Blues
William Walter
White smoke and blue music dance above the people
crowded within the juke. It’s late on a Sunday night, perhaps
approaching midnight, though nobody could say for sure. The only
clock inside, nailed above the front door, says nothing as its dials
whirl in opposite directions. Local legend suggests that “Skip”
James hurled a glass at the clock when the owner asked when he
matters little, because the juke offers respite from feet bleeding in
and its tremoring fans that spread more hot than cold, the juke feels
like home.
As the opening performer, a local with a liquor grin, closes
his seat. He kisses the woman at his table, who winces at his
touch. He gathers his belongings, a leather road case and frayed
tweed amp. On his way to the stage, he passes the opener, now
surrounded with glowing women, and asks him for a cigarette.
The opener laughs, but the old man blinks, once, twice. One of
the glowing women frowns and hands the old man a wrinkled
Lucky Strike from her purse. He thanks her and moves on, and she
chastises the opener, directing his eyes to a rough scar around the
old man’s throat.
The crowd barely notices the old man take the stage. He
plugs in his amp at the back, and, for a moment, traces a heart
on its face drawn by a little girl. He leans down and opens his
road case, taking care with each rusted latch, and retrieves a wine
colored guitar. He smiles gently as he runs leathery hands across
its body. Finally noticing the absence of music, the crowd starts
to grumble, while the old man connects his guitar and lights his
cigarette, whispering to himself.
or not?”
The old man shrinks. The woman he kissed bites her lip.
The opener calls from the bar. “Why don’t you shut the hell
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