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ousand songs； but there's only three on
the demo。”
Dad holds up the CD。 “This is the demo？”
“Yeah。”
He looks at it a minute and says； “So if you're Piss Poor； how do you afford to press CDs？”
“Dad！” Lyta snaps at him。
“It's okay； Lyn。 Just a joke； right； Mr。 Loski？”
My dad laughs a little and says； “Right；” but then adds； “Although I am a little curious。 This is
obviously not a home…done demo； and I happen to
know studio time's cost…prohibitive for most bands…。”
Matt and Mike interrupt him with a slamming hard high five。 And while I'm getting uptight
about my dad asking them questions about money； of all
things； my mom's fumbling all over herself； trying to sweep away my dad's big pawprints。
“When Rick and I met； he was playing in a band…。”
Poached salmon was suddenly swimming down the wrong hatch。 And while I'm choking；
Lyta's bugging out her raccoon eyes； gasping； “You？
Played in a band？ What did you play； clari？”
“No； honey；” my mom says； trying to hold it all together。 “Your father played guitar。”
“Guitar？”
“Cool！” Matt…or…Mike says。 “Rock？ Country？ Jazz？”
“Country；” my dad says。 “Which is nothing to scoff at； boys。”
“Dude！ We know。 Total respect； man。”
“And when our band looked into getting a demo made； it was astronomically expensive。 That
was in a big city； where there was a little
petition。 Getting a demo made around here？ I didn't even know there was a facility。”
Matt and Mike are still grinning。 “There's not。”
“So where'd you go？ And how'd you afford it？” My mother whacks him under the table again；
so he says； “I'm just curious； Patsy！”
Matt and Mike lean in。 “We did
