The auditorium was stuffy and smelled like smoke. Not like the theater at home, where the
local boys with just-changed voices squawked out a version of an Elton John song and got
paid in giggles and chump change. That place smelled like Lysol and sweat. She decided she liked smoke better.

She had a front-row seat. She wasn't thinking about how she came by the ticket. Tonight, she was not that girl. She would be someone else.

She was here to see Simon and Garfunkel. She didn't care much about who else was lined up. She'd fallen in love with their new single and she wanted to see if she could get backstage. She'd heard about girls who did that. They got backstage and had sex with the band. She just wanted to hear the music.

She sometimes sat in school, when she bothered to go to school, and daydreamed that she was dancing in an empty auditorium, and somewhere in the shadows stood Art Garfunkel or Bob Dylan or Pete Townshend, and he was writing a song in his head as he watched her. Some girls, she knew, wanted to kiss and maybe...fuck the guys in the band. She didn't. She wanted to inspire the music. She wanted to be a muse.

The crowd was getting restless. Someone in front of her whispered to the guy standing next to him that The Jeff Bebe Band was really groovy and this would be the best part of the night. The other guy sighed and said loudly that he didn't care if The Jeff Bebe Band was fucking fantastic, he hadn't spent his allowance to hear anyone but Simon and Garfunkel. His friend sighed and turned away.

She wondered if that was really how he'd paid for his tickets.

The lights faded and the stage lights went up. The crowded auditorium became a frenzied pit, something medieval and mythic, and she had to put one foot forward to balance. A little at first, and more when a scruffy, greasy-haired man came to the microphone and screamed a hello and how are you. The crowd behind her reached for him and he took a balancing step like she had.

"Without further ado," he continued, the crowd now breathless, "from Troy, Michigan, THE JEFF BEBE BAND!!"

This last was nearly drowned out by the crowd, and she actually had to put her hands in front of her to keep her balance this time. The guy in front of her (the one who hadn't said "fucking," she thought), turned and grinned at her as her fingers caught on his shirt. He took one of her hands and tugged her forward, so that she was actually standing next to the stage. She could put her hands on it. She smiled at him and thought fleetingly about how close she was going to be to Art Garfunkel.

But all thoughts were gone as the lights dimmed and the beating of a snare drum distracted her. A guitar solo betrayed a thoughtful tune, the kind of rock-and-roll song that told a story and broke your heart, the kind that Lester Bangs foretold was dying out.

The lights came up and she looked up. The lead singer was tall, his limbs a little too long, like he'd just fully grown into his skin and there had been some left over. The drummer had an early Paul McCartney haircut and a wide smile. The bassist wore sunglasses and his hair was just past his chin, and he was clean-shaven.

The guitarist was the one to catch her eye. He wore a chambray shirt, partially unbuttoned. He was trying not to look at the audience. But he played, oh he played. And she always had loved the guitar.

For a first song, it was almost too mellow, and just before the bridge the audience stirred
uncomfortably. The lead singer, presumably Jeff Bebe, sang as though it would be the last
time he'd ever have a chance, but his nervous glances towards his guitarist betrayed him. He was a little afraid.

She knew that look.

But the man in the chambray shirt just looked at his guitar and played. So Jeff Bebe turned back to the crowd.

She liked the song alright, wasn't sure it didn't need more bass, or something. But it was about sunlit autumn and it was about first loves, or so she thought.

They finished and Jeff Bebe confirmed who he was. He introduced the band. The guitarist was Russell Hammond. Russell. She whispered it and the guy next to her nudged her.

"He's something, isn't he? He's the real shit."

She nodded, savoring the riff Russell Hammond played to show off his skills.

She didn't open her eyes for the next two songs. She just listened, and she probably swayed, even though the songs were harder, rougher, more like sex than foreplay and she wanted to experience them.

When she opened her eyes again, Russell Hammond was looking at her.

For the rest of the set, he was looking at her.

The crowd warmed up to the Jeff Bebe Band. When they played their "new song, a single
we're still working on, maybe you guys can tell us if it works," the crowd practically screamed for an encore, all thought of Simon and Garfunkel driven from their minds.

Jeff Bebe grinned at Russell Hammond, and they discussed what to do.

