The Ratt was in the city’s museum district downtown, far enough away from the college that most of its patrons weren’t students. The fact that its menu consisted heavily of its own brewed alcohol also curbed the clientele—it was strictly twenty-one and over, so lowerclassmen weren’t welcome. At the door, the bouncer made a huge show of checking the band’s IDs; the only one waved through without issue was Rob, of course, since he was old enough to be their fathers. Doug, Larry, and Geoff had to wait until someone behind the bar scrounged up an old ink pad to stamp their hands in case they were tempted to try to buy any beers. When the ink proved to be dried up, one of the waitresses had to go next door to another restaurant in search of an ink pad they could use.
“How long’s this going to
