Tom was interested. Perennially. He held this non-judgmental pause during conversation. His probing questions appealed to me. I struggle with small talk and his capacity to get involved and navigate my meanderings was impressive.
And he played guitar. I’d never met someone who could play, to be frank. He was already a hero in my mind and his place in the band was fixed.
He was left handed. Kurt Cobain and Hendrix had been left handed. His CD collection was similar to mine. He listened to the Roses and Floyd relentlessly. I rinsed Nirvana’s Unplugged and Bleach.
The best nights ended in one of our rooms after more than a few beers, me wailing along with gusto as he effortlessly strumming away on the guitar. I couldn’t sing and I sang the way I smoked; to the butt and till it hurt. I can’t imagine it was a great listening experience for Tom, but those beers probably helped.
