Page 9 of She's My Kind Of Rain

I release a breath once more, shaking out my hands, hoping the nerves will go with it. They don’t.

My palms are sweating, and it feels like I’m back out in the blistering hot sun, but the sun has set and the heat has subsided. I tap my foot to the beat of the song, wishing that the music itself will calm me down, but I can’t seem to regain the composure I’m known for outside of this space.

Her song comes to an end and she races toward me. “Good luck, darlin’,” she says, beaming ear to ear, touching my arm in passing.

“Thanks,” I respond coolly to avoid her noticing my panic. I draw in another breath. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself, expecting that if I hear it out loud I’ll believe it—I don’t.

The tequila hasn’t set in and my worry only escalates when a sweaty man standing near the stage wall gestures for me to go on. My boots feel like they have been filled with the very concretewe had set this week, but I find a way to trudge toward the mic anyways.

Music is usually the thing that keeps my feelings in check, but right now not even the alcohol is subsiding my panic.

Thanks to the surprise, I don’t have my Pop’s guitar. Who knew not having it would feel like missing a security blanket. Man, what I wouldn’t give to go get it right now.

Once I reach the mic, I clear my throat and look toward a young kid whose job is to click play on the sound system that inevitably carries the music through blown speakers. I don’t even know if this moment will be a duet with whoever the fuck’s song I chose in my blurred panic, or if the lyrics have been cut and only the music remains.

I place my hand around the neck of the mic, hoping it will fill the void I’m now noticing without my guitar. The perspiration of my palm sticks to the handle and my hand starts to shake just enough for hopefully only me to notice. The kid shifts toward the play button and then the sound of music drops.

Most people aren’t paying attention until Rhett screams a cat call, and just like that, nearly all eyes are on me. I gulp, wishing I had just saidno,feeling more than underprepared in this instant. I regain what little focus I have, and realize I missed not only the first lyric, but the entire first verse. Somebody boos from the crowd and I look stage-left like someone who can fix this is standing there, but the only person there is the kid who probably isn’t even old enough to be here in the first place.

Fuck. I thought I could do this. I really did.

The kid restarts the song and I make uncomfortable eye contact with him, thinking it would have been better off if he had just closed the metaphorical curtain on me instead. Sweat beads at the nape of my neck and I reach back to glide my hand over it. The last beat of music plays before the lyrics start, I open my mouth to sing and nothing comes out, fear taking the forefrontof everything I have. Another person boos in the crowd. My eyes shift to the floor and I walk off stage.

I choked.

“Hey man, I’m really sorry that’s how that went.” Rhett’s tone is laced with pity while we walk side by side down the sidewalk away from Gator Ray’s.

“I’m not gonna lie, I thought that would be easy. I literally sing in front of the crew all the time. It comes out so naturally. But that stage felt different. Maybe it was wrong to assume this was a good idea,” I huff, wishing I could erase the last fifteen minutes of my life.

“I shouldn’t have sprung it on ya, that’s a lot to take in outta nowhere.” A gentle smile surfaces on his face. “Ya know, I was tryin’ to be a good friend and pay ya back for bein’ such a good friend to me, but I think I got a little too excited. I sometimes forget not everyone likes to take the bull by the horns.”

“Don’t tell me your next idea is to put me on a bull.” A nervous laugh escapes my lips as the tequila starts to set in. A little late, might I add.

“Hah, no ya dumbshit. I wanted to help make ya famous, not dead. Besides, if anyone’s gettin’ on a bull, that’ll be me.” Hechuckles again. “Now, enough about that, hows about we go get another drink and forget this shit ever happened?”

“I’m right ahead of ya,” I pause, stopping in front of one of the nicest bars on Broadway Street, The Westmore, and admire its magnificent exterior. The letters of its name are carved into a large wooden sign that spans the entire length of its front, and pillars carved in the shape of guitars are placed on both sides of the double-door entrance. The windows have deep red velvet curtains blocking out passersby and every bit of it takes my breath away without even entering.

“Now, this is probably where I should have called for a spot.” Rhett’s eyes scan the bar, in just as much awe as me.

We advance through the doors after a bouncer checks our I.D.s and my jaw gapes as I take in the wonder of this place.

“I’m glad you didn’t, choking on this stage would have been much worse.” I try to make light of the situation since there isn’t much else I can do. I notice a bar with open stools to the right and amble towards it, with Rhett in tow.

The bar itself is made of a dark-stained oak, behind it, a wall of liquor is arranged by type and what I assume to be cost, with the more expensive bottles placed not only higher, but also in a way that shows off their packaging. At least twenty massive bar stools are placed side by side, running the entire length of the bar, each one cognac leather with the faintest filigree imprinted into its surface, and dark oak legs to match the countertop they sit before.

The moment we take our seats, we’re approached by an older woman, her gray hair twisted into an updo, and a gentle smile that makes her appear genuinely happy to see us on her face.

“What’ll it be, sweeties?” Something about her tone makes it feel like we’re her most important customers, though I think that is just her being good at her job.

“I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks, thanks...” I say, unsure of her name or how to address her.

“It’s Nancy, hon. And for you?” She turns to question Rhett.

“I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s your favorite.” He winks, and I can’t help but crack a smile. He doesn’t care if a woman is twenty or ninety, he’s going to make them feel special by default.

She hustles off to the other end of the bar to grab our drinks, and I turn to take in everything that isThe Westmore.

Small tables are placed on the outskirts of the room, leaving a majority of the floor open for those who are here to drink, dance, and most importantly, listen to the music. The real star of the show is the stage, though. Velvet curtains—that match the ones up front—drape from wall to wall behind the stage. Large columns are placed on either side, engraved with a similar, but much larger filigree than that of the bar stools, and an entire back up band is there to play the music live instead of through a CD player. It’s a spectacular display, all centered around a ribbon style microphone. The epitome of a stage I strive to be on…one day. If I can learn to keep my shit together once I get on one.

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