You are Here: Finding Yourself in Middletown next to the window, which was right next to the corner where Rog’s drum set was, or it would have been. His drums were there, but he hadn’t unpacked them from the cases yet. The rest of the room was filled with guitar stands, folding chairs, and a cheap couch that sagged and protested anytime someone sat in it. The only thing left, the only thing in the house that any of us had sunk any large amount of money and time into was the record player, which was constantly kept free of dust, had its own cabinet to sit on, and had an elaborate filing system for the records. I stepped up to it, lifting the dust cover with a yawn, and without looking, pulled a record up and out of the sleeve, settling it neatly onto the player and gently placing the needle on the first track. A few seconds passed and then the music started, B.B. King’s Live at the Regal, one of Scott’s favorites. I waited for the music to start, the scratch of the record filling my ears, before meandering into the kitchen. The fridge was pretty much bare. We usually put off going to Marsher’s Grocery until the last minute, and the bars we played in usually gave us free food. Still, my stomach grumbled and I wasn’t about to ignore that, so I grabbed the last few eggs and set out to make an omelet. I always insisted that I was making an omelet, but it usually ended up being scrambled. Scott always joked with me about my cooking. “Oh come on Sarah,” he’d say, “Don’t tell me we’re ordering take out again.” Scott was actually the best cook among all of us, so we usually ate what he prepared, or all worked together on some sort of dish. Someone was descending the staircase, although I heard the muffled movement from above long before the staircase gave it away. Muffled curses and grumbles floated down the hall, so without looking I knew it was Clair. “Morning,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “Mmm,” she grunted back, collapsing into a chair. “Eggs?” I asked. “Mmm,” she grunted, rubbing her temple, brushing hair away. I returned to my cooking, listening to the sizzling of the faint music, the fuzz of eggs in a pan. “Rog here?” I said. “Upstairs,” Clair said, standing up and walking over to fridge, pulling out the milk and drinking straight from the carton. Almost on cue, I started to hear heavy footfalls plodding around. Rog always seemed a whole lot more uncoordinated than he really was. The way he walked always made me think he was trying to shove his feet through the floor. “Morning,” he said, surprisingly chipper sounding. He sat down next to Clair and snatched the carton of milk out of her hands. “Didn’t Dad teach you better?” he grinned, taking a swig of milk himself. Clair squinted daggers at him and rolled her eyes. “I’ll go wake Scott up,” she said, punching Rog in the back of the head as she left, making him choke and sputter. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Rog recovered, lounging in the uncomfortable kitchen chair with his feet up on the table and said, “So how do you think it went last night?” I pulled four plates out of the cabinet and started dolling out servings onto them, placing them on the table before shoving Rog’s feet off the table and sitting down. “God, I still can’t believe it. It feels like a dream you know?” “I hear that,” he nodded, shoveling eggs into his mouth.
125