break a leg tonight. You make your mama proud.” His mother was his biggest fan, who only watched him play at family gatherings. Rock music was not to her taste. She could wear the grooves off a Bread record, though. “Your father and uncle need you to come to the shop an hour early on Thursday. Mrs. Levonwith claims her Buick is doing that thing again. She’s asked for you. Says you know her car best. Anyhoo, love you. See you at Sunday dinner.”

The Buick was a convenient excuse. His father and uncle enjoyed Mrs. Levonwith’s frequent car troubles, keenly aware she was a recent divorcee with alimony income who was on the prowl with an eye on the guitar-playin’ mechanic. She liked to loosen things, and not just on the LeSabre. Ray hit the delete button, chuckling at his father and uncle pimping him out for steady business. He played the next message.

“Tuesday. Nine oh five p.m.,” said the mechanical man.

“Ray, I’ll be at the show later. We need to talk. Can you let this go already? It’s just a guit…”

The lamp wobbled from the force of Ray’s hand hitting the delete button. He rested his fingers under the shade’s rim, keeping it from toppling. Fucking Andrea. Just a guitar. Shit. His grandfather’s commemorative edition Gibson Les Paul in deliciously decadent Viceroy Brown, purchased at the 1955 Chicago NAMM show, was not just a guitar. It was rare and special, passed down from his father’s father to Ray on his eighteenth birthday. And Andrea, the cunt, hocked it to pay off her credit card debt. On the plus side, he savored the mental replay of The Vic’s bouncers forcibly escorting his ex out of the venue.

Now agitated all over again, Ray decided the joint was dry enough. Lifting it from the Chicago Reader revealed Melvin Drake’s choice words, adding to Ray’s Thursday morning malaise. He lit the end and inhaled, rotating it to stop a run from forming. He let it dangle from his lips as he positioned his acoustic Hummingbird across his lap. The strings squealed as he readied his fingers to practice. Practice makes perfect. Or predictable. Whatever.

Good and high, Ray snubbed the joint, sipped his chai tea, and hit play to listen to the last message.

“Thursday. Eight twenty-two a.m.,” said robot man.

“Ray, call me as soon as you get this. Terry wants you, me, and Alma to come to the offices ASAP. Today. No later than 3 p.m.”

Shit. Shitty, shit, shit, shit. Viceroy Brown was getting dropped from Copper Bottom Records.

Offloading the Hummingbird onto the couch, Ray rummaged through a pile of old Reader’s, Wednesday’s junk mail, and the Victoria’s Secret and J. Crew catalogs that led to Andrea’s shopping addiction, searching for the phone’s cordless handset to return his cousin’s call. Coming up empty-handed, he checked behind the throw pillows that came with his couch and slid his hands into the cracks of the cushions. Sweet. His favorite pick. He’d been looking for that. He moved to his bedroom, where he found the handset on his nightstand, inches from the bedroom phone. He tapped the buttons to speed-dial Kurt.

“C’mon. C’mon. Pick up.” Ray paced through his condo’s 820 square feet.

“Hey, Cuz.” Kurt wasted no time. “I don’t have a great feeling about this after the review in the Reader.”

“Have you talked to Alma?”

“Alma was with me when Terry called.”

Of course, she was. The chemistry between the two was electric both on and off stage. Bass and drums. They go together. And Tuesday night, Kurt and Alma were deep in the pocket. Becoming more than bandmates was only a matter of time. This development explained why they were MIA all day Wednesday as he ran around withdrawing 75% of his savings and haggling with Bruiser from Near South Pawn to reclaim his grandfather’s gift. Shittiest day off. Ever.

“Are you scheduled at the shop today?” Ray asked.

“Yeah. Dad wants help with old man Johnson’s Caddy this afternoon. You?”

“Yup. Going in early for Mrs. Levonwith’s Buick.”

“Nice! She’s smokin’.”

“Hey!” Alma hollered good-naturedly from somewhere in his cousin’s apartment.

