She came to America because she loved their rock and roll music. Classic rock, now, but she pretends she lives in the time it was contemporary. She wants to live in the land of the free, to let her skin brown in the sun, to travel from festival to festival, living in tents and cars.
She works in a tourist trap because she wants to see the city the way they do. She loves meeting the people, whether they came here specifically for this destination or whether they're just wasting a little time as they pass through.
She loves that they've driven through the deteriorated downtown to get here: a studio on the most awkward corner in the city, the tip of a triangle.
They struggle to park but are determined. They will leave in a few hours to find tickets tucked under the wipers, an additional expense to admission.
But once they are inside, she tries to make them forget. Forget where they came from and how they got there. She just wants to transport them back in time, to a time when music mattered. When music could make a difference.
She wonders if they would have come to the city if the studio was not here. What else might draw them here? What drew her here?
She thinks of her husband, also working in music, also making minimum wage.
She can't remember why she came.
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