The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02

"You just hold tight, Lou," Ferlin called out to a heavyset man with a crew cut leading his wife toward the door. The man stopped. "Give him at least two or three songs before you decide that my original instincts were correct on 'ole Mark's talents, huh?"

The man nodded and cried out, "I'll give him two."

"Fair enough. So if you'd all please put your hands together for a man making his debut in our fine little establishment."

The tepid clapping was better than I expected. Ferlin stepped back from the mic and leaned over and whispered in my ear. "I want you to drop these fuckers, got it? Drop 'em."

Then he gave me a big grin and a sharp smack on the back. I grinned in response, watched him step off the stage and disappear into the crowd, then looked over the sixty or so expectant faces waiting for me to try and fail.

Instead, I smiled and slowly started playing the intro to what I figured would be a decent opening number. Twenty seconds later, I stepped to the mic and hit the key perfectly with the opening lyrics.

"Well I left Oklahoma/Drivin' in my Pontiac/Just about to lose my mind.

I was going to Arizona/Maybe onto California/Where the people all live so fine."

The crowd hesitated at first, then I saw some foot stomping, and by the time I hit the instrumental break after the first chorus of Tulsa Time, they were cheering and whistling. Even Lou Whatsisname moseyed up to the bar and got him and little Missus Lou a couple more beers.

That's when I knew they wouldn't ride me outta there on a rail.

* * * * *

I took my only break at ten to eleven, and the place was wall to wall.

"Need a beer?" Ferlin shouted above the din to my right.

I shook my head. "No thanks. Just water."

He smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and pushed his way through the crowd toward the bar.

The crowd pretty much parted for me as I made my way toward the front door to get some fresh air. There was the occasional pat on the back, head nod, nice job, and such, but mostly they were talking and drinking and waiting for the break to end so they could get back onto the dance floor.

"You're a man of many talents," I heard someone almost shout into my ear as a hand fell on my shoulder.

It was the short, washed out one, Whitney.

I gave a tired smile. "Thanks."

"Goin' outside?"

I nodded.

"Mind if I tag along?"

"Sure."

She pushed through the crowd lining the bar and put her drink on the bartop, then turned to follow me out.

I stepped out and looked up at the stars, enjoying the sharp, icy air as it cooled me down.

"I was serious," she said, her voice louder than normal. Welcome to sudden quiet after a roomful of noise. "I really am sorry about that comment yesterday."

"Me, too," I said. "I was way out of line."

"I had it comin'."

I didn't say anything, just tried to cool down. The lull in conversation seemed to make her nervous.

"You . . . uh . . . you're really good. Seem to know a ton of songs and all."

"Used to play in a band back when I was still in school."

"Why'd you quit?"

"Marriage and a career kinda got in the way."

"They'll do that to you sometimes, I guess."

"I guess."

We were both silent for a few moments, and I turned to sneak a peek at her. She was looking up at the stars, her face lost in thought.

"I was right, wasn't I?" I asked.

She turned and looked at me. She gave me a hard look, her lips pressed with hesitation, then nodded. "I'm divorced and it was pretty much all my fault."

"How so?"

"The short answer or the long one?"

I looked at my watch. "Whatever you feel like tellin' in the next nine minutes."

She sighed, then turned back to the inky sky with its millions of pinpricks of light. "The short answer is I cheated on him. The long answer? We never should've gotten married."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not sure I ever really loved him."

That was like a slap to the face. I felt my arms start to goosebump in the cold, and a deep shiver ran from head to toes.

"I loved him, of course. But it was more respect and admiration. He was–he is–a good man. A great man. Solid, dependable, smart, good looking. He was everything a husband should be."

"But?"

"But there was never any spark."

"Then why did you marry him?"

"At the time, it seemed like the thing to do. I was mid-twenties; marriage seemed the thing to do."

"But why him?"

"He was comfortable. Easy to get along with."

"And it never blossomed into anything more?"

She turned and gave me a look of unbearable anguish. "It got worse. For me, at least. We had a little boy." She gave a bleak smile at the of him. "That kept me focused for a long time. Then my career, too. Between those, they kept me pretty busy."

"And?"

"And it just reached a point where I dreaded going home. It wasn't Luke, it was me. I just . . . other than a son, we really had nothing in common. We didn't want the same things, no shared hobbies, interests. Nothing."

"Except your son."

"Except Kyle," she agreed.

"You ever tell him this?"

She shook her head. "It's better that he thinks I was just cheating. That another man came between us."

"That's bullshit."

Her face took on a determined edge. "If I told him the truth–told Luke I'd been miserable almost since the get go, before we got married even–he'd lose all those memories."

"What?"

"Think about it, Mark. You look back on your marriage, you have happy memories, right? Memories where you were both in love and had fun and it was all roses and sunshine, right?"

I didn't say anything. Truth be told, I was seeing it all differently now. Sandy's motives and emotions were now all jumbled and murky.

