We pulled up to the Durham Performing Arts Center for the first Paul Simon date. A few weeks earlier we had played rooms where you could count the crowd. Now there were nearly three thousand seats waiting inside.
Our gray Ford E-350 rattled up to the gate towing a little cargo trailer, the whole rig smelling like fast food and cigarettes. The security guard barely looked up.
“You can pull the buses around back by the others.”
Cody did not miss a beat. “Buses? This is it for us.”
The guard looked into the van. Seven men, guitar cases, beer cans, a stray boot. He gave us a look that asked whether we were sure, then waved us back toward a row of polished Prevost coaches.
We parked our rolling shoebox beside them and stepped out like we belonged, which we did not. Not yet.
That was the useful thing about being young and broke. You could mistake nerve for proof. Sometimes the room believed you long enough for the proof to catch up.
