I clicked “Play.”
I picked it up and noticed a piece of tape wrapped around it. In Dad’s handwriting were two words:
“Our Band.”
A computer stood nearby. I plugged in the drive and found a single video file.
I clicked “Play.”
The screen flickered, then filled with grainy footage of four young men rehearsing in a cramped garage.
Everyone burst out laughing.
There was Dad, his hair falling past his shoulders, playing guitar with a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
“Come on, Frank!” he shouted at the drummer. “My grandma can keep a better beat than that!”
“Then invite her to join the band!”
Everyone burst out laughing.
I laughed until my eyes watered.
The video jumped between old performances, backstage footage, and ridiculous moments from rehearsals. At one point, Dad attempted to jump off a speaker and landed flat on his backside.
