Five Stringin' Past Midnight

His fingers felt numb as they methodically traced the lines of the strings. Reflexively, his mind rejected the possibility of incoming cramps, and though strained from hours of unrelenting pressure and the sting of cheap whiskey, his voice continued to course over the microphone seven years past its prime.

Was anyone listening? Who gave a shit at this point. One-thirty in the morning in a beach bar thirty miles from nowhere wasn’t exactly the ideal atmosphere for folk, but he knew the dying pulses in the crowd would end up paying for that A string. The last three gigs had proven nothing if not inventive with the loss of the string, but Chris was nothing if not innovative.

And really fucking thirsty.

His mind filled the silence with thunderous applause as his final note fizzled out over the floorboards. Five stringin’ a triple set was no small feat, but bragging rights held little power when compared to a decent meal and a pack of smokes. He permitted a brief interlude to take a drag off of the Winston he had been nursing for the last forty minutes, and as the smoke leaked out over his cracked lips, he felt his muscles breathe a sigh of collective relief.

“I got one more for ya. I wrote this a while back, when…uh…” The story caught abruptly in his throat as he gauged the dwindling remnants of the crowd one final time. They didn’t deserve this. The story. The song. One more minute of his fucking time. He could leave the stage at that exact moment, and he guaranteed nobody would notice until the power cut out an hour later, but some damnable sliver of pride kept him firmly planted on the stool.

No gig left unfinished. Son of a bitch.

“This is Lady of the Lake. Thanks for stickin’ around…you guys have been—” Shit. “—great.”

Three weeks had passed since Lady had become his closer, and he still wasn’t sure how to feel about her placement. Her lyrics were immaculate; her chords ingenious; but he couldn’t help feeling like he was hiding her by leaving her for last. Her inception had been nothing short of miraculous, and with every subsequent repetition, her words were carved deeper and deeper into his soul. Each line transported him once more to that lakeside where he had found her…or she had found him, more appropriately. To this day, he swore that the lyric sheet had materialized beneath him as he slept, but then again, if fairy tales were real, then he had been stuck in the wrong fucking story for far too many years now.

Chris snapped back to reality just quick enough to hear himself pluck the final note, and immediately, a sense of panic flashed through his veins. Autopilot was perfectly adequate for the majority of his pandering repertoire, but not for her. He had never betrayed her like this. A cold sweat began to bead upon his brow as the implications of this potential disaster weighed upon his brain, but a sudden crack split the air and rocketed him back to his surroundings.

He was clapping. A crusty, sunken sort of a man, probably around 50 or 60, had been sitting at the bar with his back turned since Chris’s arrival—so much so that Chris had assumed him a permanent part of the infrastructure—but now he was…clapping. Respect flooded the man’s eyes as he stared down the young musician, and with one final resounding crack, he returned to his previous post.

“Th—thank you.”

A subtle creak shot across the bar as Chris dismounted the stool and reached for his dilapidated case he had craftily hidden behind the makeshift stage. With the gentle caress of a midnight lover, he lay the guitar across the cracking velvet. He soothingly stroked each fret before shutting the case; a ritual he had picked up long before memory was necessary, and as he closed her once more inside her carriage, the familiar stench of pine and cabbage flooded his lungs.

“Not bad, Ellerson. Not too bad.”

An involuntary wince denoted Sal’s arrival upon the stage, but Chris prayed that the gesture had gone unnoticed before the manager. “Thanks, Sal. Do what I can.”

“Clearly. Thanks for…ya know…packin’ the place.” A clammy hand motioned toward the vacant lobby as a hearty guffaw channeled out across Sal’s jowels. He was always so proud of his jokes. “How could I ever thank you?” A slightly suspicious wad of cash floated gingerly down atop Chris’s case. More rapidly than he had anticipated, Chris swiped the bills away and began counting as Sal’s moist footprints retreated back to the bar.

Five…ten…fifteen…twenty…twenty…motherfucker.

“SAL!” Not again. “C’mon, man…we talked about—”

“We TALKED—” The cartoonishly plump bastard turned on a dime. “about you bringing in some actual business to this fine establishment. I believe a ‘following’ was mentioned in your original pitch. Or do I remember incorrectly?”

Chris could feel a hard night’s pay slipping once more through his calloused fingers, but he was too damn exhausted to quell his stubbornness. “I remember you quoting me three times as much as this petty shit, or do I remember incorrectly?”

“Listen up, you little hippie fuck…” Sal’s sausagious finger had arrived once more within the effective area of Chris’s nostrils, much to his displeasure. “I gave you an estimate based on what any performer worth his salt can bring into my bar. I work on a percentage system far too complex to explain to an ungrateful ass like you who can’t even be bothered to properly string your goddamn instrument.” Blood was rising fiercely in Chris’s cheeks, but his fist remained pinned to his side…the last thing he needed was a hospital bill. “What you need to do is take your raggedy ass case and my more than generous ‘petty shit’ and get the fuck out of my bar before you get yourself a reputation.”

Innumerable retorts rested on the tip of Chris’s tongue as his eyes bled fire onto his cheeks, but much to his surprise…he found himself pocketing the bills and lugging his case back across the driftwood that continued to cry out beneath his every step. A lingering shot of whiskey lay upon the bar beside the seat of his previously adoring fan, and as Sal slammed the door to his makeshift office, Chris noticed the napkin beneath the glass had been scrawled upon rather hastily before the old man’s exit.

“I hope you find her”

The liquor fell smoothly down his throat, and Chris quickly pocketed the glass before trudging back out into the chilled Florida night.

Me too, man…me too.