Alone, I Am Not

A catcall to his band mates and a squeeze of his seldom used water bottle into the crowd, the curly haired wildfire hitched his acoustic guitar onto his shoulder, hiding the pain the certain song burned into him.

Perching himself onto his lonely stool, and watching the rest of his band retire from the stage for a few minutes as he played this unjustly personal song, he pulled the perfectly placed harmonica into his mouth, closed his eyes and started to play.

The crowd roared as the tones from the harmonica echoed through the venue, replacing those of the electric guitar that had been recorded some six years ago. Until, he pushed it away and began the song, reliving the horror and the memories of which it told; the horror most of the crowd realized and felt as their own, as they put that solemn song on repeat after a long day at school, and the hardships it entailed.

The six word, sixteen bar chorus evoked hope in the hearts of the lost and forgotten, the problem children, the beaten and bullied, and the curly haired wildfire told himself what he told the crowd in the song: “I’m not alone.”

Raising his arms and guitar, he called to the crowd, receiving a cheer that broke his heart.

The sheep and the fakers, the hopelessly trendy and the time waster, the cliché fans-for-the-bandwagon; they never related. It was the ones who’d mowed lawns, served breakfast and washed greasy spoons, the kids and adults alike that had scrounged and saved and stayed up until midnight until the tickets had appeared online; it was those who got the message, and who listened, and who understood.

It was those who were ripped for the clothes they wore.

It was those for who the day was always the same.

It was those who felt nobody cared.

It was those who knew: they’d just swear.

Those were the true fans. They were the ones who clicked their lighters and forgot the razorblades for a minute, who flashed their mobile lights and “na na”’d like this was the last time.

Who screamed when he thanked everyone for their time, and for spending well earned or well saved money to watch him and the others play the songs that made their living; the literal ones and the ones that just sprang to mind.

The screams were loud, but he didn’t care. He strummed one last time and twanged a soft slow tune, and sang the last time with more feeling than he thought he could ever muster. He sang: “But I’m not… alo-o-one.” And strummed for the end, like wildfire against the screams, the cheers and the applause, before abandoning his stool and going for a drinks break, taking a deep breath and knowing he was not alone, because he had the best fan base in the world, no matter what songs he played.

He loved his job, did this curly haired wildfire.