It was too dark to read the music on the page. I saw my mistakes on the customer’s faces, their cringes with every wrong note I played. All in front of Old Roberto, my first time playing with him. He was a legend, recorded albums, played in all the good joints in the city. My idol. My hero. I wanted to be just like him.
And I blew it. I wanted to cry.
I sat at the bar, ready to drown my tears. And then the bartender slid me a gin and said, “don’t worry, Old Roberto won’t admit it, but he’s been stone deaf for years.”
Friday Fictioneers—a story in 100 words prompted by a photo that Rochelle posts every Wednesday. Photo Credit: Bjorn Rudberg.