[Ibby]

After five days of near-constant jamming, the three lads already had amazing chemistry. They were as together as any band could hope to be, and already had a repertoire of a good dozen songs, mostly Bowie covers and Queen classics. All they needed was a name and a gig.
“You know, Ibram, they have open mic every Saturday down at the coffee shop by Wal-Mart, we could go play there…” Noah suggested as they packed up after practice that day.
“Open mic is all fine and dandy, but I want a paying gig, a real gig!” Ibram exclaimed.
“Baby steps, man. Let’s get out there a bit first, let’s play free a bit, let’s gig a few times before we try to get paid for it.”
“We’ll open mic once, that’s it. That’s my compromise.”
“Ibram, you’re being ridiculous. We’ve gotta play some open mics, some free gigs and stuff before we start getting offers to play for cash!”
Ibram studied Noah’s face with a grimace, then, his gaze softening, replied “If you say so, Noah. We’ll play some open mic gigs.”

That Saturday, the boys got to the coffee shop early and put their names down to play first. Ibram got a cup of piping hot black cherry tea, to do everything he could to prep his throat for singing; he was bad enough at his best, he needed all the help he could get. Tom got mocha with three shots of espresso, and Noah got a decaf chocolate frappachino-ripoff.

“Noah, you pussy, get a REAL drink! Y’gotta have caffeine for a gig, man… or something stronger!” Ibram joked at his bandmate.
“Yeah, ‘cause your tea is sooo strong, right?” Noah jibed back. “Look at Tommy here, with enough espresso to kill a horse!”
Tommy smiled and opened his mouth as if to reply, but quickly closed it again.
“Not too talkative are you, buddy? I don’t think I’ve heard you say a word since we started jamming together last week!” Noah said, nudging the drummer.
“Yeah, Tom doesn’t say much. Ever. He… he’s had some problems before, and he’s gotten to be something of a quiet guy from it. Well, quiet in speech at least. He sure doesn’t play quietly by any sense of the word…” Ibram explained over his steaming mug. Tom smiled wanly, and returned to his supercharged mocha. Noah frowned and looked across the table at the quiet drummer, wondering what could shut a man up like that.

As stage time approached, the boys went back behind the small stage and, hidden from the prying view of the coffeshop patrons, tuned while smoothing out their classic-rock heavy setlist. Finally, as the lights in the shop started to slowly dim and a short, round man in a leather jacket and blue glasses started welcoming the growing crowd to the café, the three came together into a tight huddle, arms on each other’s shoulders.
“This is it, boys” Ibram murmured to his band.
Grinning, Noah added “And remember, Ibram, singing is better when it’s on key.”
“Aw, shut it, you. Come on, guys – lets give these fuckers the coffeshop show of their lives!”
* * *