“There’s a terrible thing that creeps and crawls along the floors of my mind that’s making me wish I lived in, like New Mexico, or even Old Mexico”, said Carl.
Carl put his guitar down against the amp in John’s garage and then sat down in one of the crummy folding chairs that served as the “break area”. Carl lit a cigarette and then took a long sip from his Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy. John stood with his bass around his neck watching Carl.
“I’m saying man that I’m struggling with something and the way I imagine it is this slimy, creepy, crawly thing that’s squirming it’s way across the wood floor hallways of my mind”, said Carl.
“Dude, that sounds awesome”, smiled John.
Dave put his drum sticks down and put his head in his hands and sighed deeply.
“What’s your problem Dave”, asked Carl.
Dave looked up from the drum kit.
“Nothing man. It’s just every week we do this. You pretend to be some rock star after three beers, like some damn Jim Morrison wannabe and then John ends up driving you home and explaining to Carrie why you’re just getting home at four on a Wednesday night. All I want to do is jam for a while. I’m just tired of it”, said Dave.
John turned to him and scowled.
“Carl is the heart of this band man. Without him we wouldn't even be here man”, said John.
“This band? This band? Open your stupid eyes John, we’re in our mid-thirties, Carl’s married with a kid, I’m engaged. We’re not a band. We’re middle aged guys trying to jam in your freaking garage”, groaned Dave.
“That’s not true. If we really practiced, like more than one night a week we could really be good and I’m sure Gail could get us a gig at Sud’s and then…boom, record deal”, said John.
“You’re delusional”, said Dave.
John looked over to Carl who had slumped down in the folding chair. His cigarette was burning down un-smoked between his fingers.
“Carl man, help me out. We can make it can’t we? Hasn't that always been your dream for us? To make it as a band so we can all quit our crappy jobs and loveless relationships for hot sex with groupies and all the booze we can drink”, pleaded John.
Carl woke from his dozy state.
“Yeah man, all the way”, Carl slurred.
“See, this is a freaking joke. I only come because Kathy won’t let me play drums in our garage after ten o'clock so I gotta come here. But you know what, I think I’m done”, said Dave.
“What? C’mon dude. It’s only like, quarter to twelve”, said John.
“No man, forget it”, said Dave.
Dave grabbed his drumsticks and his coat and stormed out the garage side door.
“Dave man, c’mon. We've barely practiced”, called John.
John heard Dave’s car start and pull out of the drive way. He looked at Carl who was again slumping down in the folding chair. John looked down at the concrete floor of his garage. He unplugged his bass and sat in the folding chair next to Carl's.
“I want to know what was slithering in your imagination Carl”, said John.