The amphitheater’s powerful heating system roasted the packed crowd.  Tim fidgeted in the uncomfortable blue plastic seat in the third row; his new eyeglasses still bothered him, even though he’d had them loosened several times already.
        After a quick glance right and left, Tim reached under his seat and removed the Raven 25 Auto from the tape that secured it.  His sweaty hands lost their grip and the pocket pistol clattered to the floor.  “Crap,” he muttered.  He had endured his current custodial job for over a month just so he could avoid security and position that gun.
        He leaned over to see if it was still under the seat.  As he did, the glasses fell off and onto the concrete floor, where several concert goers trod on them on the way to their seats.  Tim dismally regarded the mangled specs, cursing once more before cramming the remnants into his coat pocket.  If he crouched down to look for the gun, they’d probably step on him just as they had his glasses.
        One bit of luck: no one in the audience heard the pistol fall, his eyeglasses crunch, or his cursing, because they were all screaming for the Rock On Cosmic Kings, who were now fifteen minutes late.
 
 Peter, the band’s lead vocalist, parted the heavy stage curtains and gazed at the restless crowd.  “Is Ross in the bathroom still throwing up?”
        “Afraid so,” Bill replied, nervously twirling strands of his long red hair around his left forefinger.  “I can’t believe this.  It’s our first gig with the new drummer.  What do you think we should do?”
        John the keyboardist slid beside Peter and peered through the gap in the curtain.  “If we make them wait much longer, they’ll be angry.  If we cancel, they’ll be furious.”
        Peter sighed.  “Maybe Ross will recover soon.”
        “You can forget that,” Erik said upon joining them.  “He’s got the worst case of stage fright I’ve ever seen.  Waiting any longer won’t help.  He’s unable to overcome it.”
        “That settles it then,” Peter said, with a long groan. “We’ll have to cancel and reschedule.  I’ll make the announcement.”
 
Tim stood up.  There was no point in staying if he couldn’t accomplish his task.
        Peter walked onto the stage and waited for the screams to die down before he spoke.  “I’m afraid we have a problem,” he said.  “Ross, our new drummer, is sick and can’t perform tonight.  I’m sorry but we have no choice but to…hold on…I see someone in the audience.  It’s our old drummer.  There.”  He pointed directly at Tim.  “If we can convince him to play, we’ll carry on with the concert.”
        Tim was stunned.  The last thing in the world he wanted was to help his ex-bandmates out of a jam, but there was nothing he could do.  The crowd pushed him forward toward two burly bouncers, who lifted him up and onto the stage.
 
Tim looked out at the cheering crowd then over at the band members who were getting ready to tune their instruments.  Bassist Erik was the only one who seemed pleased to see him.  Guitarist Bill and keyboardist John appeared uncomfortable.  Peter the vocalist wore his trademark half-smile, a smirk really, that signified everything was going his way, which was usually all the time.
        Tim hated the idea of performing with the band, especially after being personally fired by Peter, yet he didn’t want to be responsible for a riot and probable injuries by refusing to play either.
        Reluctantly, Tim positioned himself at the drum kit where he found the set list beneath his feet, taped to the floor.  Although written large enough for someone with normal vision, Tim had to bend over and squint to see it.  He studied it briefly before counting the band in for the first number.
        Even though he hadn’t practiced since pawning an ancient drum set to buy the Raven, the sticks felt like an extension of his hands as he lay down the heavy beat.  He soon realized just how much he missed the special rush the applause always gave him.  After one number in the glaring hot lights, Tim tossed his jacket on the floor, behind him.  

The band performed well together.  The audience cheered them through over an hour’s worth of original music as well as a few of the standard cover tunes.  After the encore, Tim immediately grabbed his coat and went backstage, where the others formed a semi-circle around him.
        Erik spoke first.  “It’s good to see you again, Tim.  What on earth are you doing here?”
        “I live here,” Tim said.
        “Really?”  Peter’s green eyes narrowed.  “Since when?”
        “For a while now.”
        “Why here?” Bill asked.
        Tim brushed back his long blond bangs which had fallen over his eyes.  “I have a job.”
        “Is that why you left the band?” John asked.
        “Why I left the band?” Tim echoed with disbelief.  “I didn’t leave the band.  Peter fired me.  You didn’t know that?”
        “No.”  Erik met Peter’s unflinching gaze.  “We didn’t.  What gave you the right to fire Tim without first discussing it with the rest of us?”
        “I thought it would be less embarrassing for Tim,” Peter said, assuming an air of innocence.
        “You mean less embarrassing for you,” Tim snarled.  “Tell them why you fired me.”
        Peter shrugged.  “Okay, if you insist.  I found out that Tim was using drugs.”
        “Really?” said Erik, who sounded unconvinced.  “How?”
        “He came to rehearsal early and the pupils of his eyes were dilated, and you know what that means.”
        “You know what that means,” mocked Tim.  “I told you at the time that I had just seen an optometrist and that he had dilated my eyes.”

