Average Stories, a series where I seek out and share the quiet, unremarkable moments that often go unnoticed but leave a lasting impression.
By Ryan Marsh
While Runnner set up their five-piece band, my love and I swayed through the mostly empty dance floor of the Shrine, finding a red pleather chair to sit on. The guitarist fiddled with his strings, rocking an oversized collared long-sleeve shirt and spiffed-up black boots. Behind him, a saxophonist held the stage, preparing to sing in a few minutes. I couldn't help but be fixated on his nonchalance—the plain white tee, the pooka shells, the worn Air Force Ones.
Earlier that day, I’d listened to the band’s sound at work while cleaning golf carts, but I hadn’t noticed the wail of the saxophone then. Now, it drew me in—honey notes that seemed to seep from the instrument, thick and warm. The lead singer wore a vest sturdy enough to sit in a river—an outfit that suggested he could put flies on and still be comfortable. During the opener’s set, he approached me, asking if she had the wrong city name. His smile wrinkled with familiarity, as if he'd been there before. I explained she said “Boizzee” instead of “BoiSeee,” highlighting how much this valley cares about such small details. Then he wandered off to play pinball as her set drew to a close.
My love sat close beside me—an act of public affection that felt as if my comfort was slowly expanding. The band’s lead, in his Solomon hiking shoes, set up his mic just a little too tall. During the performance, he would stand on his tiptoes, reaching for the higher notes, singing upward as though his poetry wanted to hover slightly above the stage and our heads.
They opened with “Achilles And” and closed with “Your Name on a Grain of Rice.” We shade-shifted through the set, bobbing our heads and shrugging our shoulders, immersed in the dance of blues, pinks, greens, and purples reflected from the light show that cascaded over band and audience alike. The saxophone’s honeyed sound kept pulling me closer each time it came alive. I found myself wishing I could be drenched in those droplets of sound, letting them lap against my shoulders. I glanced over at my lover—her eyes closed, swaying—her face peaceful, like when she sleeps. In that moment, I was reminded of why we’re here.
After the show, the lead singer dashed to the merch booth while the band packed away their gear. Selling records, cassettes, T-shirts, and hoodies is how they stay afloat, he explained before their penultimate song. It’s calculated, rehearsed—plug and play for each new city, with their musical ingredients packed away in cases in the trunk. I wondered how often they call their friends, share stories from the road.
We offered our kudos to the band as the crowd queued up in support. The saxophonist had been the key—elevating their sound with melodies that seemed to shower down on the audience. Walking home, we didn’t buy any merch but felt eager to visit the Record Exchange, hoping they had the new album. I thought of my best friends who now live far away—how I miss listening to music with them, sprawled on the living room floor, bodies stretching and relaxing together. I imagined what their days might be like—fruit that’s soft or sour, fuzzy or smooth, like a nectarine.
And I was left with a wistful feeling—an August peach, dripping down my wrists as the band’s sound held me in its embrace.
A quiet voice whispered in the back of my mind: if I write it down, will it all make sense?