Power Trio

“I have no strong feelings about being post-hardcore,” Sion insists, delicately cutting into a slab of bleeding beef. “But that’s our music. We are post-hardcore.”

“Every time I hear post-hardcore I dry up like the Gobi desert,” Thekla says. “Post-hardcore is not sexy. It’s academic. It’s a genre for people who have a dozen Dragons of Draymir decks.”

“You play Dragons of Draymir,” Sion says.

“Yeah but I’m not trying to advertise it. We’re art punk.” Thekla folds her arms. There’s a spot of sauce in the second O on the SEROTONIN printed across her chest. The wizened proprietress and only visible waitstaff of Field Fire Orcish Grill is not a fan of Thekla’s outfit. She casts them another foul look from her position behind the mosaic-tiled front counter.

“Art punk.” Sion scoffs. “May the sylvans preserve me. We have double kick drums. Art punk is not double kick drums.”

“Now you’re just trying to get a rise out of me.” Thekla steals one of Sion’s fries. “We’ve had the double kick drum conversation a lot,” she explains to Evan. “But Kell would never downsize.”

Kell licks the grease off her fingers and goes in for another drumstick off the heaving table. “I think we just play rock,” she says.

“‘Rock’ is a placeholder,” Sion says. “It is what you play when you’re talking to coworkers and grandmothers. Enthusiasts appreciate specificity.”

“You guys can figure it out, then. I will continue hitting my drums really loud.” Kell ladles a cube of meat, smothered in fire-engine red curry, onto Evan’s plate. “You gotta try this, Ev.”

Evan tears a hunk of spongy black bread from the communal trencher in the middle of the table and starts sopping up the latest delicacy. This is his first time at an orcish place, and everything has been fantastic, fragrant and rich and stick-to-your-ribs. Kell was delighted when he said so, and insisted on getting just about the entire menu, though she keeps telling him about all the ways it’s been sanded down for wide appeal. He’s never had enough money in New Laytham to sit down at a restaurant, and there wasn’t anything close to a fairfolk cuisine scene in Nashville.

“What’s it called?” he asks, examining the perfectly seared cut.

“Hroek G’anik’ek,” Kell says. “On the menu as pork curry.”

“An approximate translation is Essence of my Honored Enemy,” Sion says. “Based on an old ritual-knight dish. In the old world, it wasn’t pork.”

“But this definitely is,” Kell hastily adds. “Isn’t it, Auntie Logga?”

“Vek,” the old pitmistress grunts. Evan is 80% sure that means yes. He pops the Hroek G’something-or-other into his mouth and relishes its sweet-and-savory burst.

“So, Evan.” Thekla scoots her wicker chair in. “You okay with talking band business while we eat?”

Evan swallows, wipes his mouth. “Honestly, keep feeding me this stuff and I’ll talk about whatever you want.”

“What’s your actual last name?” Kell asks.

“Let’s talk band business,” Evan says. Kell gives him a light swat on the arm.

“We rehearse Wednesday nights whenever I get off work, which is usually around 8, and Friday afternoons at 2,” Thekla says. “If you have a day job, we could figure something else out there. When a show’s coming up, we try to schedule a few extra. Kell works nights, I make my own hours, and Sion is a filthy trust fund kid.”

Evan is curious about what Thekla does, but she’s done him the courtesy of pretending he might have a day job, so he won’t pry. “And it’s always at Herbalism?”

“That it is,” Thekla says. “The Smoke Shed. We share it with other bands, so try to keep it clean and turn everything off after. The lights too, or as many as you can find the switches for. It takes forever, but we gotta reduce those power bills. There’s a text chain with everybody where we coordinate times. I can add you later.”

Evan nods, but his stomach has gone cold. You’re going to have to mention the phone thing. And the homeless thing.

“Kell and I are co-bandleaders,” Thekla continues. “She’s in charge of stuff like booking, communicating with people, she runs our social accounts. I’m the last say on anything about the actual songs. If that arrangement leads to problems, we have a standing oath to revisit.”

“If you wanna take the social stuff off my plate, I’d allow it,” Kell says. “I’m dogshit at it and we’re gonna have to figure it out if we want to grow.”

