(Page 1 of 2) Saturday Night by Dan Bieger
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SUMMARY: An entry in the October flash fiction contest.Saturday night at The Chapel. the place little more than half full, the draw pretty much due to the singer in the corner, an old vaquero clad mostly in black though bits of color danced in odd places on his body, a red handkerchief spilling from a pocket, silver from the buckle on the belt and the rings in the ears, yellow in the bolo tie, turquoise in the rings on three of his fingers, red in the feathers lodged in the Stetson's band. He sat a bar stool, the only one in the place, with his twelve-string perched in his lap. Chords or riffs, his fingers belied their arthritic present to recall a limber youth, plucking melody or rhythm as the song demanded. No mike, he sang in quiet introspection, his voice carrying to places where people wanted to listen while never disturbing those wrapped in their own little worlds. Like the bartender, Senor Viejo, the balladeer carried himself straight and bent at the same time as if his body was a commentary on the Chris Ledoux's song: It Ain't the Years, Boy; It's the Miles. In his case, the years were catching up to the miles.
He answered to Jesús when folk addressed him but folk quickly learned he wasn't in this place to play for their amusement. He played for himself. If others enjoyed the performance or not seemed to him to be their problem and not his. This night, he began with Streets of Laredo, the eight verse version, his voice scratching its way from baritone for the young cowboy to an astonishing base for the chorus. By the time he voiced the first ‘...streets of Laredo..." The Chapel was as quiet as any chapel anywhere, the congregation attentive to the homily, nodding appreciatively when the sod was laid o'er the young cowboy. Nodded but did not applaud. Folk do not applaud homilies.
In their routine position at the end of the bar, the old guys, Marvin and Stephen, nodded their appreciation of Jesús' effort, turned and sipped the beer. Always beer on a Saturday night because Jesús might play for a long time and you did not want to miss anything, first rendition to last. They turned back to the vaquero as the first chords of the next song broke the air. With everyone else, the old guys considered the vaquero as he examined this song. Most would expect to prefer the clear soprano tones of a Joan Baez but Jesús' baritone suited the lyrics as well and There But For Fortune seeped out across The Chapel pulling the crowd into the possibilities. His head wavered side to side as he sang of the drunkard as if another memory competed with the lyrics for his attention. When the buildings had to fall, those closest to his corner thought they spied a tear but, probably, it was only perspiration. And, when he released the final chord, he seemed to all to shudder just a bit. The red handkerchief wiped the ... perspiration?... from his rbow.
Stephen to Marvin: "I remember the bombs." And Marvin to Stephen: "We aren't supposed to forget the bombs, Steve. Not ever." Stephen wanted to talk a bit more of B-52s and carpets and stinking, nasty jungles but Jesús waited for no man's examination of conscience.
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