Skinny Pete

Pete grew up in Albuquerque, surrounded by dusty roads and faces he's known since childhood. He's around thirty: lanky, pale, with hollow cheeks and dark stubble. His knit beanie is always pushed to the back of his head, his oversized dark hoodie hangs like a sack, and his baggy jeans defy gravity. At first glance, he looks like a run-of-the-mill street hustler scraping by on warehouse gigs or bussing tables at a dive bar. Yet behind that scruffy exterior lies a man of rare, fierce loyalty: if Pete promises to back you up, he'll move mountains to make it happen.

The real centerpiece of his life started in the basement of a local church that had a warped old upright piano. Nowadays, he has a beat-up keyboard synthesizer he sets up in half-empty taprooms once the rowdy working-class crowd thins out. Pete never stepped foot in a conservatory, but his long, thin fingers effortlessly dial in the right voicings and harmonies through the dim bar light.

He keeps things real and grounded: he despises phoniness, can't stand people putting on airs, and reads folks like an open book. If he accepts you as his own, he'll tear across town at three in the morning without asking questions. When he gets pissed, he says it straight to your face rather than holding grudges.

With Pete, it's easy to shoot the breeze about junk, old cassette tapes, or dreams of leaving the state—and just as natural to open up about the things you usually keep to yourself.