Page 28 of The Cannon
The man’s in his sixties I’d guess. He looks like he’s closely acquainted with the mafia. I’m expecting to hear a Sinatra ballad. Instead, he kicks off the show with the theme from “Shaft.” It energizes the already half-drunk crowd. The first few notes out of Ron’s mouth earn him a roomful of fans.
Bristol is enjoying the performance as she sips from a straw I’m jealous of. If only those lips were sucking me instead. She and I exchange silent reviews of Ron’s talent. She points to him like ‘Who knew?’ I nod in agreement.
For the next hour it’s a cavalcade of various levels of showmanship and vocals. By one in the morning the room’s at a fevered pitch, revved up by alcohol and the power of music to carry you higher. The ear-piercing singers were just as entertaining as the accomplished ones.
We especially liked the three women who not only sang but attempted to dance to “Brick House.” Two of them kissed on stage. The crowd went wild. The young guy who stood almost frozen on stage was the biggest surprise. He was so frightened it was painful to watch. That was before he started singing. A voice so pure and perfect it quieted the crowd. Everyone knew they were in the company of genuine undiscovered talent.
Our cocktails have taken effect. I’m feeling no pain. Not exactly drunk, but on another plane. Bristol has let the walls down. In our conversation she mentioned she seldom drinks and doesn’t really see the draw. Pretty sure her opinion has changed.
She’s applauding for each act as if we’re watching the actual recording artists. It’s cracking me up. And the girl can whistle. Her brothers taught her how to put her thumb and little finger in her mouth and let it go. Every singer has been greeted and dismissed with the piercing sound. God she’s cute.
“I looove this place!” she says over the noise and between oysters. “These singers are phenomenal.”
A saltshaker falls to the floor when her hand hits it. Don’t think she noticed. The table is overflowing with plates we’ve finished and ones we haven’t. The overworked staff can’t keep up with the appetites of the room. Only the empty glasses have been cleared.
“I’m glad you’re having fun. Me too.”
“So when areyougoing to sing?” she says pointing to me.
“Not sure. They’ll announce it.”
God. I’m mesmerized by her. Even her half-closed eyes look great to me. Drunk or sober, she keeps my attention.
“Tell me. Are you going to sing a ballad?”
“Nope. I’m going to sing a song that says something I really want to say to you.”
Her fork gets put down and she stares one bloodshot eye into mine. The other one is closed. Her chin lifts.
“Is it a romantic song?”
“In a way. I think it’s romantic.”
She looks me over and leans her head to the side.
“Is it about how I’m sugar and spice?”
“You’re not sugar and spice, Bristol. You’re more savory.”
She likes that because I saw her wiggle in her seat. Just a bit. Hope it’s because I just tickled her in her sweet spot.
The audience claps for the red-haired tiny woman on stage.
“Thank you, Linda! “New York, New York” is always a crowd pleaser. Now we have someone new. Please give a warm welcome for Sawyer!”
I’m up. Bristol starts clapping wildly and it’s accompanied by her best and loudest whistle yet.
I lean into her ear. “I think of you doing this for me.”
Then I’m up the few stairs and on the stage. I’m handed the microphone.
“Hi y’all. This is for that pretty girl with the sexy shoes,” I say pointing to Bristol.
She must be drunk, because it doesn’t embarrass her. Covering her skirt, she lifts her legs in the air and shows the room her shoes.
They go wild.
“She’s a Southern girl with country in her soul.”
