#1: Hootenanny. Don't you love saying that?

In which we do not know Redhead's name. In which a Meat Puppets song is played. In which Karen is overwhelmed by a semi-social situation.

Hootenanny, Don't you love saying that?

"Way to go, Little Michaelson!" someone shouts as a slight boy who has spent most of his time behind the drum kit grabs a guitar. I watch him carefully. I've never been good at judging ages, but if he is who I think he is, he should be twelve or thirteen. I tell myself not to get my hopes up. Their are a lot of people in Milwaukee, plenty of Michaelsons, I'm sure. Besides, finding them was not one of the reasons I came to Milwaukee. If I'd wanted to find them I would've looked up their address, or called them. Would it be that hard to find their phone number? I could've asked to stay with them, instead of mooching off Meg, no matter how much she and her parents say it's okay for me to stay the summer. Apparently you stop keeping track of who's living in your house after the third kid.

No, finding them was not my objective. My objective, to put it frankly, was to get the hell out of Spooner. But I can't help but dwell on Little Michaelson. The pessimistic (or realistic?) part of my brain gives me reasons why he's not who I think"why he's not my little brother. Too small. He should be twelve or thirteen, but he looks more like ten or eleven. But, argues the optimistic part, would a ten-year-old be allowed to hang around here at night? Shouldn't he be home in bed? Little Michaelson fiddles with the tuning pegs, strums a few chords.

Greggie, who's taken over drumming duties, pounds four beats on the big bass drum. Little Michaelson seems confused, or maybe nervous, although I don't know why he would be. He probably knows most everyone here, and I really only know Greggie and Meg. I'm not real clear on what this event is. People are playing music, but not a specific band. Everyone seems to be switching around, playing this, playing that, not playing anything at all. Besides the main centre de musique, there are also people floating on the outside with guitars, showing each other songs they can play, tabs they've figured out. If I was better at social situations I would go hang with one of them, or show off some stuff I can play on guitar or bass. As it is, I know next to no one. There's Meg, but I lost track of her, and a five foot one, brown haired girl in a camouflage jacket isn't easy to find. Then there's Greggie, and hypothetically his band mates, brothers born ten months apart whose names I can't remember. Greggie pounds the four beats again.

“Lake of Fire, Chris, duh.” says a scruffy looking boy with a schnoz a bit on the large side. Little Michaelson (now with a first name, Chris) looks flustered, then nods and launches into the song. He plays a bit to fast for how the song usually goes, but the rest of the “band” adjusts, and the song starts to sound pretty rocking. Actually, I doubt Chris is playing very well, because his strumming seems sporadic, and from the scowls crossing his face I can tell he's messing up frequently. An older boy, also with a guitar, is nodding encouragingly at him, and I bet that he's playing the actual chords to the song. Upon realizing that he's the one who's supposed to be singing, Chris scowls and starts to mumble into the mike. “Mumble mumble go when mumble die mumble mumble mumble fire and fry.”

Optimistic me is laughing in the face of pessimistic/realistic me. Chris! HA! His name is Chris! And his older brother, because he has to have an older brother if he's being called Little Michaelson, will be named Curt, and go by some god awful nickname. Mom never told me what it was, just that she didn't like dad calling him it. I don't remember it since I always called him Curt. Maybe, says pessimistic/realistic me, he has an older sister, not an older brother. No, says optimistic me, you are his sister. Is this a bonus, or a punishment for coming to Milwaukee? I haven't spent much time which the male half of my family since I was six. There was the occasional phone call, and once or twice when I was younger, a visit. So do I want to get to know them better, or am I mad for their absence? The thing is, I don't even know how much I care.

Up until now I'd been pretty satisfied without knowing much about them. Occasionally there'd be moments, and in seventh grade I was a little obsessed, finding out everything I could, but by the point of leaving Spooner, the main problem in my life was well, living in Spooner.

All this thinking, combined with the cigarette smoke and the press of people, is making my head spin. I push through the clusters of talking people towards the door that leads out of the basement where the hootenanny (that's what I'll call this thing) is taking place in. I bump into one of Greggie's band members, the bass guitarist, who has red hair past his shoulders and freckles sprayed across a cheerful, chubby face. (And, to be honest, can't be older that fifteen) “Are you leaving already? Is no one letting you play? You can just go up and ask, anyone'll let you.”

I shake my head. "Jus' need some fresh air." Fear not, I will be back. I'm not going to leave Meg to walk home. No way. My comment triggers a song in the mind of a lanky guy leaning against the wall. “Gimme a little fresh air, ninety days in the electric chair,” he sings as he lopes off.

Leaning against the wall outside, I dig through my pockets for a stick of gum. I don't carry a purse; they're a target for thieves, and a sign of typical female weakness. Oh, help! That man stole my purse! Plus, I'd be leaving it places. Instead, I wear pants with big pockets, which are actually rather hard to find, as the clothing industry obviously doesn't think that girls will ever need to carry anything in their pockets. Cargoes from the army surplus store work pretty well. Unfortunately, I've only ever had one pair of those, and they don't fit anymore.

I find a pack of gum and pull a piece out. I don't smoke, but for all the second hand smoke I've breathed in in my life, I might as well. I left my sweatshirt downstairs, which is stupid, because even in the summer in Wisconsin you should always have a sweatshirt with you, at least at night. I turn to head back down to get it, and crash into the redhead. God, why can't I remember his name? Is it Bobby? Something like that.

"Sorry!" He tries to right me, and the lanky guy behind him laughs.

"Smooth, real smooth, stalker boy."

"What!" Redhead throws his hands in the air, and while doing so, smacks me in the nose. "Ahg! Sorry! I keep crashing into you and I'm not following you or anything Curly and I were just going to get some food, cause he lives above the record store, which is above the basement, cause, his dad owns it or manages it or something, but I was NOT stalking you, Curly's full of crap; you just don't know that since your not from here, and"”

Curly, his friend who has to be nearly seven feet tall, grins.

“Um, um, um. Durrr, I'm plotting to murder you.”

"Seriously," says Redhead,"Don't trust anything this dolt says, I am not a stalker, and I'm not trying to hit on and/or murder you, honestly." Hit on and murder are now at the same level of evil?

"What a relief," says Curly,"She for sure thought you were stalking her. Now, how did we even get on this topic of conversation?"

I use this as an opportunity to butt in. "That's exactly what I was wondering. And don't worry uh (What is his name?), I can recognize when someone full of crap, and Curly's got crap written on his forehead.”

“That's great!” says Redhead, “Let's get some tacos. Do you want some tacos?” I decline. He and Curly head off to find tacos.

Curly grins back at me as they're leaving.

“I'd watch out if I were you. This one's dangerous.” He rolls his eyes and lopes off after his friend.

“Tacos, tacos, tacos, tacos, tacos, TACOS!”