The loneliest men are haunted men—that’s me.
I look a lot like a dusty cowboy in a pickup driving across the south, but looks can be deceiving as many Georgia girls found out.
I’ve got a wife and the occasional yearning to go home and settle down—but I gotta be me first—get it out of my system before I drown.
Yep, just a city boy turned country singer, and prairie gothic can get you anywhere if you’ve got charm.
“Want a drink, Hon?”
She’s one of those country bar girls I figure is supporting a lazy boyfriend—and judging by the lines around her eyes, she’s close to forty.
“Naw, I’m kinda between gigs.”
She pushes back a stray wisp of blonde hair and I can see she looks pretty.
“I didn’t ask you for a job application—it’s on the house—what’s your poison?”
I smirk, “In that case, how about a CC Rider?”
She slants me a baleful look. “I take it you mean Canadian Club—won’t take it any other way—and you got rich taste for a honky tonk country singer.”
I smile my charming smile and she slaps down a tumbler and pours two fingers of the good stuff I rarely get to drink.
“And don’t go flashing those pearly whites—I’m just being kind ’cause Cal—well, Cal can be real mean, you know?”
I nod and look repentant—that pose is my one-two punch—gets them every time, if they’re interested, that is.
But she may be kind-hearted ’cause I see her splash a little extra in an old guy’s drink at the end of the bar.
He looks up bleary-eyed and smiles, “Why thanks, LeAnn!”
I’m not sure that’s her name or he figures she looks like LeAnn Rimes—but if that’s the case, he’s dead wrong—she’s prettier.
Cal finally waddles out from the office in the back—he’s got to be three hundred pounds and has a mean streak more ugly than the jagged scar down his cheek—I’ve seen those tracks and I know broken beer bottles do that.
He sits down beside me wheezing and motions for LeAnn to drop him a drink. He’s sizing me up all the while.
“Caught your set at Hoots Hollow the other night,” he deadpans.
“Don’t say—how’d you like it?”
“Music’s okay, but voice is kinda pitchy—know what I mean? You’re the type doesn’t hit the notes—sort of sing between the keys,” he starts to wheeze and laugh.
“Ha ha, you kinda fall between the cracks in the piano keys.” His eyes are watering.
“Is that a fact? Well, that’s my way—and I like it.”
He looks at me quizzically as Blondie drops his drink. “How’s that?”
“You see, I sing it real. I sing between the cracks because that’s where the truth settles, like dirt that gets under your finger nails.”
I watch Blondie’s eyes and see her repress a grin.
“So, you’re just like all these old boys around here—not afraid of the soil?”
“That’s me,” I smile.
He tilts his head in my direction and Blondie drops two fingers of CC in my glass.
“Hell, is that what you’re drinking, boy? You’re going need to sing a lot of country blues to pay that bill.”
“I’m available for the week.”
He gets up and grabs his drink. “You’re hired. Tell LeAnn to advance you a coupla hundred and we’ll settle up on Saturday night.”
LeAnn flashes me a thumbs-up. I think I’m going to like it here.
