The morning after Tina's wedding, Santana awoke to the whir of Rachel's elliptical machine. Groping blindly for her phone, she finally found it on the floor under the couch and pulled it to her face to see the time: 6:08am. She looked over at Rachel who was gliding along with a smile on her face, mouthing the words to whatever song she was listening to on her iPod.
"Do you really have to do that right now?" Santana shouted, waving her hands in an effort to catch Rachel's attention.
"What?" Rachel asked, pulling her headphones out of her ears. Santana could hear the Funny Girl soundtrack flooding out of the ear buds.
"I said, 'Do you really have to do that right now?'"
Rachel smiled, not slowing her pace for an instant. "Of course, I do. What kind of question is that? You know my six a.m. workout is an important part of my daily routine. If I postpone it, or, God forbid, skip it altogether, it would throw my entire day off course."
"Well, fine. Believe me, I don't want that," Santana said sarcastically, "but do you have to do it in here, where I'm trying to sleep?"
"Need I remind you that where you sleep also happens to be my living room?" Rachel smirked. "You need to get up anyway. We have a busy morning ahead of us."
"We do?"
"Mhmm. We'll be auditioning new drummers for the band at ten over at The Blue Moon."
"Ten o'clock in the morning?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Who the hell holds band auditions at ten in the morning?"
"I set this up ages ago, Santana, and it's the only time I could get to use the space."
"Who the hell shows up for a band audition at ten in the morning?"
"I suppose we're about to find out," Rachel said, putting her headphones back on. Santana groaned and turned over on the couch, pulling her pillow over her head.
After her workout, Rachel showered and made breakfast for them both, which Santana ate begrudgingly as she thumbed through the newspaper. Once the coffee was gone and the dishes were cleared, the two of them headed off to the bar.
The Blue Moon was a decrepit, out-of-the-way sort of place, but it was the only place that consistently gave Rachel and Santana gigs. The owner was a rather ineffectual, middle-aged man named Will Schuester. He had been in his own band a decade or so ago, a sort of New Kids on the Block group, though they had never really made it beyond the local circuit. Nevertheless, it seemed like Mr. Schuester was unable to let go of his former "pretty boy" image.
He had opened the bar, he said, as a way to help foster young talent, but more often than not, his methods proved to be vastly outdated and a bit divisive. The bands he advised either broke up or faded into obscurity within months. Rachel and Santana had survived mainly by taking advantage of the use of the bar while, for the most part, ignoring Mr. Schuester's advice.
Rachel and Santana arrived at the bar early (at Rachel's insistence), and were sitting out front when Mr. Schuester arrived to let them in. As he got out of his car, Santana gave him the once-over.
"Is that another fucking vest?" she mumbled under her breath.
"He's doing us a favor, so try to be pleasant," Rachel whispered back harshly.
"It's so nice to see you girls again!" Mr. Schuester said, reaching out to enfold them both in an embrace.
Rachel and Santana both dodged the hug, but Rachel smiled warmly and replied, "We certainly appreciate this opportunity, Mr. Schuester. I hope it's not too much trouble."
"Of course not," he chuckled, unlocking the door and letting them in. "And Rachel, I've told you before, you can call me Will."
"Actually, I'd prefer not to," Rachel said as she walked inside the dimly-lit bar. "While Santana and I appreciate all the help you've given us over the years, I think it's important to maintain a certain level of professional distance, don't you agree, Santana?" she turned, only to find that Santana was already behind the bar reaching for a bottle of beer from the cooler. "Santana!"
"It's alright," Mr. Schuester laughed good-naturedly, walking behind the bar. Santana smirked and scooted away from him quickly. "Would you like anything, Rachel?"
Rachel shook her head. Mr. Schuester shrugged. "I hope you don't mind; I made a couple of calls on your behalf last week, and I think I got a few kids interested in auditioning today. Let me just run upstairs to the office and get my notes."
"Thank you, Mr. Schuester," Rachel smiled politely. As soon as he was out of sight, she walked over to Santana and slapped her on the arm.
"What the hell, Berry?" Santana responded, using her beer to cool the spot on her arm.
"You can't just walk in here and start confiscating liquor, Santana. We're relying on Mr. Schuester's generosity-,"
Santana scoffed. "I'm so sure. What's he charging you for this?"
"Excuse me?"
"There's no way Schue's letting us use this place for auditions for free, so what's the trade?"
"I said I'd sing at his wedding next month for half price," Rachel muttered, her eyes to the floor.
"In that case," Santana said, handing the bottle off to Rachel, "I'm switching to scotch." Rachel sighed, looking down at the bottle in her hand before shrugging and taking a long sip.
"Ah, yes, I really think you're going to like this first guy," Mr. Schuester said, bounding down the stairs like a puppy, his hands full of various slips of paper. "He's a special protégé of mine; his name's Finn Hudson."
Needless to say, Finn Hudson was a disaster. He ambled in half-an-hour late, and while he was a decent enough drummer, he kept trying to sing as well, which was a serious problem given that he was clearly tone-deaf.
"We're really not looking for any additional vocals, Mr. Hudson," Rachel said as calmly and diplomatically as possible after his third attempt.
"Oh, really?" he said, with a dopey grin on his face. "Mr. Schue just mentioned that you might be interested in beefing up your sound, since up to now you've been just a chick band, or a chick-on-chick band, I should say." It was like he had no idea how offensive he was being. Rachel lunged at him, but Santana held her back.
"We'll let you know," Santana said.
The rest of the auditions that morning went equally as poorly or worse, until an imposing-looking brunette sauntered into the bar.
"These the auditions?" she asked gruffly.
"Um, yes," Rachel said, walking toward the girl with her hand extended.
The girl just looked at Rachel's hand, walked past her to the stage and said, "Sorry I'm late. Wrestling practice ran over."
Santana let out a quick laugh, scotch spewing out of her mouth; Rachel shot her a fierce glare.
Before either of them could say anything, the girl ripped into an amazing drum solo. Even Santana gaped, impressed with the girl's incomparable skill. When she finished, she stood and said, "The name's Zizes. I don't do practice before 7:00pm, and I don't do girls."
Santana raised an eyebrow. "That shouldn't be a problem," she replied.