Mitch leaned against the lamppost, cigarette smoke caressing his face, a Pabst sweating in his hand. Behind him, the thrum of the jukebox; the bartender, a middle-aged mother of eight named Karen, had switched over to southern rock to pacify the rowdier element. Mitch took it as his cue to sneak some Skynyrd into his next set. No harm in pandering.
He took a drag and a pull. The humidity felt soothing on his skin; reminded him of his childhood, playing with the other boys in the trailer park late at night, while their parents drank or screwed themselves to sleep. Midwestern summers could be a hell of a thing, but Mitch had spent a year in Montana on his cousin’s ranch, and wouldn’t trade the oppressive heat for anything. The winters balanced out the scales eventually.
Lucky’s Tavern sat across the street from the courthouse, the tallest building in Charleston County. Mitch eyed the rows of windows, impenetrable and black. Cicadas hummed from the trees that dotted the town square, filtering through the screaming electric guitars of the jukebox. There was a song in this somewhere. That part of Mitch’s mind itched to stitch the pieces together, while the rest of him tried simply to enjoy the taste of smoke in his mouth. He hadn’t played a gig in three weeks; no matter how much he played during his free time away from the factory, he was still out of practice. Singing to his dog wasn’t the same as to a crowd, some of whom actually wanted to hear him. His voice had almost gone out halfway through “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” Thankfully, the beer was on the house. It usually was, around here, long as you were still able to play. A small perk of failure.
Voices drifted into his revelry, coming from the far end of the town square. He turned, sipping the beer, and saw a group of college-aged kids approaching, six of them, jostling casually amongst themselves in a way that suggested long or at least youthful familiarity. Mitch studied them openly, taking in the careless enjoyment on their faces, the confidence in the hitch of their shoulders, the girls in short skirts and swaying their hips absently to whatever music it was women that age could always hear. Mitch had known many like them, once, during his stint at the community college. Not that long ago, in the scope of things. The half-life of a dream was longer. The desire to embrace what life had to offer and the fear of doing so. The concept of youth, the certainty of it, outlasted its physical manifestation.
The group approached the entrance to Lucky’s. Four guys, two girls. An interracial bunch, which Mitch realized one did not normally see around here. He couldn’t tell if that was surprising or not. Decided if it didn’t matter to them, it didn’t matter to him, though he felt maybe it should.
One of the guys noticed Mitch watching them and nodded in a friendly, easy manner. Mitch nodded back and returned his attention to the courthouse. He’d seen what he needed to see.
“Hey, there’s someone singing tonight,” a girl said. “Is there a cover? I don’t have cash.”
“Nah,” one of the guys answered. “It’s just some dude. There’s never a cover when it’s just some dude.”
“I don’t have cash, either,” said the other girl.
“They try to guilt you into tipping,” said another one of the guys. “Like, no thanks, man.”
“Then just don’t fucking tip,” said the first guy, as the door clanged open and they went inside.
Mitch smiled and killed his beer, tossing the bottle into the nearest trashcan. He wondered if the bars in Nashville had covers. He’d only been twice, years ago, and couldn’t remember much through the alcohol haze. Had enjoyed the trips, the overall experience of being there, the lights and music and people, but not enough to go back in the subsequent years. In fact, other than trips to St. Louis and Chicago for ballgames, he rarely visited anywhere approaching a metropolis. The majority of his life, over the past ten years, had been spent surrounded by the flatland corn and soybean fields he’d been born amongst. He wondered if he should regret that.
He took his penultimate drag on the cigarette as the door swung back shut behind him. Maybe Allman Brothers instead of Skynyrd. It was all the same to them. Mitch took one more look at the darkened windows of the courthouse, the building seemingly dead to the world. The center of town, the center of the world he had fallen into and become discerningly comfortable with. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the cicadas, making a music sweeter than any he or any other human being could hope to create. Yes, he thought, stringing the lines together, the fingers of his left hand reaching for the notes. He wouldn’t have to try very hard to find it. The song would come eventually. It always did.
D.W. Davis is a native of rural Illinois. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can find him at Facebook.com/DanielDavis05, or @dan_davis86 on Twitter.
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