Rock 'N' Roll Singer

𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗡

11 December 1978
I didn't know what to expect come Monday morning. Would George show up in Jack's garage like nothing had happened, would he apologise, or would he just ditch us altogether? All I knew was that if Tom was being serious about us performing in a week, we had to get our heads together. I brought over my bag of costumes to practice changing in and out of.

     "God, Marie. You'd think we were going to a costume party with all that stuff." Joey snickered as I walked up to our makeshift rehearsal studio.

     "Still, coming out in the fedora and jacket was pretty funny," Jack reassured me. "Are you gonna do that for the other songs as well?"

      I nodded. We still had to figure out what songs we wanted to do exactly. Definitely "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" again. "Cherry Bomb" was an obvious choice as well, but I'd let the band choose some stuff too. We were all in this together, or as together as we could be.

     "Are we doing your song?" He asked.

     "Yeah. It's just gonna feel weird without a bass."

     "Well, I think I've solved our problem," he began.

     "You got George back?" Joey leapt out of his seat behind the drum kit.

     "Nah, he wouldn't answer the phone, so I rang a mate of mine, Mark. He said he'd fill in for us until George came back."

      Sensing no other option, we all nodded in agreement and tried to play along to the tiny transistor radio sitting on a stool while we waited. About fifteen minutes later, a blue two-tone van pulled up to the curb, nearly crashing into Jack's mailbox. The figure in the driver's seat wiped what seemed to be sweat off its forehead before leaping out the door toward us.

     Mark Matters stood a surprising 6' high. He ducked his head slightly as he entered the garage, even though he really didn't need to. His sandals, slightly too small for his feet, slapped against the concrete beneath him.

     "God, you guys are short," he remarked.

     And he looked 30 with a small mustache on his upper lip.

     "I'm 5'8," Joey noted with a sense of pride, like he didn't want him to forget such an important detail.

     Mark's chocolate mane covered his face until he blew it away from the side of his mouth. A pick hung from around his neck.

     "What's up, dudes?" He greeted in a calm voice. "Are we gonna rock or what?"

     His bass—painted by someone who was used to hanging out Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, if you catch my drift—was strapped to his body like a backpack. He dug a pick out of his patch-adorned jean jacket and brought the guitar in front of his chest to play it. He gave me a quick once-over.

     "Are you a groupie?"

     "No. I'm the singer."

     "I knew that. It's just that you look like the kind of birds that hang out at the stage door. The blonde ones that make their own shirts and everything. They did that for my band."

     You know that he's only into you for sex, right? George's voice played in my head at the thought of waiting outside with a bunch of teenagers in clunky shoes hoping that someone from a band would look my way.