"As it stands," Sandy continued, her eyes again on the stars, "Luke has memories of ten years of happiness while we dated and were married and only the last five or six months of pain and misery. I don't want to take that away from him. It's the one thing I can do. I don't need to shit all over his perceptions."

"And he doesn't suspect?"

"Occam's razor. He took the easiest, most direct explanation."

I pondered this, figuring she was right, at least insofar as she and Luke were concerned. The problem for me was that I was already questioning every memory I'd previously cherished. It was like someone had flipped the lens of the kaleidoscope, and now the daisies were dandelions. I didn't know what the real picture was.

"Time for you to get back," she said, bringing me back to the present.

I looked at my watch. "Yeah," I said, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "Sorry again."

She tried her best to smile, then turned back to the stars as I went inside.

* * * * *

Teddy Cooper stopped me on my way back to the stage.

"You're doin' real good up there, man."

"Thanks," I said, pleased with myself.

"You got anything original?"

"Like something I wrote myself?"

"Yeah."

I shrugged. "Sure."

"Why don't you play a couple?"

I looked from him, then back to the crowd already clearing the dance floor. "I'm not sure they'll want to– "

"Just one or two. Mix 'em in. Don't announce 'em as your own, they'll never know."

"Unless they really suck," I said.

He laughed. "Yeah, there could be that."

I shrugged. "I'll see what I can do."

* * * * *

Once I was back onstage and plugged in again, I looked over the crowd and saw Whitney come back in and look around for her drink. Rebecca handed it to her, and they both turned to look toward the stage.

Keeping my eyes on Whitney, I picked up the Taylor acoustic, popped a capo on the second fret, and leaned into the microphone. "There's a couple of really pretty ladies over there toward the bar with no guys around 'em buggin' 'em for a dance. I'm gonna play a little belly bumper here in about ten seconds, and I'm hopin' someone'll ask 'em to the dance floor before I get started."

I saw Rebecca laugh and take the first arm thrust her way. Whitney, on the other hand, seemed to shrink. Then a slim man in his early forties stepped toward her and extended his arm and, with only a slight hesitation, she took his hand and followed.

I plucked the strings with my fingers, and most everyone recognized the song right off. Her head on the man's shoulder, I could see her lips moving along by the time I reached the chorus:

"Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall/now all you've got to do is call.

And I'll be there, yes I will/you've got a friend."

* * * * *

"That was just friggin' outstanding, son," Ferlin was gushing as he stood behind the bar counting the receipts and putting stacks of cash into a small bank bag. "You packed 'em in and kept 'em here. Just amazing."

I was sipping a beer, my first of the night, while Marla and Denise swept and mopped and dragged a huge garbage can around to collect the empty bottles and cans strewn throughout the place. I took another chug and gave a weary smile. It felt good. I hadn't done this in a long time, and now I realized that I missed it. A lot. The playing, the crowd, the energy. Even just playing for bar crowds was fun if you could get in their groove and play what they wanted to hear and get them all happy and forgetting about their worries for awhile. I'd done that tonight. I hadn't wanted to stop, and Ferlin finally had to come on stage at twenty to two to announce one final song, then everyone had to start clearing out before the cops got there and shut him down.

"You hear me?" he said, suddenly standing directly across from me.

"Sorry," I said, turning to face him.

"I said, 'How much you want for playin' tonight?'"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"Don't work that way," he replied, his voice going low and getting serious. "You made me a lot of money. Got me out of a jam, too. You hadn't been here, this place would've been dead."

I shrugged. "No biggie. Don't worry about it."

He slid four hundred dollar bills across the bar toward me. "That's a little less than I'd have paid Golden Rodeo, but they're a whole band."

I looked at the money, then back to him. "I don't want it, Ferlin."

"You're taking it."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Take the goddamned money," Denise called out. "He ain't leaving 'til you do, and we need to get home."

I looked back and forth between Denise and Ferlin, a broad smile splitting my face. "Shut up," Ferlin said.

"So the two of you?" I asked.

"Used to be married," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Trying to get back together?" I asked, keeping my voice down.

"I can hear you two," she snapped. "And no, we're not trying to get back together. Just need to get laid is all. The both of us."

I laughed.

"What's so goddamned funny?" Ferlin said.

"Nothing. I just think it's . . . I don't know."

"What?"

"Really, Ferlin. I don't know. Just strange, I guess."

"Why?"

He was serious: He didn't think anything was even remotely strange about going home with his ex-wife to knock off a piece.

"You really don't see it?"

"No, I don't."

I chuckled, then reached toward the money. "Tell you what, I'll take this much. You keep the rest, but you're responsible for getting that equipment back to Teddy in the morning, okay?"

I left two of the bills sitting there, and Ferlin looked at them for a moment before shrugging and stuffing them into his pocket. "Fair enough. Which reminds me. Teddy wants you to call him tomorrow."

"What for?"

"Didn't say."

"You got his number?"

"In the book. Under Jenny's name. Jenny Cooper."

I finished my beer. "Okay then," I said. I stood, picked up my Taylor acoustic in its hard shell case, and went home to collapse.