Sandy reached the bar seconds after he stepped off the stage. His only determination was the man he’d seen before. He went at a march from the front of that rickety plank, dragging one foot across the carpet, with his other stomping toward the door. He passed his tiny audience without even a glance. They were still in their chairs, stunned and surprised. They watched him go by, their jaws aghast, making silent objections with their eyes. There came no applause as made his escape, while the MC still muttered hate in his wake, he swore for his blood, and shouted to him that he’d never play there again – but Sandy didn’t worry. He heard only a solitary laugh to mark his goodbye, which he reckoned came from the young lad at the back, no doubt due to the absurdity of the whole eccentric scene.
As he passed under the architrave to the adjoining room, he searched the heads around the bar for that familiar face who’d caused him to stumble and choke on his words.
Sandy called. The figure sat before him turned to face the voice. Sandy’s excitement rose from the pit of his throat, and once he locked eyes with his dear old friend, there was nothing he could do to hold back a wide smile as it cracked his formerly enraged expression.
How are ya?
How are you, mate?
Trevor returned, with an equally sparkling smile. Like, Sandy, Trevor was once a famous man, an ex-entertainer as well. He’d always been a good looking guy. There was a Hollywood slickness about him; he had the perfect hair