So she’d met another David. This one was even cockier than the one back home, despite seeming not at all drunk. They emptied the flask he had in his pocket while David told her all about his band. It had just been expanded and renamed The Beefeaters, and was now definitely gonna be as big as The Beatles, whom he still wasn’t assimilating. Time flew.
‘Wanna come to a real neat folk club with us after?’ asked David. Juno’d told him she was eighteen and a painter on an inspirational trip. She’d seen enough in the college back in Calgary to be able to spiel about art. And he was doing a lot more looking than listening anyhow.
‘Alright,’ said Juno and shrugged. She didn’t have to fake her lack of enthusiasm about the club. David was from just outside LA and therefore likely to find the local joints real neat, she reckoned. LA wasn’t exactly renowned as a hotbed of folk. But although Juno sure hadn’t planned on hanging out in another gloomy dump, she would’ve gone most places with the new David right then.
At the end of the concert the only two people who’d taken no notice of The Beatles met up with the two who’d possibly been observing most closely. Turned out the square-specced guy was called Jim. David’s other friend Gene also had the hairdo, and also was real good-looking, which seemed to be conditions for being in the band. But he was much darker than the other two, with much sharper features. Juno thought he also looked a lot more… melancholy, or something.
Jim was doing the driving. He and Gene tried to involve David in their analysis of the show. Without much success, ’cause he and Juno were in the back, analyzing each other’s eyes.
The club was called The Troubadour.