Doesn’t yell, in so many words, it’s conveyed by the look on her face. “Oh, God, he’s gonna blow it…” wincing and tension as I wait to jump in, splash, just off the beat. When I’m playing I’m not worried, not counting, splashing in it like a kid, but she’s nervous for me, I can see the blood beating in her temples. Certain I am not suave, in the moment, able to groove along with the groove with no thought but the groove, the whole groove and nothing but the groove.

“When did you turn into Homer Simpson?” she asks and I go “Doh!”. So cruel, even if true, it’s like a hammer right on the fingernail. But not enough to make me drop a beat, and it stings only for a second.

“That’s what 35 years since the last time we made it’ll do for you, dollface,” I tell her, bending a note, raising an eyebrow like a glass.

“What is this raising of the glass?” she asks, “I thought you were on the wagon.”

“The world is a wagon, sweetheart,” I tell her, having no doubt she does not buy a word of it. Here comes the B part, I hit the telltale bass notes going in hard, with body language, land on the chord, nod, signal the other guys we’re here.

“Don’t blow it!” she chants like a mantra as we make our way around the chorus and back to the top.

“The head, you mean,” she says.

“Since the procedure I don’t need to go to the head for hours at a time,” I think to myself. The cops refer to the unwashed room with the toilet in it as the head. Ask for a bathroom they’ll point and tell you “the head’s the second door on the right.” Me, I always piss in the first room no matter what.

“Tough talk from a cartoon character,” she says, not without a small smirk.

“Too bad the guy who does my voice makes all the Doh!” I tell her, and then I’m done with the conversation. The music is too engaging, got its claws raking my back in the most pleasurable way. I have no time at the moment to worry that people are worried for me. I’d worry myself, but we’re heading back into that beautiful B part.