String Bridge Read Online Free

owners or the press that slip in for free simply by having their names put on the list at the door.
    During sound check I tuned my guitar at least ten times, because despite what the little orange light suggested, my guitar never sounded in tune. It was as if my anxiety was interfering with the frequency. The sound engineer’s blood-shot eyes bore through my back, while a short petite man with a gray Mohawk fiddled with the stage lights—he seemed to like red. I hated red. Red lights make the frets on my guitar almost invisible. I kept trying to overcome my pride and tell him I was scared I would hit the wrong chords, but he spoke first. “Red lights are great, aren’t they? They hide wrinkles.” If I hadn’t been so nervous, and perhaps could have injected myself with a shot of teenage aggression, I would have punched him in the nose for that comment. I clenched my teeth behind a polite smile and took a moment to compose myself while sitting on the edge of the stage with my eyes shut.
    The light man winked and stepped outside onto the wet pavement. The foggy sound of the busy street crept through the large, heavy soundproofed metal door as he opened it. The deep thud of the door closing behind him remained with me for the rest of the night. A reminder that I was trapped inside myself—a victim of my own torture.
    When the venue was full, I stepped onto the stage holding my breath. My footsteps vibrated through my body, as laughter turned to talking, talking turned to mumbling and mumbling turned to breathing. The first song on my set was a capella. I didn’t introduce myself, or welcome the audience to the show. Looking down at my chunky black army boots, I let out a hot steady note that thrust the crowd into throbbing silence. Each hair on my bare arms rose one by one as the notes escaped me. But was the silence a sign of dislike or awe? Panic brittled my bones, and my limbs shook with immutable doubt. So much so that I feared the audience could see and were silently laughing at me.
    I tamed my nerves little by little, doing invisible breathing exercises in between songs. But I continued my set with more original tunes without much reaction—bar the obligatory applause. They watched with steel eyes. Convinced they were just waiting me out to see the headlining band, disappointment pricked my skin like poison ivy. I thought, I’m never doing this again. I just can’t take it.
    But then I had an idea. I replaced my last song with a cover. I had learnt it not long ago for a friend’s party. I played “Wonderwall” by Oasis; despite believing it to be too commercial for my reputation, it had to be done. I had to do something to loosen up the crowd. As soon as the words, “Today, is gonna be the day …” came out of my mouth, they recognized the song, and started cheering and singing along. Relief flushed through me like a sedative. The dissipating tension in the air cooled me down like sprinkler mist on a warm spring day. It was over. Finally over. And on a good note.
    Performing to a live audience has always, and will always, create an explosion of dread and dignity within me like a balloon expanding in my stomach. I despise the feeling, but something about it—the release of steaming hot fear while playing the last song of every set— makes me want to do it all over again with the absence of such fear. Of course, this never happens. And I continue to go through the same torture again and again.
    After the gig, I stood outside the venue in the rain with my guitar, waiting for a taxi to hail. I was praying one would appear out of nowhere and save me before the rain got any heavier, but a man with a shaved head and a long black leather coat appeared with an umbrella instead. He looked different than the typical Greek male, who commonly sported skin-tight jeans, open white shirts, and slick gelled hair. I was immediately intrigued.
    “Hi, Melody, you were great tonight. I’m Alex,” he said, holding out his