Your History of Silence

Joel waited for his next line, stifling a yawn as he did so. It was embarrassing how much he yawned during these things. The pleasant jazz music floated gently in the air, mostly drowned by the drone of people’s voices. As usual, the lounge was hazy with cigarette smoke and Joel felt his eyes water every time the table closest to the stage sent another cloud in his direction. It came most frequently from an ancient old woman who was sucking on cigar after cigar.

He wouldn’t have minded normally – every one of his roommates smoked – but lately he hated everything about Suzanne’s. He hated the customers, the staff, the over-the-top dress code, the pretentious band, the insignificant paychecks. And, most of all, he hated singing the same, sappy songs over and over again. It had gotten to the point where he had to leave a room whenever anything close to swing or jazz was played.

Fortunately, when you’re in a rock band, you don’t encounter that much jazz or swing music.


Muted applause met the song’s conclusion and Joel forced himself to smile and take a half-bow for the few people that were paying attention.

Once the band began to play again, this time embarking on their solo set, Joel strolled off the stage, trying not to look too hurried. However, as soon as he was around the corner, he broke into a jog, nearly bowling over Nathan as he went.

“Where are you going, Madden?” Nathan demanded.

Joel paused, trying not to look impatient, and said, “Nowhere, sir. I just thought I’d grab a late dinner.”

“There’s food here.”

“Nothing I…am in the mood for,” Joel stuttered. He’d almost said nothing I can afford, but didn’t think that would go over well. Nathan was the son of the restaurant’s founder and very proud of the fact. Last time someone had asked for a raise, they had been shot down and stopped coming to work a few days later. Maybe she had been fired or maybe she had just quit. No one knew the exact story.

“Well, you better not be late back. Your break ends in…” Nathan checked his Rolex, then continued, “twenty-eight minutes.”

“Gotcha,” said Joel, turning and hurrying away.

“Being late will cost you!” Nathan shouted after him, but Joel was already out the door. As soon as he hit the chilly night air, Joel was running. His worn out derby shoes pounded against the sidewalk and his hands hastily tugged at the buttons of his Oxford shirt. As soon as they were undone, he shrugged it and his suit jacket both off, leaving him in a plain, white tank top, and shoved them into his messenger bag.

He rounded the corner at the end of the block, crossed the street, and cut between two buildings to reach a door with The Pour House painted on the wood. Warm air slapped him in the face as he stepped into the dark back room, dropping his bag on the decrepit sofa and hastily pulling out a pair of jeans and DCs. He quickly kicked off his shoes and dress pants, yanked on the jeans and tennis shoes, then rushed toward the other door, knocking over a guitar case in the process.

Just outside the door, he ran into Billy, who threw his hands up and exclaimed, “There you are! We’re next, dude!” Joel could barely hear him over the pounding drums coming from the stage.

“I know, sorry. The band really drug out the Nat King Cole song tonight,” Joel explained.

Billy shook his head. Joel took a step back, worried Billy’s spiky hair might take out one of his eyes. “Don’t tell me. Benji’s the one freaking out.”

“Well, screw him,” Joel snapped. “He’s the reason I work there at all.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m not arguing with you.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

They paused to listen to a screeching guitar solo that was impossible to speak over – the stage was just on the other side of the hallway’s left wall. Once it had died down, the drums having dropped out, and all they could hear was the muffled voice of the singer, Joel continued—

“Nathan threatened to fire me again.”

“Little prick,” Billy scoffed. He dug in his pocket for a pack of Camels and offered one to Joel.

“No thanks, man.”

“Probably right.” Billy took one himself and lit it. “I’m trying to quit, too.”

Joel cocked an eyebrow. “Well, you’re doing a great job.”

The singing stopped and, moments later, they could hear another muffled voice speaking.

“That’s us,” said Billy, crushing his cigarette after a single puff. He and Joel made their way to the end of the hall, hooked a left, and stopped at the edge of the stage. Curtains blocked off either side of the stage and Joel pulled it aside to peer out at the crowd. It was particularly large tonight – probably about twenty people.

“More people than usual,” he commented.

Billy leaned past him, looking out at the audience, then straightened up and quickly ran a finger under his eyes. “Am I smeared?”

Joel squinted at the smudges of eyeliner around Billy’s eyes, then nodded. “Yup.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Billy and Joel strode onto the stage as the announcer said, “And now, the next band taking the stage: Good Charlotte.”

There was scattered applause – more than Joel usually got at Suzanne’s – and a loud contingency of clapping and whistling from their small group of regulars. Joel waved at the little group of three guys and two girls who went out of their way to show up at every GC show.

Benji and Paul walked onstage from the opposite side, Benji shooting Joel a look that said you’re in trouble, mister. The four of them took up their instruments, checked that the house drummer was ready for them to start, then began with Joel saying to the crowd, “Hello, Pour House. Like every other Thursday evening, we are Good Charlotte and we’re here to play you a song. We have a new one this week. Hope you like it.”

Their small fan group whistled and hooted as the drummer began the beat and Benji and Billy began to fade in. Joel came in a few beats later, singing—


The audience was about as animated as usual – the dozen or so at the bar continued their conversations, speaking loudly to be heard over the music, some bobbing their heads or tapping their toes to the beat. The group close to the stage dancing and cheered, whistling and screaming whenever there was a break in the vocals, pushing each other and pretending to mosh about halfway through the song.

This was what Joel lived for. Playing songs that meant something, songs that he cared about. The lounge paid the bills, but this was really living.

When their song was over, Joel thanked the crowd, checked his phone, and dashed offstage.

“Joel!” Benji called.

“Sorry, Benj, can’t be late!” Joel shouted over his shoulder. He pulled off his shoes as he went down the hall, changed pants in the back room, and left the building without even putting his shoes on. As he ran back toward the restaurant, he pulled on his derby’s, put on his shirt and jacket, and stumbled back into Suzanne’s with about three minutes to spare.

He was at the edge of the stage at precisely nine-thirty, where Nathan was waiting for him. He had one hand on his hip, the other held up so he could stare at his watch. He looked at Joel with narrowed eyes, probably noticing the he was out of breath and slightly sweaty, but strode away without saying a word.

Joel sighed, relieved – he’d made it through another Open Mic Night without getting fired.