A ficly about pre-performance anxiety. Thanks to my good friend for the idea.
The crowd murmured while we watched from behind the curtain, dancing around the backstage in a kind of nervous strut. Stage left, stage right. Looking out, trying to get a sense of the size of the audience that night.
Blue and red lights hit the cymbals on the kit, a kind of mixed purple hue sent splashing across the wood floor that seemed to have seen so many shows before us.
The amps were set. Guitars. The microphone on a thin stand like a nervous young girl in the spotlight. I fidgeted in my seat, unsure of whether to sit or stand. A pencil of a man with a headset stepped past our manager and looked at us as a whole, not making eye contact with anyone in particular.
We lined up. Jim always walked out with his pick already in his hand. It was kind of a tradition of his. I didn’t have any traditions. Each night was new. I was asleep, and with the start of every show, when my stick hit the metal of the ride, I was reborn. Kevin had sweaty palms. That first note was always the most important. We had to nail it or the show was more or less shot.
The floor lights dimmed, the effect lights overhead started to flash, we looked at our respective instruments, and in one perfectly synchronized motion, took the first step.