Snack 3

HIM:

This might be the best random truck stop decision I’ve ever made, even if it is going to make for a long drive tonight.

I keep promising myself one more song, but I just can’t leave. I’ve seen the best acts in Nashville, New Orleans, New York, and LA… and they’ve got nothing on this place. 

Song after song rolls by - some brilliant, some awful, all brilliantly ballsy.

A woman turns pint glasses into a bell choir.

Two teenagers use forks and a pool cue to recreate the percussion from Seven Nation Army.

A belly-dancing harmonica act that, shockingly, works.

Someone really needs to film a documentary in here.

I know I need to drive, so I’m still nursing my first beer, watching the rhythm of the room - how it pulses, sways, welcomes, dares.

Then the host steps up and taps the mic.

“Alright, folks, it’s been a rowdy night, and we’ve got one last slot open. Anyone wanna close it down?”

Over my shoulder, the bartender shouts, “I think I’ve got a live one right here!”

I turn, and he is pointing at me. Oh no. This is more than I bargained for.

I feel half the eyes in the room on me now, and I turn to the bartender, trying to give him a look that says, “Seriously, man?” and “I haven’t even tipped you yet”... but he sees right through me.

He winks. “Saw you eyeing the six-string.”

The crowd murmurs. Someone shouts, “Do it!” And then the drunken crowd has picked it up, and the “call to adventure”, or “trouble magnet” inside me makes me laugh as my feet head towards the stage.

I take the guitar off the wall, sit on the stool, and play a few chords, getting the feel for the neck and the strings. Miraculously, it is in tune. The strings aren’t shot. 

Now’s the moment where I have to pray there’s someone out there who might be as crazy as me, because if there’s not, this is not going to go well…

“This is my first time in Winslow,” I say to the room. “And my first time here. I know I need two items from inside the bar tonight… but I only have one.” I hold up the guitar, and glance at the host, who looks like he’s already ready to yank you off the stage for disobeying the rules.

“Although,” I add quickly, “this song is always better with harmony, so I could definitely use someone to sing with me. And I don’t know anyone here… so that’s got to count as something I found inside the bar, right?”

The host tilts his head, hand on his hip, with what I’m hoping is a little cheeky grin of appreciation for my creativity. “What do we think, folks? Does a human count as a found object?”

The bar hoots and hollers - half “YES,” half “Give him a shot!” There had been far too many drinks at this point for the room to be anything but an animalistic love-fest that is only hungry for one thing - more music.

The host shrugs. “Well, Neil Diamond, looks like you’re gonna have to see if anybody joins you. Otherwise, you’re outta luck. I’ll give you one verse to get someone up here or I’m giving away this slot to someone else.”

I nod once. No pressure.

I roll my shoulders, and take a breath.