“Alma, baby!” Kurt’s voice became slightly muffled. “Don’t get me started on how smokin’ I think you are!”

“Nice save, Cuz.”

“It’s true.”

Ray chuckled. “Can you two pick me up?”

“We’ll be there in thirty.”

What a waste of a good high. Ray sank onto his sofa, dejected, glancing at the Melvin Drake review, scattered with his joint’s detritus. Viceroy Brown, Chicago’s up-and-coming post-grunge rockers, showcase a predictable kind of chaos. Now single and nearly broke at thirty-three, Ray’s musical fantasy felt even further from reality.

Copper Bottom Records was smack dab between the Near and Lower West Sides, around the corner from the Lozano Branch of the Chicago Public Library. Besides the one-block jog at South Halston, the drive was practically a straight shot down West 18th Street, three and a half miles out the side parking lot of Frye and Sons Automotive Repair.

Kurt and Alma sat on Terry’s office loveseat, attempting to hide that they’d slept together just hours before and that they wanted to repeat that activity right then. Furtive glances and small touches betrayed them. Terry was oblivious, on the phone and occupied with ripping some kid at Kinko’s a new asshole about a messed-up order of promotional flyers.

Ray stood at the third-floor window, nervously swirling the thick silver ring on his index finger—a spade with a skull and crossbones in the center. His birthday gift from Andrea. Shit. A present he could probably consider given to himself. Outside, the July breeze rustled the trees, but the fire escape that crisscrossed the building’s front facade interrupted the quaint view. Ray wasn’t really seeing either. He was panicking.

Even though he’d mulled over the idea of quitting the music scene and settling into his grandfather, father, and uncle’s livelihood, he wanted it to be his choice. He didn’t hate wrenching on cars. Kinda loved it, in fact. But his grandfather’s ‘55 Gibson Les Paul was a promise. Give it a shot, kid. Do better than I did, kid. Live the dream. Was this a setback or a wake-up call?

Terry slammed the receiver down, startling Ray. “Jesus. You do one thing seemingly to save time, and it bites you in the ass. Sorry about that. Monica would normally handle such tedium, but she’s on vacation. Thanks for coming in so quickly.”

“What’s this about, Terry? Are you dropping us from the label?” Ray asked, trying to jumpstart the conversation. “We’re aware the recent review is …”

“What? No! Is that why you thought I needed you to come in? I’m sorry, guys.” Terry made a mouth noise and waved away the false notion of contract termination. “Never mind fucking Melvin Drake. Let that roll off you.”

“Then why the urgency?” Alma asked, sliding her hand on the sofa cushion millimeters from Kurt’s. Kurt bridged the gap and grazed her pinky finger with his.

“You’ve got us worried,” Ray said.

“Some cats called Halberd backed out of their time slot at Woodstock. The event promoters have asked if Viceroy Brown wants it.”

“Woodstock? Ninety-nine?” Kurt’s face was a mixture of excitement and disbelief. He scooped Alma’s hand into his.

“The same event where Metallica and The Red Hot Chili Peppers are headlining?” Ray’s mind raced. This was it. A chance. An opportunity.

“The very same. If you agree to join the Emerging Artists lineup, you’d play at four p.m. on Saturday. The promoters need an answer immediately. They’ve got a short list of potential fill-ins, and time’s a wastin’. That’s the urgency.”

Ray, his cousin, and his cousin’s new love exchanged nods and wide smiles. “Yes!” They said in unison.

“Excellent. A couple of details,” Terry said, manically clicking the plunger of his pen. “The festival organizers offered a loaner drum kit. Or you can schlepp your own and take your chances with the airlines.”

“I’m cool with a loaner,” Kurt interrupted.

“You have to share a hotel. The whole area is overbooked, and apparently, you’re lucky there’s even a room at all.”

“Don’t care. I’ll sleep in the tub if I have to.” Ray would sleep on the ground for this big break.

“Pack your bags. You leave tomorrow,” Terry said.

Hot damn! Ray would not let his grandfather down.