March 13, 2020 - by Amb. Parsley

“You know what? All of you just come up and we’ll figure it out later.” Maxwell sighed into the receiver.

And so we all piled into a rental car. Me and Louie and Holly and her fish Brian Wilson.

My buddy, Isslam, who was the sous chef at the little bar I tended in Brooklyn, agreed to move into my apartment on 22nd and look after my dog, Doc, until we knew what was what.

He was living with something like five other students from his school in a big house across the street from that hospital in Queens, the one that was hit so bad early on, and his street was lined with refrigerator trucks.

He came that night while we were driving and for the next three months stayed tight inside with her, spending countless hours every day teaching her to hold treats on the bridge of her nose, saying “waaaaaait”… until he said “OK”. She still does this trick today, but only if you speak with Isslam’s lovely Algerian accent.

You see, we all thought it’d only maybe be for a few weeks at first, but very soon, all came to realize that we were quite wrong and probably stuck this way, bound together in our very spots for an unknown amount of time and so we endeavored to find every possible purpose to both pass the hours and obfuscate the fear.

Our first thought was to live stream Sunday shows from the Goathouse. We’d start rehearsing on Fridays after having compiled lists of cover songs we thought people might find amusing in the days before. It was something sweet to talk about at the dinner table.

“Oh what’s that Hollies song?! Yeahyeahyeah…Air That I Breathe, that’ll be nice!”

“Dude…fucking Kermit…Rainbow Connection.”

“Remember that Billy Joe Shaver show we went to at that BBQ place? So good. Old Lump Of Cole?”

Kelly agreed to be our director of photography. We called her Scorsese and laughed while we Sharpie’d our names on our water jars.

The boys mostly fought at first. We didn’t blame them. They put hamsters on the table and watched movies with accidental boobs(totally my fault).

The weeks rolled on, crushing us. All of us.

We renovated the pottery shed.

Chris and Kells let us put a studio in the treehouse so me and Holly could earn extra cash writing boutique songs for strangers. Songs about: sharks, and the TV show Quantum Leap, various cats, graduating etymology students and hockey.

We made a Holly Miranda record, because it needed doing, each of us emptying our pockets of every song, scrap and sweetie. Today’s offering, Held Together, was penned by our dear Chris Maxwell.

And then we went and collected Doc.

Me and Holly and Kelly packed my apartment and High Pony Studios into a truck and we made our good city finally and shockingly, a past life.

It happens.

We found love
and work again.

Isslam still comes to visit sometimes.

We’re held together.