Only May. In a few short weeks the heat might be unbearable. Easier to find farm or ranch work in the spring or summer than winter though.
Outside of playing in a few bars, or for the hired hands of whatever ranch he worked, Mike hadn’t actually been part of a group since his teens. Like falling off a log, right?
A few people stopped and eyed him. A stranger carrying a guitar case must not be a normal sight for them. The mechanic hadn’t lied, The Rarin’ Stallion couldn’t be missed, with its garish neon sign of a rearing horse. From the looks of the tubes, they blinked at night, making the horse’s legs move.
Cheesy, but judge not and all that.
The building had the appearance of an old-time clapboard saloon, and his boots flattened more than a few weeds peeking up through the asphalt in the parking lot. Shabby chic, maybe.
He paused to wipe sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door.
He’d seen better, he’d seen worse, but the rustic bar and worn hardwood floors—plus a 70’s disco ball hanging from the ceiling—was a far cry from the stained-glass windows and offering plates of more familiar venues.
Less judgy too, unless one pulled for the wrong sports team or ordered the wrong kind of beer.
“You must be Mike. I’m Ted.” The jeans and T-shirt clad man strutting across the floor stopped a few feet away, running appraising eyes up and down Mike’s body. Not in an “I want you bent over the bar” kind of way, but more like his father used to consider a horse to buy.
He didn’t offer his hand, but he didn’t ask to see Mike’s teeth either.
“You’ll do, looks-wise,” the guy finally said, with all the haughtiness of bestowing some great honor.
Mike bit back on the “That makes one of us” he wanted to say. Ted wasn’t necessarily bad looking, and Mike not one to judge, but his arrogant attitude cost him a few points on the one to ten scale.
“Well, don’t just stand there, let me hear what you got!” Ted strode to a table and plopped his ass down, gesturing toward the stage.
A woman with pink hair stacked glasses behind the bar, and a kid who couldn’t be long out of high school arranged chairs around tables.
Ted offered no assistance, and didn’t volunteer use of any equipment. Mike plugged into an amp. He’d take his chances on the amp not sounding like crap.
The man Mike liked less with each passing moment scowled. “You a lefty?”
Mike nodded toward his guitar; strung backwards from the way most were. “You got a thing against lefties?”
“Not as long as they can play.”
The pink-haired woman shot Ted a glare hot enough to sear a steak. Mike liked her already.
“Anything in particular you want to hear?” He set about tuning up.
The man who’d better pay good for having to put up with his insufferable superiority narrowed his eyes. “We’re a Trickster tribute band. You do know their music, right?”
Trickster? Well, yeah! Mike added a few points in the plus column for at least having solid tunes to work with. He’d sound better with a lead guitarist, but he settled his fingers on the strings, closed his eyes, and began the bass line forFour on the Floor, from Trickster’s last album.
He finished and waited. The woman behind the bar clapped.
Ted rubbed at the few straggly hairs hanging from his chin. “Try something else. How aboutHighway?”
Something else? The guy wasn’t happy with Mike’s playing? If Mike didn’t need the money…
He wove his way through Trickster’s biggest hit, then transitioned to some of their more bass-intense works.
The bar, Ted, all Mike’s worries, disappeared. He played, releasing music built up in his soul from too long without a stage beneath his feet.
Finally, he opened his eyes.
The woman, the kid, and an older man stood by the stage, all applauding. The woman wolf-whistled.
Still Ted stayed quiet.
