All Carla’s friends told her that if Trevor was singing at the Eden cafe on a Friday night—Friday night—it was asking for disaster; playing with fire.
Lauren and Crescent could scarcely believe she’d set it up. “What were you smoking,Carla, when you decided Trevor should sing at the Eden any night or even any day?”
“What? Who told you?”
Crescent pushed in closer. “So Polly’s lying?”
[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]
“Shit! I didn’t tell Polly.” Furious, Carla almost spit. “We watched TV last night but I didn’t say anything.”
Crescent and Lauren shook their heads. “Too late to stop the rumor.”
“Does Angelina know?”
“Don’t think so,” Crescent said. “She was here when Trevor and Brian started their run. Wondering what we doing here so early. Lauren said you were bringing us fresh berries.”
Carla’s voice shook. “Trevor was talking about how happy he was his first weeks here. Looking up at me, so wistful and naked that suddenly I said, ‘Why not sing Friday at the café?’”
Lauren smirked. “So that explains it. He was naked.”
“It’s not for thirty-six hours. Maybe I can call still it off.”
Lauren said, “I can ask Daddy to close the café for inspection.”
“The police shut down my place without warning? No. We’ll announce it as a last minute event. Limited to the first one hundred customers.”
Friday afternoon, Carla put signs in the window. By five pm, the café was so packed that she asked people to wait outside while she and the kitchen staff pushed tables and chairs out of the way. Carla then sent the kitchen staff home, since nobody would be eating.
Before seven, Trevor sneaked through the back door. He kissed Carla deeply—all honor and blessings.
He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt over a t-shirt, both white. And a dark blue tam. Carla stared at him, recalling he had hoped to do this at lunch, some Tuesday. She must have been out of her mind to say, “Friday evening.”
He set up his equipment along the rise before the closed fireplace. “Remember, Carla?” Trevor held up the guitar Brian had bought for his first gig. (Had Brian caught wind of this, Trevor wouldn’t be here.)
Seeing the standing-room only crowd, Trevor pulled Carla into the closed kitchen. “No regular customers, eating and not listening to me? Last time I-and-I sang alone, mania broke out.”
Carla said, “I’m sorry, honey. I made a mistake.” They watched a crush of people pressing against the front glass wall. “Can you look for hints, Trevor? You know, in your lights.”
“Don’t need inner light to see this scene. You ladies must leave. Immediately.” Trevor turned and covered his face. “Leave now.”
“What ’bout you?”
“Can’t see myself in the light. But this feels like my last bashment.”
After the women left, a roiling horde pushed inside. Young men in UNC sports jerseys grabbed liquor bottles from the bar. Others filled beer pitchers.
Trevor stood tall. “Cease and skettle!” He tapped the mic. “Shut up!”
The mayhem dropped a notch. Trevor sang, “Nice time.” People shoved with nowhere to move, when a wave of bodies crashed through the front windows. The shattering sound interrupted Trevor’s refrain. Smashed sheets of glass were falling like in his dream.
A fresh mob broke through, ripping the front doors from their frame. Another horde crashed through the back door. Still, Trevor could always disappear, upon seeing his way.
Trevor yelled and whistled. “Ya rest or I’m gone.” He inched into the shadows. Maybe the mob quieted a bit. Trevor thought it did. Enough to begin “Dewdrops,” only to stop, because he couldn’t hear anything but the crowd’s slurs and din. People tossed drinks in the air and liquids rained down. Those in front, including Trevor, got drenched. Then someone hurled a beer mug, which hit Trevor’s forehead and knocked him out.
And, next Trevor knew, Chief Babylon had hoisted him over his shoulder. The police chief raised a taser at the brawling mob.
Two fire engines, alarms sounding, blocked the top of Main Street. The Chief made little progress until he pulled off Trevor’s tam. “It’s your idol,” Everett yelled at the mob. “Ya want him to die?”
He swung Trevor around, carrying him like a baby. And people made space in increments. Eventually, Everett reached his police car. When he and Trevor were both safely inside, he started the siren. The masses separated before the wailing vehicle. On I-40 Trevor sat up, having regained enough strength to light a joint.
“What the hell?”
Trevor passed it to the Chief. “Jacob’s most soothing mixture.”
“Trevor, please.” And then, “Sure, why not?” Everett filled his lungs and put the snuffed joint in his pocket. “You’ve had a concussion and can’t smoke.”
The emergency room doctor recognized Trevor from previous incidents. “Tell me what happened.” Trevor did, in detail.
“And who’s this who brought you here?” the doctor pointed.
“Mi good fren’ Chief Babble-a-Babylon.”
The doctor frowned. “He calls me that for fun,” Everett explained.
After stitching Trevor’s forehead, the doctor asked him to gauge his headache pain on a scale of one to ten.
“Mi best guesstimate? Between a one-plus an two-minus.”
To Everett, the doctor said, “Someone must stay with him tonight. Someone who can tell if he’s acting normal.”
(Click here for the conclusion)