“And I am the money,” Sion says. “The reason this venture is more than a fond little dream.”

“That’s right!” Kell laughs. “You are now in a nepo baby band, brother. You know how every indie musician has a parent with an article on Wikipedia?”

Sion puffs his chest out. “C’est moi. I keep on trying to convince these technicolor troublemakers to let me bankroll their lives so we can have daily rehearsals. But they insist upon making it themselves. Ridiculous notion.”

“So speaking of all that,” Thekla says. “You deserve to get paid for your time. And unlike ninety-nine percent of bands in New Laytham, we can actually do that. Let’s talk about your hourly rate.”

Evan is stunned. He waits for Thekla to keep going, then realizes she’s waiting on him. “I really don’t, ah… the sign said an even split, right? And we haven’t played out yet.”

“Sure,” Thekla says. “But this isn’t really something we wanted to advertise. Like we didn’t want a session guy, or a hired gun. We want a full-on fourth.”

“But we also want you to know you’re valued.” Kell pats him on the back. “It’s not exactly a full-time gig. It’s not even really a part-time gig, it’s like 10 hours a week. But it’s what we talked about when we started the project and it’s what we want to do.”

“With my money,” Sion says.

“You love it, you weirdo,” Kell says. “So what’s the word? How hard do you want to fin-dom the elf?”

“I, um.” A little tremor in his voice. A sting at the edge of his eyes. Do not cry. You will not cry in this restaurant. Crying is not punk rock. “I need to think about it.”

Thekla suddenly finds something very interesting and distracting to look at on her plate of discarded chicken bones. “Well, you have until the middle of next week to decide. And you are still probational. So maybe we just give you a stipend at first?”

“I was gonna mention.” Kell’s kept her hand on his back, and gives him a little rub between the shoulder blades. “It looks like you’ve got a lot of your stuff on you. Are you between leases maybe?”

“Kinda,” Evan says, quietly.

“I know the feeling,” Thekla steps carefully into the tacit fantasy. “The rental market is a fucking nightmare in this city. You gotta move so quick to close on a place unless you have an overlap month and who can afford an overlap month? If you need a place to stash your things…”

“Maybe a couch to crash on for a bit?” Kell offers.

“We could do a rotation.” Thekla says. “Till you find a spot.”

“That could work,” Evan whispers.

Thekla clears her throat. “And if your phone is busted I think I might still have my old one lying around.”

Sion just watches him, silently. His sunglasses are back on, his expression impenetrable.

“Not like I don’t want to throw mine out the window sometimes,” Thekla says. “And we try to keep them stashed during rehearsal. But we can’t let our bassist be a digital ghost.”

“Sorry if you were planning on being some kind of no-Wi-Fi monk. But I need to tag you on the band’s reels,” Kell says. “I take my role as terrible social media manager very seriously.”

Evan chokes out a laugh. “Okay. I guess if I need one, I need one.” He stands up too quickly. “Be right back. Bathroom.”

“Of course.” Kell swipes a bit of bread from his plate. “Can I eat this?”

“Sure,” Evan says, and hurries away, listening to their chatter as he goes.

“Why are you always eating everyone’s crusts, Kell?”

“The crust is the best part! The middle is too soft. Where’s the crunch? I would honestly pick the crust off and leave an orb of the fluffy shit.”

“That’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever said.”

Evan hurries into the bathroom, a single-occupancy, thank God, an incongruous battle axe hung on the wood-paneled wall. He locks the door, sits on the closed toilet seat, and for the first time since he came to New Laytham, he cries, hand over mouth to keep from sobbing out loud.

He cries for his nights in roach-infested hostels and on distant associates’ hardwood floors. He cries for his barely held-together shoes, for the cold egg sandwiches he’d beg out of cashiers on their way to toss out the stale stuff at the end of the day. He cries for the kindness these strangers are showing him, and the terror still clenching his heart, that they’ll change their minds, that it’s all going to go away. He cries because he’s going to play music again, loud heavy unapologetic music, the music he promised himself he was going to make. He cries for his mother, he doesn’t even know why, she’s been gone for half a decade, and for his stupid, juvenile dreams, even if it’s all been their fault.

Then he cleans himself up and goes back out to his bandmates.