“Kelly! Are you even paying attention?!” I hear a high voice call out, disrupting any thoughts I may have been absorbed in. It was my friend Lexi.

She always had an absent look to her. Like there wasn’t really much going on up there. 

I have yet to find out for myself if that’s true or not.

We were discussing our band, but the conversation dragged on for so long that I found myself becoming uninterested. Maybe it’s because I’m a simple-minded loser who couldn’t pay attention to something if her life depended on it. Or something.

I push myself off of the damp couch we leave in this garage with us and look to Lexi,
“Sorry. Should we start practicing now?” I say, walking over to my bass. 

I loved my bass. It was an Ibanez GSR200. It was lightweight and easy to walk around with, and that’s why I liked to play while standing up. 

I go to pick it up, and look over to Lexi. 

She stares at me.

“What?” I ask, her gaze uncharacteristically icy as she watches me closely.

“What’s up with you today? It’s like I’m talking to a wall!” 

Huh? I didn’t even realize she was talking to me. 

People tell me that’s my biggest problem.

I don’t listen, I hear. But it’s different when music is involved. 

I can decipher the meaning of an instrumental song. I feel their emotions. Their tone. It’s different with people. They can say one thing, but their tone says another.

Maybe it’s something I’m doing.

I apologize to Lexi, and we start to jam a bit before our guitarist Grace says she has to leave, so I do too.

My belly aches and my throat burns. It burns and I lost my voice. The streets seem to emphasize this fact, as the only sounds I can hear are my footsteps and my own thoughts. It’s scary, but for some reason I’m not all that scared.

I adjust my gig bag on my shoulder and continue to walk home.

The next day, Lexi texts me. That text was significant in more ways than I could say, but I didn’t know that then. Who knows what would’ve happened if I didn’t reply? 

It was a message about some band that was performing at a local lounge. I hadn’t been to many of these, so I said yes. Why not? It’ll be something to do besides sitting in my room and playing bass all day. She quickly sends me back a location and I pull myself out of bed. 

My makeup is smudged from my negligence towards cleaning my face before sleep. I simply touch it up a bit and fix my hair. I put on a pair of jeans and a shirt from some band I like and exit my house, making sure to bring my wallet with me. 

We’re in her car now. The radio is blasting some song about unintelligible nonsense, but I pay no mind to it. I’m a bit nervous, for some reason. I don’t have any reason to be feeling any kind of negative emotion, but I am. Maybe that’s one of my problems. 

The car comes to a stop in front of some shack. It’s real worn down looking, and I’m a bit hesitant to enter it. I look to Lexi, who seemingly had the same revelation as me. 

“This place is… Kinda sketch.” She says, kicking the gravel under her feet. I can’t help but agree.

I eventually muster up some courage and walk towards the front doors, the knob cold under the warmth of my hand. I slowly turn it…

“Wow…!” It was amazing! 

The loud sounds of a guitar gently being strummed as if it were just a warm up can be heard, and people are all standing by the makeshift stage at the front, a soft blue glow gently illuminating their faces. It was our scene.

Lexi wanders off to some corner, trying to get a good view of the stage. I tell her to be careful, and she nods in response. 

I walk over to a less dense area near the stage, and I wait for the music to start. 

That’s when I saw him. The oddity in a world that felt all the same.

He looked to be about 15, with shoulder length dark hair that he would have to push out of his face. He was standing on the stage, holding an instrument. The bass.
His outfit was reminiscent of something Kurt Cobain might’ve worn, a flannel with the dirtiest, torn jeans you’ve ever seen and a t-shirt from a band so obscure I’m sure nobody recognized it. He walked out on stage with confidence. Like he knew he would put on a good show for us. And that he certainly did. They introduced themselves.

“Our name is PoorHeart! And we love making music.” PoorHeart. I’ll always remember that name. 

Their music was phenomenal. It was a strange mix of surf rock and grunge that worked so well together it was almost unreal. The singer sang with such raw emotion, and the bassist's fingers were moving so fast it seemed a blur. It inspired me. I wished to be even half as good as him.

They played for what seemed like hours, and I loved every second of it. To think these kids were so close in age with me and my friend was empowering. Maybe we had a chance one day too. 

But, all good things come to an end. The act was over, and they filed off of the stage. 

That couldn’t be it.

I needed to meet these guys. Ask them how they did it. How they became everything I wanted to be. That bassist. I needed to talk to him. I was more determined than ever.

I quickly slipped out of the crowd, drunk people jamming their elbows into my ribcage, and the occasional drink getting spilled on me. I didn’t care. I needed this.

I sneakily walk up the stairs near the stage and walk softly, making sure my footsteps aren’t heard.

Then I see them. A group of boys.

My heart races. 

I slowly approach them…

“Oh. Hey.” The singer says, seemingly unbothered by the fact I snuck back here. It was amazing. 

I slowly start approaching them,
“You guys were awesome up there! How do you do it?” I ask, almost starstruck. I look to the bassist, hoping he responds.

“We’ve been playing for a while, I guess. Instruments are the one thing we have in common. And a passion for music.”

We continued talking like that for a while. Me and the bassist, (who I found out is named Chris) bond over our love for the instrument. So much so that we exchange numbers. When we eventually say our goodbyes, I come to a revelation. Music isn’t some magical trick that you learn. It’s something you work for. You train yourself to be good at it, and your passion drives you. What I learned that night was powerful. I learned that passion and dedication are the true keys to success. In anything. Not just music.