“I’m sweating my balls off, Tommy,” Cody said, using the hammer tacker to affix another flyer onto another utility pole. He used the same four-hit method — bam bam bam bam — on this one as he’d used on the last hundred.
“It’ll be worth it,” Tommy said. “I know it’s a small show, but the right person hears us at the right time, and the world changes.”
Cody admired Tommy’s positive attitude. If it hadn’t been for Tommy spearheading their practices and gigs, their band, the Train Spotters, would never have made it out of the garage. Sometimes, though, like now, being Tommy’s friend could be exhausting.
“All I know is that Dennis and Jason better be plastering this much on their blocks,” Cody said. “It’s, like, 140 degrees today.”
“We’re paying our dues,” Tommy said. “We have to give our biographers some stories, man.”
“Oh, we’ve got biographers now?”
“We will,” he said. “And what makes a better story? ‘We mixed something on the computer in our bedrooms, put it on YouTube and got discovered,’ or ‘We pounded the streets in the summer sun, trying to get people to hear us play’?”
“You’re a poet,” Cody said, putting up another flyer. Bam bam bam bam.
“C’mon, you know that Jagger and Richards and Lennon and McCartney and Townsend and all the rest did exactly what we’re doing now.”
“Did anyone from the last 50 years do it?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “WE DID.”
And, for a moment, Cody believed him.