The sign on Duffy's had read “FRI LIVE BLUEGRASS” all week. I planned Friday around it.
I walked the half block to Duffy's around 8:00 and went in. Duffy was doing good business; they usually do on Fridays, when all the country folk and country wannabe city slickers and drug store cowboys show up for redneck kareoke.
I usually stay away from Duffy's on Fridays. I'm no fan of modern “country” music. Like Mojo Nixon sang in Lets Go Burn Ol’ Nashville Down, “Country ain’t got no flutes!”
There were two homely girls tending bar. I asked one when the band started. “9:00.” So I walked home for a much cheaper beer and listened to a little Zepplin.
My daughter had the new old car, which I wasn't going to need anyway. I walked back to Duffy's a few minutes after 9:00 and ordered a mini pitcher. The band was already playing.
Three ancient, white haired fellows were playing and singing. One played guitar, one a banjo, and the third played washtub. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone playing that quaint old instrument before.
For those of you younger than my father, and those older than him from the city, this particular stringed instrument is made from an old fashioned galvanized steel washtub, a broomstick, and a piece of thin clothesline, aircraft cable, or something else to make the string from.
They played for half an hour or so, and sounded pretty good. They took a break, so I walked over to their table and made a request.
“You fellows know an old song called Rollin' In My Sweet Baby's Arms?”
They were just plum tickled that somebody had asked. “Well, yeah, we know that'n.” They hopped up and grabbed the microphone. “Hey, folks we got a request!”
They played it, and went for another twenty minutes or so and took another break. After a fifteen minute break, the guitar player and banjo player packed up their instruments and left.
The kareoke DJ started up. I finished my pitcher and left, and walked on downtown to Dempsey's for acoustic night. I had drank the pitcher pretty fast, and was a bit tipsy.
Dempsey's was completely uneventful. I didn't meet any characters, or women. I was actually pretty bored with the normal Dempsey cartoon characters, which had come out with that one last beer at Dempsey's. I decided to walk home and watch the trails from the cars' taillights, maybe sit on my porch and listen to the noise of the night. I'd about given up looking for sex.
A little more than halfway home, Holly Wood from the movie Cool World stepped out of the shadows. Not as shapely, not as pretty, darker complected and darker hair, but Holly Wood nonetheless. “Hey baby,” she offered in a voice much more cartoonish than the movie, “want your dick sucked?”
“Uh, I'd love to honey, but I spent all my money at the bar.” Actually, I probably had ten or twenty bucks but forgot I'd left early. Usually I don't have any money left when I go home.
“No money at all?”
“I might have some change...”
“How much you got?”
I dug in my pocket. "Maybe fifty cents.”
“OK, that’ll do!”
Nobody but a cartoon character from Springfield would be that cheap, I’m sure.
No, I don't blame you for thinking I made it up. I barely believe it myself.