Jam Session“Later, dude,” I yelled to Jon, my roommate, as I hurried out the door for my band’s weekly jam session.
“Later,” he yelled back from the couch in the living room.
Normally, the band, a bunch of guys with musical aspirations but not enough talent, or money, to make a living out of it, got together at Nate’s house. Since he had the biggest garage, that was our home base. Except for tonight, as Nate’s garage had suddenly developed a mouse infestation. So, as I usually did, I was on my way over there, but to pick him up and drive the two of us over to Steve’s, who at least had an attic that was vermin-free.
“Yo,” Nate said to me, hopping in the car, before adding, “What, no coffee?”
I grinned. “I don’t always drink coffee before a jam session.”
“Um,” he replied. “Yeah, you do.
