Frederick von Fredegar - by Sasha

The lounge was dingy, dark, and smelled distinctly of cigarette smoke despite the clear “no smoking” signs pasted on every visible surface.  The discouraged manager stood behind the bar, in the vain hope that one of the patrons might actually buy something. Neither the man in the dusty overalls who appeared to be sleeping in one corner nor the pair of wrinkled old woman casually sipping cheap wine – the only people in the room at the moment – seemed interested in making any more purchases.

This was the crowd that Frederick von Fredegar saw when he walked into what was supposed to be his next gig. Frederick wasn’t surprised – he hadn’t played for anyone other than his roommate Jordie for two months, and even before that he’d never seen anything close to a full house. He had hoped that changing his image, actually putting on a suit instead of whatever he’d been wearing that morning and using his actual name instead of “Freddie Freddie” would help, but this clearly wasn’t the case.

Frederick sauntered casually up to the bar, trying to project a sort of cool and detached persona. He balanced his guitar carefully on a couple of bar stools and looked expectantly at the manager, who glanced up briefly from his iPhone.

“What can I get for ya?” the manager asked.

“I’m Frederick,” said the musician. The manager raised an eyebrow, so he continued. “Von Fredegar?”

Nothing. Frederick rested an arm on the bar. “You hired me to play tonight.”

“Oh yeah,” said the manager. “Look, the gig’s off. Sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Frederick asked, too abruptly. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but he really did need the money. “We had a deal. Do you know how many commitments I had to blow off for this?”

The manager rolled his eyes. “Oh I’m sure you had tons of offers, kid,” he said sarcastically. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“There must be something,” said Frederick.

“Look around,” said the manager, gesturing to the total of three patrons in the building. “You don’t want to play here. Go home.”

Frederick was momentarily at a loss. He picked up his guitar, planning on making some witty remark and serenely leaving the bar to keep the last of his dignity, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Rent was due in a week. He sighed and turned back to the manager. “Come on, please let me play. I need the cash.”

“So do I,” said the manager before he turned away. Angry that he didn’t even get the last word, Frederick kicked over a barstool and stormed toward the exit. He wrenched open the door, letting in the freezing night air and almost running into the girl standing behind it.

“Oh, sorry!” she exclaimed, stepping back a few paces. “You go first.”

The girl was wearing a beige coat with a red scarf wrapped around her neck, her dark brown hair covered in snow. Everything from her perfectly applied eyeliner to her designer boots screamed that she was out of place in the establishment Frederick had just left. He paused before realizing he was still standing in the doorway.

“Oh – um, sorry, excuse me,” he said, maneuvering himself out of the doorway, which proved more difficult than he anticipated when he had to get his guitar out of the way and was keenly aware of how long it was taking him.

“There. Sorry about that,” he said.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” the girl said cheerfully. “Have a good evening!”

“Yeah, you too,” said Frederick. He turned to go, but stopped himself once again, slowly turning around on his heal just as the girl was about to enter the bar.

“Hey – um – weird question, but what brings you to the –” he glanced at the sign above the door “– the Drunken Pirate this evening? It doesn’t – well, it doesn’t seem like the sort of place that you’d –” he stopped, realizing that he probably shouldn’t be making assumptions and had gone on too long already anyway.

“Oh,” the girl laughed. “No, it’s not really my kind of place. But I heard it from a friend that someone was playing here tonight, and I’m sort of a fan of them.”

“Really?” Frederick asked, his voice cracking a little with excitement, which definitely did not match his cool and collected charade. “I mean – who is it?”

“This guy named Freddie Freddie,” said the girl, and Frederick almost cried out for joy. “I know it sounds stupid, but he’s put a bunch of stuff on Soundcloud and I really like it… I was hoping to hear him play in person.” She looked at Frederick’s guitar. “You wouldn’t happen to be…?”

“Oh, no, I was just passing by,” said Frederick instinctively, before realizing what he was saying to possibly his only fan in the world. He mentally reprimanded himself before quickly try to find a way to remedy the situation without looking like a complete idiot. “You know, I heard he – Freddie Freddie – I heard he cancelled tonight. But I think he’s playing tomorrow! At Jolt. Um. If you wanted to meet him.”

“You know, I think I would,” said the girl. “I’ll see you – him – at ten?”

“Sure, “ said Frederick. “Yeah.” And he couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he quickly turned around and bolted down the snow covered sidewalk, not looking back in case he managed to make an even bigger fool of himself.