The Major Lift. Rewrite one.

One String Short.

Chris Higgins quickened her step to keep pace with the long strides of her friend, bassist and lead vocalist, Blake Foster in her three-inch heeled boots. It didn't help that even with this added height she was still about a foot shorter than he was, nor that her choice of footwear made it hard to take longer steps.
"I'm trying not to be so pessimistic, man. I agree but I just think we should just keep running auditions until we find someone. Even though we're not half bad by ourselves, we should still keep trying to find someone who measures up to Dylan" she lied, hoping to sound reassuring and not disingenuous as she trotted to keep up with him. Her dirty blond hair was bouncing in its ponytail as she went.
"Chris! Don't be stupid. We can't just be a duo, we need the guitar backing. Would you go see a bassist and drummer without any other accompaniments? It'd be rubbish. Nah! But what's the point? We've heard every other muso on campus by now, we must have! Who's left?" Blake asked rhetorically, huffing as his stretched-out frame lugged a bass guitar over his hunched shoulder. He was perhaps more sensible with his chosen attire than Chris had been, a black hoodie which hung down over the waistband of his ripped jeans, making look even longer. The jeans hid his sneakers from view and billowed as he walked. His hair swung over his face with each stride in frizzy black locks and his five-o'clock-shadow spoke of the mild self-neglect that came along with the less than ideal state of the band, something that meant a lot to both of them. He looked witheringly at Chris with his red rimmed, tired eyes and Chris let up.
"Yeah, I know" she admitted, dejected.
"I share your attitude, Chris. But I'm not ready to give it up. There must be someone who compared to Dylan. There must. He can't be the only decent guitarist on this campus. I refuse to believe it. The school's too big. And we can't get him back. Ain't happening" Blake rambled, shaking his head as they walked.
They proceeded to climb the staircase toward the building that housed Blakes lecture theatre and Chris' favourite studio booth and Blake lit a cigarette when they reached the top, much to Chris' barely concealed dismay.
"It's so frustrating, so far none of the dozens of auditions we've had have known a major traid from a perfect fourth. And I mean that's pretty essential" Chris muttered darkly. Her tone was serious she was sure of it, but she saw Blake smirk as he tapped the ash off his cigarette. "But there's gotta be someone, after all the university has a music program. There's gotta be students in it or it wouldn't run" she suggested, in an attempt to comfort him. She let her face break into a wide smile as an idea struck her. "Hey man! I've had a brilliant idea! You've got uni to do and I can tell you've had it to the back teeth with this. Why don't we leave the auditions for now and why don't I just carry on looking for someone while you go finish your dissertation in whatever it is you're studying. You can stop being so surly over this guitarist situation and eventually, well find someone. In the meantime, we carry on writing and working and all that" Chris suggested, turning to Blake as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He blew out a long plume of smoke into the crisp air and sighed, then he nodded and slapped Chris on the shoulder. She fought not to grin even wider. His eyes lost their shadow and gained the faint glint that often adorned them while he was improvising on his bass.
"You're on. You can take up the search for a replacement. Leave me out of it for now, only after next weeks auditions though, we have two booked for Tuesday, so let me do them and then after that if we don't find anyone then I'll leave the thing with you" he added, tapping his cigarette and then dropping it, stepping on it and hoisting his bass up before entering the building and climbing yet another staircase. Chris sighed but then Blake did a double-take and stuck his frizzy head back out the door. "By the way, I'm a sociology major." He added snuggly, letting the door swing closed and retracing his steps back to his classroom.
"You won't regret this Foster!" She called out gleefully as the door closed. She saw him raise an arm to wave at her as he disappeared round the corner.
"She took a deep breath and let her lungs deflate, watched her breath rise up in a glinting fog in the crisp morning air imbued with a new sense of hope for the band that had held together her sanity so far through university.

Chris followed his footsteps into the warmth of the building soon after, but headed down to the basement level where the schools music studio resided. It was behind a heavy sound-proofed door and was comprised of a hallway with six rooms, each behind another heavy door. One of these was a large room parted in two by a windowed wall. On one side was the recording studio and on the other, the producers control room. The studio housed an impressive array of dusty instruments including a rack of several different guitars, a wall on which hung many different coiled leads, a few dozen different amplifiers, microphones and a keyboard. The walls were plastered in carpets and foam. The other doors along the hall each lead to a booth with a chair, a small table and a different instrument. A drumkit sat in one corner of the large studio rom and Chris entered and made a beeline for it, dropping her bookbag and whipping out her drumsticks from her back pocket. Her fingertips itched as she lowered herself to the chair behind the kit. The fluorescent lights that lit the room buzzed overhead just before she began to play. They made the dust that had settled over some of the other instruments glitter like millions of tiny stars.
She started to play through a three by four blues standard. It was a soft, slow rhythm, quiet for a drum track. 'One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four', she counted in her head, closing her eyes. As she let the rhythm carry forward, she added a flourish to the end of every eighth measure, a double-time four beat turnaround followed by a kick drum hit that made the rhythm pop. After about fifteen bars of this, she stopped with a hit of the high hat and let the sound resonate for as long as it could. But as it faded away to nothing, it was replaced by the sound of a guitar being played in arpeggiated, delicate strums in what sounded to Chris like the key of D major.
Chris listened and watched the skin on her right arm rise in goose-bumps as she heard the chords play out in single, glorious notes. It was faint but distinctive in the new quiet of the studio. She sat and listened as the mysterious guitarist broke into an acoustic, mournful, vocal solo. Double-stops punctuated it in a downward cascade. Chris had an idea, she resumed her drumming in a slow triplet style soft bleus shuffle and carried it on, waiting to hear what happened. To her quiet, simmering delight, she heard the guitarists intonation shift into a power chord based, muted and choked standard shuffle pattern that Chris recognised as in the key of A minor, exactly in time with Chris' rhythm. They carried on, Chris adding a double time turn around to the end of every forth bar. After eight of these measures, she switched to a four by four timing and listened over her drumming to hear what her mysterious new friend did with it. Though the mysterious guitarist was likely playing from somewhere far in the depths of the the studio, their string-bends and vibratos sent chills up Chris' spine.
Enough was enough, Chris stood from the chair behind the drums and made her way to the door and down the hallway toward the source of the sound. It was coming from behind one of the heavy doors at the end of the hall. She could still hear them playing a jazz standard that made Chris want to tap her foot. She stood there and listened for a moment and then heard them stop, the notes of the strings muted suddenly and Chris knocked on the door with baited breath.