Go Let It Out

“Are you with the orchestra?”

I’m waiting in line at Andy’s Deli on the corner of 80th & Columbus, a slice of broccoli and chicken pizza in one hand, a Newcastle Pale Ale in the other. My guitar is slung over my shoulder. The deli is unusually busy for midnight, on accouont, I deduce, of Shakespeare In The Park.

“No, ma’am,” I say. “I’m just in from rehearsal.”

“What’s the name of your band?” she asks as I step out of the door.

For an instant, I consider explaining that the band is a one-off, a super-group comprised of two singer/songwriters.

“Buckeye.”

“We’ll keep an ear out,” her male companion says.

“Cool,” I say, stepping towards my apartment, finally smiling.

I was fifteen minutes late to Buckeye rehearsal tonight due to an extended bout with familial drama. By the time I strapped on my guitar and plugged in, I was bitter and sullen. Miraculously, though, just two hours later, I was beaming.

Buckeye.

Sunday night. Rockwood Music Hall. Free.

You’ll be beaming.

Trust me on this.