No one was coming to see our show, and we knew it. We weren’t there for money or fame, we were doing it entirely for ourselves. We needed the pressure. We needed the reality of playing live, in front of whoever was there, and not being able to just goof off and goof up like we normally do. Most importantly, we needed the experience. The fear. We didn’t ever expect to become famous; we just wanted to play some local places. Taking the first step and putting an awful concert under our collective belt was more than fine.

It was a small bar in downtown. That’s not to say that it was unfrequented, just that, on a night that stormed like this one, not very many patrons filled it. It was something of an open-performance bar. They wouldn’t pay you for any performance, but they would let you come and play for nothing. Our only catch was that we had to be out by nine, since we were all under the drinking age. Georgie and I arrived first with her bass and a few amps. My drums were in the back of John’s SUV, and he was stopping to pick up his girlfriend – even though he didn’t really know his way through downtown on his own.

There was a solo performer, a singer/guitarist, playing when we walked in. The bar was mostly dark, with subdued natural lighting over the tables. The guitarist’s music built the mood to a somber and mellow evening. The gentle but constant tap of rain against the front window rang to his beat.

It was a shame, I chuckled to myself, that we would have to destroy such a lovely mood.

Georgie and I piled her equipment in the corner behind the performance stage, to be set up when the gentleman with the guitar left, and grabbed a table and an appetizer to help us bide our time. The gentleman saw us and recognized our motive, giving us a knowing nod. When he finished his song, he turned to us to let us know that there would be just a few more songs and he’d gladly relinquish the stage.

Georgie’s phone rang. John and Jess were lost in a city laid out on a grid.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Give me the phone, let me see if I can help him,” I asked in a much more demanding tone than I originally intended. Georgie handed it to me in the middle of John’s sentence, so I got the tail end of him rambling about where he thought he was.

Of course, he was across town. I tried explaining how to navigate the grid layout, but it was just too much for him to handle.

“Look, just, get on 20th street, head towards the mountain, and I’ll meet you on the side of the street.” I waited for his affirmative and hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, I climbed into his SUV and guided him to the bar.

Georgie ran up to us as we parked, her jacket over her head. The rain had picked up. Between the four of us, we ran the drums, John’s two guitars, and the selection of amps into the bar without much trouble. The gentleman finished his set, and we moved up on stage. The gentleman turned and grabbed a seat to listen to our alternative garage pop-punk trash. Our set was short enough, probably only 21 minutes. The gentleman gave us feedback throughout the night, to help us balance our sound and to help us calm down and handle public performance. He had a band out of Nashville and was moving away soon, but he knew exactly where we came from, so he was willing to put up with the noise we produced.

We survived the set, and came out stronger. We made mistakes, yes, and had to restart a song, but we made it through it. We finished, packed up, and thanked the gentleman for his advice. Our band guru, our Buddha.

As John shut the rear doors on his SUV, he turned to us and asked, “Waffle House?”

We had made a pact to eat out after each show to recuperate and move forward. Georgie and I turned to each other and nodded. “Sounds good to me,” she replied.

We gathered back in our hometown and pulled into the diner’s parking lot. The food was warm, the waitress uncaring, and the music classic. The perfect atmosphere for us to unwind and joke with each other.

Then the news came. John fell silent for a moment before speaking up. “Guys, I have something to tell you.”

Our interest was peaked – though, Jess already seemed to know, as she looked away.

“It’s, uh, bad news. I’m moving. Dad’s job relocated him. To Hong Kong.” John frowned. I could see him holding back at least a tear.

I put down my fork and Georgie leaned back in her seat.

“It’ll be at the end of the summer, so we can still play some. And I can try to arrange some stuff beforehand, help you get a new guitarist and singer.”

But I already knew; the Pandas were dead.