“Yeah, it was. One of my best, actually.” Purely a subjective statement, and any attendees were free to opine otherwise, but they would be wrong. No one knew better than I did when it was good (a rare, Halley’s Comet kind of appearance) and when it was not so good. I didn’t stick around on good nights because I didn’t want to jinx it, even though it already had happened, and I didn’t want to inadvertently hear someone shitting on the performance and thus ruin the vibe. (To still be so self-esteemedly reliant upon what other people thought of me never failed to make me feel worse. I couldn’t and can’t change that, try as I might.) I tended to stay at the bar after the not-so-good nights, a combo of penance and redo, hoping my hanging out and buying drinks and talking to people might leave everyone (including myself) with a better a memory of the evening.

Mom held the front door open, and I lugged my equipment to the second floor. I came back downstairs and sat with her at the kitchen table. The kitchen had been redone about twenty years ago, with all the work done by Mom and Larry. I wondered how often Mom sat in this room alone and thought, not about Larry but about the path that could’ve been. There was no need to update the still-functioning appliances, but some of the floor laminate was beat-up and the dingy white walls needed to be repainted. Painting the kitchen was something we both said we would help the other do, but that was still a future thing in our minds. It was nice to have a future thing.

We sat at opposite ends at the rigorously rectangular table. I drank water and Mom drank white wine. We had to remind ourselves to not be continually shocked at how old we were.

Mom asked me about the show because she knew I wanted to talk about it. I told her what songs I opened and closed with and the originals I played and what the crowd reactions were to those songs. Onstage or after, I never admitted I wrote the originals. If pressed, I credited the song to one of the bands I used to play with. Usually Rat Moat. I liked saying that band name.

Mom asked if either of my two briefly tenured girlfriends (since returning to Beverly) were in the audience.

I said, “Yeah, they were both there, dancing and cheering, and throwing roses at me.”

“You think you’re so funny.”