        The band members now focused on Peter.
        “So,” Peter said.  “If the story about the optometrist is true, where are your lenses?  Did you get contacts?  Pop one out and show it to me.  Or did you get glasses instead?”
 
Tim wasn’t about to show Peter and the others his broken glasses.  Peter would ridicule him, enjoy his misfortune, and Tim refused to give him the pleasure.  “Forget it,” Tim said.  “I don’t need this guilty until proven innocent crap.  I’ve got other things to do.  It was nice seeing most of you guys again,” directing the last sentence at Peter before leaving the stage.
 
The moment Tim was out of sight, 
Erik lashed out at Peter.  “Nice going.  He could have left his glasses at home.  Or maybe he couldn’t afford to buy them yet since you fired him.  And did you even think for one minute that we need him back in the band, given that Ross is a total washout?”
        Peter’s perpetual smile vanished.  “Yeah, maybe I didn’t handle it quite right. Go fix it, okay?”
        Erik ran his long thin fingers through his curly brown hair.  His dark eyes flashed.  “It’s one thing for you to boss John and Bill around, but don’t try it on me.  I’ll see if I can talk Tim back into the band, but not because you asked me to.”
        “Whatever,” Peter said.  
 
Erik hurried onto the stage, where he instantly spotted Tim amid the aisles, but his attention was diverted to the roadies who were dismantling the drums and other equipment.
        Cleanup workers were scattered around the amphitheater.  Tim, back in his coat because the heat had been turned off, started sweeping out second row center, when he spotted the gun.  He carefully swept it toward him, bent down and scooped it up, placing it inside his coat pocket.  That’s when he realized his eyeglasses were missing.
        “Looking for these?”
        Tim whirled.  Erik handed him the glasses.  “Found them behind the drum kit.  Why didn’t you tell Peter about them?”
        “Because he would have been pleased to see they were broken,” Tim said, stuffing them into the left pocket.
        “So this is your great job, eh?” Erik said.  “Not much, is it?  Why don’t you tell me the real reason you were in the audience tonight—with a gun.”
        Tim’s eyes widened.
        “Why don’t I guess,” Erik said.  “You planned to shoot Peter, right?”
        Tim nodded.
        “Really, Tim, I thought you were more together than that. Didn’t you consider the consequences?”
        Tim stared at his feet.  “Not really,” he mumbled.  
 
When Tim looked up, the other band members were headed toward them.
        At the sight of the broom in Tim’s hand, Peter smiled broadly.  “I guess you’ll be rejoining the band now.”
        “Guess again,” Tim said flatly.
        Peter appeared startled.  “Surely you don’t prefer this?”  
        “I prefer it to being ordered around by you.  And I get to keep the money I earn here.  It’s not recycled back into band equipment that you claim to own, since you made the decision not to let me take the drum kit when you fired me.”
        “Is that true, Peter?” Erik asked.
        “What difference does it make?” Peter said.  “Tim hasn’t proven he wasn’t on drugs.”
        “Tim, show everyone what you have in your pocket,” Erik said.
 
Tim shifted the broom to his left hand and absently reached into his right hand pocket.  Erik grabbed his wrist.  “No, no, the other one.”
        Confirming Tim’s suspicions, Peter laughed upon seeing his broken eyeglasses.  Tim glared at Peter, his fingers curling into a fist.
        Erik quickly stepped between them.  “Peter, I know you didn’t like Tim, but I had no idea you’d fire him without consulting the rest of the band.  Now, we’re throwing you out.  Since all you do is sing, consider yourself lucky.  If you had used an instrument, we may have decided to keep it.”
        Peter shook his head and turned to John and Bill.  “I don’t think so.  Tell him guys.”  
        “Just because he’s your older brother, doesn’t give him the right to tell you what to do all the time,” Erik said to John and Bill.
 
Peter shoved Erik savagely against Tim.  “Why don’t both of you leave now.  I can always get bassists and drummers, probably better ones.”
        Bill stepped forward.  “It’s not your band anymore.”  He helped a sprawled Tim out of a front row seat.  “We can easily get another singer, maybe a better one.”
        “That’s right,” John said as he pulled a dazed Erik off the floor and onto his feet.  “You should be the one to leave.” He turned to Erik.  “You sing great backing vocals.  How about trying lead?”
        Peter went pale.  “You’ll never make it to the top without me!” 
        Ignoring his outburst, they went back to discussing their plans.  Moments later the slamming of the amphitheater door sounded Peter’s stormy departure from the band.  No one went after him.
 
 
                      About The Author
 
        K. A. Williams writes from Charlotte, North Carolina, and is currently working on a fourth novel.  K.A.’s fiction has been published mostly in the small press, most recently The Rockford Review and Calliope.
  
 
                                       Copyright © K. A. Williams