heading down the hill. Mitch can see
right through my barely collected exterior. He shakes his head at me as we
gather our things.
“Would you calm down?” he says, “This is not the defining
moment of our lives.”
“Just let me enjoy it, sourpuss,” I say, socking him lightly
on the arm.
“If I must,” he sighs.
We sling our various instruments over our shoulders and
begin our trek down into the heart of the festival. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see Trent leaning against his tour bus, watching me go. There are three
scruffy men and the same gorgeous woman clustered around him, but I can swear
that he’s looking right at me. I turn away quickly, certain that I’m imagining
things.
Mitch and I walk down the hill together in our usual
performance attire. Mitch is wearing gray wool slacks, red suspenders, and a
square brown tie. I once suggested that he add a fedora to his look, and he
didn’t speak to me for a week. For my part, I’ve got my favorite vintage dress
on. It’s a beautiful sea foam number from the sixties with a big, billowing
skirt. My hair is combed and tucked behind my ears, and my face is scrubbed
clean but for a streak of red lipstick. If not for the array of instruments, we
could very well be dressed for a picnic, but a very stylish one.
We make our way through the densely packed crowd, and
something doesn’t feel quite right. We’re dressed rather differently than the
average festival-goer, but there are costumes of every sort all around us. As
we pass, eyes linger on us, conversations fall away into silence. I can hear
excited chatter spring up around us, words whispered behind hands flit by my
ears.
“ That’s Ellie & Mitch ,” I hear someone whisper.
Mitch and I trade a baffled glance—do people actually know who we are? Since
when?
As we continue, the crowd seems to part for us. People are
staring unabashedly as we pass, staring after us like we’re the last specimens
of an endangered species. This doesn’t make any sense...how is it possible that
we’re being recognized? We’re the least popular act in the entire lineup. Sure,
we have tiny groups of admirers in Barton and at Berklee, but we’re far from
home, and still people are acting all funny as we go by. What gives? Maybe
they’re just impressed by the instruments. Maybe it’s all just a fluke or
something.
We skirt around a large, unmoving group as we come up to our
tiny stage. As a festival organizer waves us over excitedly, it clicks. That
large, unmoving crowd is standing in front of our stage. They’re here to see
us! But how...?
“You must be Ellie!” the organizer squeals, shaking my hand
vigorously. She’s a couple years older than us, and very perky. “And you must
be Mitch!”
“That’s right,” Mitch answers, frowning as the woman pumps
his hand.
“I’m Pearl, your stage manager,” she says, smiling a big,
toothy grin. “You about ready to go?”
“Pearl...” I say, “Who are all those people out there?”
“Why, your fans of course!” she exclaims.
“But...we don’t have any fans,” I say, mystified, “Do they all
have the right stage? Maybe they’re trying to find someone else’s show?”
“Nope!” Pearl says, “They’re all here for you! It was such
good timing, that article coming out when it did. You two went a little viral,
didn’t you?”
“What article?” I say, “Teddy’s article?”
“I suppose!” Pearl says.
“Mitch, what was in that article, besides a falsely quoted
endorsement for drugs?”
Mitch shrugs. “I don’t know, I didn’t read the whole thing.”
“Let’s just get set up,” I say, lugging our instruments
toward the stage.
“Don’t be silly!” Pearl says, as two men appear to take our
stuff off our hands, “We’ve got stage hands to do that kind of thing.”
I watch, amazed, as the men take our instruments out onto
the stage for us. Mitch and I have been a total DIY operation for as long as
we’ve been playing together.
right through my barely collected exterior. He shakes his head at me as we
gather our things.
“Would you calm down?” he says, “This is not the defining
moment of our lives.”
“Just let me enjoy it, sourpuss,” I say, socking him lightly
on the arm.
“If I must,” he sighs.
We sling our various instruments over our shoulders and
begin our trek down into the heart of the festival. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see Trent leaning against his tour bus, watching me go. There are three
scruffy men and the same gorgeous woman clustered around him, but I can swear
that he’s looking right at me. I turn away quickly, certain that I’m imagining
things.
Mitch and I walk down the hill together in our usual
performance attire. Mitch is wearing gray wool slacks, red suspenders, and a
square brown tie. I once suggested that he add a fedora to his look, and he
didn’t speak to me for a week. For my part, I’ve got my favorite vintage dress
on. It’s a beautiful sea foam number from the sixties with a big, billowing
skirt. My hair is combed and tucked behind my ears, and my face is scrubbed
clean but for a streak of red lipstick. If not for the array of instruments, we
could very well be dressed for a picnic, but a very stylish one.
We make our way through the densely packed crowd, and
something doesn’t feel quite right. We’re dressed rather differently than the
average festival-goer, but there are costumes of every sort all around us. As
we pass, eyes linger on us, conversations fall away into silence. I can hear
excited chatter spring up around us, words whispered behind hands flit by my
ears.
“ That’s Ellie & Mitch ,” I hear someone whisper.
Mitch and I trade a baffled glance—do people actually know who we are? Since
when?
As we continue, the crowd seems to part for us. People are
staring unabashedly as we pass, staring after us like we’re the last specimens
of an endangered species. This doesn’t make any sense...how is it possible that
we’re being recognized? We’re the least popular act in the entire lineup. Sure,
we have tiny groups of admirers in Barton and at Berklee, but we’re far from
home, and still people are acting all funny as we go by. What gives? Maybe
they’re just impressed by the instruments. Maybe it’s all just a fluke or
something.
We skirt around a large, unmoving group as we come up to our
tiny stage. As a festival organizer waves us over excitedly, it clicks. That
large, unmoving crowd is standing in front of our stage. They’re here to see
us! But how...?
“You must be Ellie!” the organizer squeals, shaking my hand
vigorously. She’s a couple years older than us, and very perky. “And you must
be Mitch!”
“That’s right,” Mitch answers, frowning as the woman pumps
his hand.
“I’m Pearl, your stage manager,” she says, smiling a big,
toothy grin. “You about ready to go?”
“Pearl...” I say, “Who are all those people out there?”
“Why, your fans of course!” she exclaims.
“But...we don’t have any fans,” I say, mystified, “Do they all
have the right stage? Maybe they’re trying to find someone else’s show?”
“Nope!” Pearl says, “They’re all here for you! It was such
good timing, that article coming out when it did. You two went a little viral,
didn’t you?”
“What article?” I say, “Teddy’s article?”
“I suppose!” Pearl says.
“Mitch, what was in that article, besides a falsely quoted
endorsement for drugs?”
Mitch shrugs. “I don’t know, I didn’t read the whole thing.”
“Let’s just get set up,” I say, lugging our instruments
toward the stage.
“Don’t be silly!” Pearl says, as two men appear to take our
stuff off our hands, “We’ve got stage hands to do that kind of thing.”
I watch, amazed, as the men take our instruments out onto
the stage for us. Mitch and I have been a total DIY operation for as long as
we’ve been playing together.
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