People out on a Friday night for a good time, a few drinks and that vibe. Just the love of the notes through the amp, the lyrics through the mic, so close to your audience you could see it move over them. Their heads bobbing. Their lips moving. Their bodies swaying. Loud or quiet, the moment of connection lasted as long as the set. And then the next one. In between and after the gig was through, you drank at the bar amongst your people. You weren’t whisked to a dressing room.
You were always right in the thick of it, creating it, building it, that connection. Music, one of the few things that did nothing but make life good, you were it, down to every note for that night in a bar in the middle of nowhere.
The song ended and I stopped bobbing my head, looking to the lead singer as the band didn’t go right into another song.
He started talking.
“No possible way to believe that we’d hit this joint and be in the presence of greatness.”
My scalp started tingling.
Uh-oh.
Lauren and Jim-Billy’s heads turned my way.
Maybe I hadn’t slunk in under radar.
Shit.
“But we are and damn,” the lead went on, “I know you know it’d be more than cool if we could talk the beautiful, the talented, the kickass Justice Lonesome into comin’ up on the stage and joining us in a couple of songs.”
Nope.
Not under radar.
“Shit, crap, shit, crap, shit,” I chanted, doing that trying not to allow my lips to move, staring at the stage where the lead singer was now giving me a broad, in-the-zone rock ‘n’ roll smile.
You could not say no to this.
No one could say no to this without looking like a douche.
Hell, I’d been out with my father on more times than I could count, in a dark corner, thinking we were incognito, just wanting to take in a local band, and he got called out.
He never refused to take the stage.
Not once.
“Shit, crap, shit, crap, shit,” I chanted again.
“What do you say, Justice?” the lead singer prompted, his smile faltering, and I felt but did not look to see folks peering around to find out who he was talking about, spurred to curiosity not only at the man’s words, but at the mention of the name Lonesome.
Or who knew me and were just looking to find me.
“Don’t worry, sister, got my shotgun in the back.” I heard Krys decree and turned my head to see her moving out from behind the back of the bar.
I looked at her, shocked to shit that Jim-Billy had not lied.
She was heading for her shotgun.
“No!” I whispered loudly.
Shit, crap, shit, crap, shit.
Krys scowled at me.
“It’s good,” I decided verbally. “It’s time. It has to come out. It’s a great vibe. Might as well be now. I’ll do it.”
She kept giving me a glare that was also an inspection. “You sure?”
I was not.
“Sure,” I replied.
Krys’s eyes went beyond me to Lauren. “She ain’t sure.”
“Whatever, shut up, I’m going,” I said.
“Don’t tell me to shut up,” she snapped.
I could not do this with Krystal now.
So I didn’t.
I looked through Lauren, saw Jim-Billy watching me and felt his hand grab mine and give it a squeeze as I walked past him and heard the stilted clapping that got less and less stilted, stronger and stronger, until there were a couple of hoots and a couple more hollers as I took my first step on stage.
I smiled my stage smile, giving handshakes to the band, getting their names, feeling them move close in a huddle and one of them handed me a guitar.
Then he handed me a pick.
“Extra,” he said. “Amped you up. You’re good.”
Fabulous.
“‘Chain Link,’” the lead singer declared. “Vibe’s for rompin’ stompin’ but it would be fuckin’ amazing, Justice, doing ‘Chain Link’ with you.”
He was jazzed. I saw it. He was beside himself he was standing onstage with a Lonesome.
But no way in hell I was doing “Chain Link.” I didn’t want to let the guy down, not any of them, but that was just not happening.
“This vibe, this bar, boys, I got a better idea,” I told them.
They huddled and they must have more than known me because they were all fired up to give up “Chain Link” to do what I always did at my own gigs.
An homage to my mom.
I pulled the guitar strap over my head, settled it on my shoulder.
I moved to the mic stand, adjusted it for my height.
The boys moved to their places.
I looked out at the crowd and put my mouth to the mic.
“Hi. I’m Justice.”
Everyone shot to their feet, cheering and shouting, even if they didn’t know me, the word had gotten around from those who did.
Or they just felt it.
Onstage, Jerry, Johnny, Justice, it just seeped out of us.
No holding it in.
Shit, crap, shit, crap, shit.
“Gonna give you a little bit of what my dad Johnny gave to me and do it through some songs my mom loved,” I told them.
More cheers.
I looked down to the guitar, took the pick to a few strings.
Standing on that stage in front of that crowd, the nothing notes flowed out of the amp.
And right through me, filling me, saturating me, adding something to my system as integral as water, calories, oxygen.
When I felt that—a feeling that was like a lost limb had grown back, or four of them—without hesitation and with a need I’d denied for half a decade, I shot a glance over my shoulder at the band, turned back to the mic, put my fingers to the frets, played two notes and sang three words into the mic…