Page 11 of The River in Spring
“Have you seen them before?” the redhead with a green knit cap asks.
“No. This will be a first.” I smile.
“See! I told you,” her young companion says.
My confused expression prompts the redhead to explain.
“We were playing this game we do every week. We try to put a story to the people in line. You know, just to pass the time. We saw you coming.”
“What’s mine?”
“First clue is you’re alone. My friend here thinks it’s because you’re a talent scout, or an agent, and you want to see what all the buzz is about.”
“What was your guess?” I ask the friend.
A crooked grin preceeds the answer. “I think you just like to look at the singer. Right?”
The line moves up.
Just as I’m about to answer, the burly bouncer I passed at the entry walks up.
“Are you Mr. Lyon?”
It surprises. “Yes?”
“Can I see your identification?”
“What’s this about?”
“There’s a table waiting.”
The girls in front of me are listening to the conversation. The redhead elbows her friend and presses her lips together trying to squash a comment.
“Yeah. Okay. Here.” I take out my license and show it to the Hulk.
“Follow me,” he says, heading for the entry.
It would not be wise to make eye contact with any of the people in line. It would piss me off too if it were me being cut ahead. Just one female voice is protesting. The bouncer and I ignore the angry words. He says something in the ear of the woman at the front desk, and she motions over the din for me to follow.
I expected a bigger venue. The crowd outside tricked me into thinking it could hold them. This room can be described as modest. The sign at the entry declares a maximum occupancy of one hundred and fifty. The lighting is bright and the furniture dim. But those details don’t tell the whole story. Every seat is taken and the servers are busy as drinks are ordered and delivered.
Past patrons have pinned short reviews on the wall to the right of the wooden bar. Pieces of napkins or backs of business cards. There’s a square of toilet paper folded neatly with just an exclamation point. I’m too far away to read them, but there’s lots of exclamation points. Someone has sketched a sexy girl at a mic, and two words in big, bold, black letters say,Marry Me!
On a relatively roomy stage for the space, sits a set of drums, a keyboard, and three microphone stands. Only two have mics in them. The speakers stand guard on either side, cords winding from them like entangled snakes.
I take a curving course through the patrons, following the woman. She stops at the only vacant table in the entire room, and gestures for me to sit. I chose the chair with the best view of the stage.
“A server will be here to take your drink order.”
“Thanks.”
The retreating figure is replaced by an older woman who comes to my table. I get a broad smile and a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you drinkin’, darlin’?” she says over the voices of the crowd.
“Give me a whiskey. Gentleman Jack’s.”
“You got it. Want me to bring another when I see you need it? It gets pretty crazy in here.”
