If you're playing club gigs, you gotta hustle. . .
And make sure you're not the one getting pimped.
And make sure you're not the one getting pimped.
The Set by Zach Stanfield
I set up on stage and ground
my teeth to suppress the mild ache that stuck around after poor choices and
little sleep.
The cocktail waitress glided
up and flicked her thumb toward the bar. “Phone for you, honey.”
The receiver rested in a wet
spot on the counter and I wiped it off on my shirttail. “Yeah?”
“Jack, it’s Eddy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Same old shit. Listen, got a
buddy down in Jackson said he’d make us a deal on studio time next week.”
“How much?”
“Usually about a grand, but
he’d do us a favor and cut that in half. Says he’s bringing in some session
players from ‘Bama and needs to fill up the week. Thought we could split the
cost. Whatcha think?”
I wouldn’t be able to get the
cash but knew better than to turn him down. “Guess I’ll see you Monday.” I hung up.
Sal, the bar man, caught my
arm and slid me a bar napkin.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is what you’re playing
tonight.”
“I already got a set.”
“Yeah, well, it just changed.
Think you can cover them? If you can’t, you ain’t getting paid.”
I looked it over. “Yeah, who
can’t?”
He started wiping down the
bar again and let me fade out in front of him. Joints like Sal’s didn’t mind
fucking someone up as long as they got paid. To them, it was always hard times,
and I was just as good as a jukebox or spoons with an accompanying harmonica.
I rubbed the bridge of my
nose and could still taste last night and the powdered aspirin from this
morning. I opened a tab from the waitress with the cut off jeans and
forget-me-not hips and asked her to keep the cheapest beer coming. The plan was
to nurse five until close. I crumpled the set
napkin and tossed it behind the amp.
Sal’s transitioned from empty
to full as the patrons ambled in and the lights grew dim, cueing me to roll
into the first song. Didn’t take long before I was into it. Four songs and I
knew where the night would take me. By the third beer, it all synced, and I
eased back, killing every note played. I timed it wrong, lost in the mood, and
finished my eighth beer by closing. I’d square up with what they owed but
wasn’t concerned because it went so well. I packed up and dumped my gear in the
back of my Oldsmobile and lit a cigarette to complement the sweet aftertaste
left over from the beer. I thought on what I could sell to pull in the extra
bit of cash I needed. If I pawned everything I’d still come up two hundred shy.
I flicked the filter out into the gravel and headed back inside.
The only folks still standing
at 3 a.m. were barmen and musicians. Sal counted down the register and had
several bottles spread out that would likely be watered down and served the
next night.
I moved over some bourbon and
leaned across the bar. “You close me out?”
“Yep. It’s sixteen,” Sal said.
“Just take it out of what you
owe me.”
“Owe you?”
“It’s eighty for the gig.”
He stared at me blankly.
I laughed.
“Not sure what’s funny.”
“The fact that you’re about
to pay out eighty bucks.”
“I was paying for the list I
gave you. The one you tossed out,” he said.
“You heard this place
tonight. Doesn’t matter what I was playing.”
“I
said that was the set. If you couldn’t cover it then you should have walked.”
“Songs weren’t for you.”
“And here I thought I was the
one paying.”
Bars get so quiet when what
makes them electric swells and dissolves with the crowd. With a gig, or
anything really, you tune into a feeling, and if the plunge is lucky, it’ll
lift you beyond the meager shit you’re always scrambling for. Downside is you
never know until after you’ve gone with it.
I grabbed a bottle of bourbon
and swung it right into the side of Sal’s skinned head. He folded under the glass
and spirit, and I snatched what was on the bar. “This’ll cover it.”
No one ever stops on the
short gain and musicians always play one too many numbers before the place
turns. I reached over the counter and pulled from the drawers.
Sal’s right hand grabbed the
ledge and lifted the rest of him up. He leveled a .38 on the counter and the
trigger gave softly. I shoved the broken end of
the bottle in his arm. He dropped the gun. I put three slugs in him and
left.
I stumbled, dazed from the
rush, opened the car door, and fell into my seat. Empty lots were all the same and I could be anywhere between Birmingham and Laredo. The bourbon had mingled with the blood pouring out of me. I touched the tender wound and
neat little hole, feeling warmth trickle down my calloused finger.
