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A sad ‘awww’ works its way through the women and I can’t help but chuckle. These people will damn near cross the street to get away from my brothers, Brody and Brutal, but they think because I play guitar and sing a little that I’m not as much of an asshole as they are. They’re wrong. I’m probably worse than my brothers because where they let their asshole-ism out, I bury mine deep inside and let it out in a different form.
In music.
I sing one of my originals that the locals know.
Whatever you want,
Whatever you need,
I’ll get it for you,
You can count on me.
I see a guy singing along with me, his mouth close to his woman’s ear as they rock together. That’s my favorite, when a song can resonate with people for a multitude of reasons. To that couple, it’s about them, him making a promise to her. To me, it’s about Mom and my pledge to take care of her when she was sick. This song took away her pain for a little bit, and that was enough for me, but the smile on the woman in the audience means a lot too.
I play another few songs, then it’s time to ramp up the crowd. “Olivia?” I scan until I see her hand sticking up, a thumbs-up shooting my way because she knows the routine and is grabbing me a drink already. “Everyone, get a drink and raise it up high.”
I give Olivia and Hank a chance to refill everyone’s glasses and serve up another round, telling a story to fill the time.
“There are two true testaments of a song. One, it hits something deep inside and makes the audience relate with exactly what the singer is feeling. It’s a powerful connection.” I play a few chords, thinking of the songs that have done that for me over the years, then a cocky smirk stretches my lips. “Two, it’s a damn good song that no matter if it’s the first time you’ve heard it or the hundredth time, it instantly makes you smile. A few of you probably remember when this song was released, but I wasn’t even born then . . .”
I pause because Hank always gives me shit at this point. He likes me too, despite his protests to the contrary. At least, I’m reasonably sure he likes me and not just the positive impact I have on his bottom line on live music nights.
“Damn young’uns wouldn’t know good music if it smacked you upside the head!” Hank’s rough voice sounds out across the room.
The crowd chuckles at his insult, looking toward the bar at the back of the room and then to the stage. I shrug, not offended in the least since this is our usual schtick. I hold up the glass of Jack Daniel’s Olivia delivered to the stage, waiting for everyone to hold up their various drinks. I see beer bottles, wine glasses, sweet tea, and mixed drinks appear over their heads. “Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking. If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal your beloved’s heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother. And if you drink, may you drink with me.” I swallow a sip of the whiskey, and everyone follows suit.
“Let’s see if this one qualifies as good music for our host, Hank.” I roll into an acoustic version of Friends in Low Places, the entire room filled with voices singing off-key—the audience, not me. The rowdy song merges us into one, all equal for the moment as strangers toast and wrap their arms around each other like long-lost buddies.
“Great job, everyone. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.” I find Olivia’s ponytail working back and forth across the room and point her way.
Answering back, she calls out, “And your bartenders!”
Bartenders? There’s only one, Hank. He’s the only one allowed behind the stretch of shiny wood that’s seen beers, cheers, and barfights its whole existence. Unless the old man finally hired someone to help?
If so, it’d be about time. He does almost everything around here as a one-man show. I try to help when I’m here, hauling heavy boxes from the stockroom to behind the bar, but he’s a stubborn old coot who likes to refuse any assistance out of misplaced pride.
I scan the room, trying to catch sight of who else is working behind the bar. I’m protective of Hank, even if I would never dare tell him so. He’d beat the shit out of me for thinking he can’t protect himself. I’ve seen him use the Louisville Slugger he keeps beneath the bar, and he can pack a wallop of a swing. Still, he’s getting up there in years, and I’ve noticed it’s been a little easier to talk him into letting me do a bit of the heavy lifting around here. I want to be certain that whoever he’s hired is worthy of Hank’s bar top.