A familiar tune began to fly from Russell's guitar, and the drummer picked it up.

She thought she knew the song, but if it was that song, wasn't it supposed to be piano, and quicker?

Jeff Bebe began to sing.

"In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs...."

He sang it slowly, savoring the words. This was a cover they had practiced and treasured,
and the band played as though it hadn't belonged to anyone else. The crowd knew Beatles
covers. They could have reacted badly. But they roared and sang along. "Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes, there beneath the blue suburban skies...."

She was singing, too. And the guy next to her took her hand and they raised their arms.
They sang their hearts out.

Russell Hammond's eyes never left hers.

---

"Do you want to go backstage with me?" The Jeff Bebe Band had left the stage, and there was a pause while Simon and Garfunkel got set up and the real show got ready to start.

"What?" She couldn't hear, couldn't really think, and she didn't know if it was because of the music or what.

Or what. She was thinking about how good a chambray shirt could look on a man.

"Do you want to go backstage? I'm going, I only came for the first set."

She had come for Art Garfunkel.

"I...."

She had gotten on her knees in a parking lot for this ticket.

To see Art Garfunkel.

"I would love to!"

He took her hand again and led the way. "My name's Ryan."

"Nice to meet you. Do you have passes?"

"Don't need 'em. I know the manager."

And he did. It was so easy. She always pictured "backstage" as a virtual harem, the air heavy with pot smoke. She was glad to see she was wrong, that it was just like being backstage anywhere at anytime, except that there were security guards with huge arms.

There was a pack of maybe five or six girls crowded around the dressing room door with the star on it, clearly belonging to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, but it was just as obvious that they weren't inside and the girls would have to wait.

"Ryan, man, how's it goin'? Did ya like the set?"

The bassist (his name was Larry something, she remembered) shook Ryan's hand and ignored
her. She looked around the room, trying to find him without looking like she wanted to find him.

Him. Russell. She wanted to say it out loud again.

"Hi."

From behind her. She turned around and she almost said it out loud.

"Saw you during the show," he said. He had a beer in his hand. He was standing close but she had to lean toward him to hear him, because Jeff Bebe was now giving a loud play-by-play recap of the show to someone on the phone.

"Saw you, too," she said. She winced and he smiled.

"Yeah. My name's Russell Hammond."

She smiled back at him.

"Nice to meet you, Russell."

She did love the way it sounded.

They stood there, trying not to stare at each other, trying not to get closer but inching
towards each other nonetheless. She didn't touch his hand. He didn't touch her arm.

But they were close.

"Good set." She was just the queen of conversation tonight, wasn't she?

"Mmm," he hummed as he sipped his beer. Humming was nice, she thought as a shiver went up her spine. "Wasn't sure how it would go over out here in Los Angeles. And, you know, this
is our first big opening gig, and they're just so popular, and who's ever heard of us?"

He looked down at his shoes, aware that he'd said too much to someone he'd never met before. She, however, lit up. He was telling her something he didn't ever tell anyone. She knew because he was blushing and he didn't tell her it was something he never said out loud.

"How do you know Ryan?" He was changing the subject.

She shrugged. "I don't. We met tonight. He's a fan."

"And what are you?"

"A muse." She decided to flirt.

"Oh really? Ever inspired something I'd know?"

"Maybe."

Russell nodded. "I see. So, a muse. Did you come to inspire me?" He took another swig of his beer and she considered the question.

"Maybe."

"What's your name, then? You're going to be my muse, maybe I should know what to call you."

She thought of the girl on her knees in the parking lot. She thought of her real name. She
thought of how she'd decided not to be that girl, and how she wanted to leave it behind. How she wanted to travel and learn and listen to great music. Russell smiled at her and she thought about how she was now working up from zero. She could be anything, do anything, and Russell Hammond from the Jeff Bebe Band was encouraging her.

She could dance in that empty auditorium, and he would write a song.

Jeff was still on the phone and telling whoever was on the other end that the 'Penny Lane'
cover had worked, how it need to go on the next album, how he didn't care if McCartney did
sue his ass, it was a fucking tribute to a dying era, man!

She at Russell, who was waiting for her answer. "Should I just call you 'muse,' then?"

"No," she shook her head, "you can call me Penny Lane."