The sound of settling.

Most people who worked in music stores were musicians, just like most book store employees are writers.

The former fit fit the lifestyle: late nights meant even later mornings, wholesale deals on gear and lots of dead time to practice. Though the pay was for shit, no one did this for the money.

Fritz had been hauling is ass into his day job for most mornings since dropping out of college to start the band. He was a good employee but an even better musician. One of those talents his mom called God given, others just called him a god, his friends joked that he'd sold his soul to the devil to play like that. Fritz just chalked it up to good ears, better instincts and listening, and maybe ten percent talent.

Whatever you called it, he had a gift. Jerry, who opened the small main street music store before Fritz was born, had never seen anything like him. The kid knew keys like Ray Charles, he laid down a solid bass groove, could kill on guitar and played the drums like a monster. Fritz played with everyone in town. He had several bands (two touring) and was called by the union to sit in when a big name rolled through town needing a pick up band. He stayed busy but somehow never felt he was living up to his potential.

Now and then, which for Fritz, meant weekly, he thought about the Berklee letter he'd received before he enrolled in the hometown college. Without a scholarship, he just didn't see how he'd be able to practice, go to school, and work, all of which were vital to making Berklee work. So rather that do it half-assed, as his father would have said, he figured four years of practice, gigs, work and a few working bands might yield the same results. So far he'd been dead wrong and it gnawed at him. He'd settled for second and always regretted it.

A union gig had come up that had Fritz sitting in on rhythm guitar with a hot new county star who had added a Quincy gig between tour stops at two larger sheds. He got a set list and had a call with the road manager. "Just play it straight, like the record and you'll have no problems. Trey hardly ever deviates from the set list" he'd said, the years of seeing acts come and go were loud and clear in his voice.

He played a solid set of an hour plus one encore and was loading up his rig when the road manager texted Fritz. "Meet me at catering". 'Cash gig' Fritz thought, nothing wrong with that, locked up his vintage Ford station wagon and headed over.

"I know a guy who knows a guy who needs a session player at his studio in L.A. The pay is for shit, but..."

" I've heard that before" Fritz said, interrupting the manager, which kind of pissed him off, but he chalked it up to age.

"Well, we've been impressed with you and frankly, I'd heard your band when it came through Portland a few months back and have been tracking you. I think if you want it the gig's yours. Look, kid, these kinds of gigs don't come around that often and I'll get you on more national tours in the summers, eventually, we may even find you a real band, but you've"

"I'll take it, when do I leave?" Fritz interrupted again.

"The session starts Monday and it's a two day drive from here for any sane person, so if I were you, I'd start driving."

The time spent regretting Berklee was never coming back and Jerry would understand if he didn't come in on Monday, in fact, he be pissed if he did. The bands would collapse, that he'd regret, as for the rest, it was expendable. His Mom would help sell off his other gear, the old couch, table and bed in his apartment could go back to goodwill where they'd come from. Jerry would consign his kit, bass and amp.

He pointed the old station wagon down I-5 and hoped the old car would make it, it had to...this was it.