by Lori Saltis
What should I spy but one of my comrades
All wrapped up in flannel though warm was the day.
I asked him what ailed him, I asked him what failed him,
I asked him the cause of all his complaint.
It’s all on account of some handsome young woman,
‘Tis she that has caused me to weep and lament.
‘Streets of Laredo’ is about a cowboy dying of a gunshot wound, but ‘Unfortunate Lad’ is about a rake dying of the clap. I sing along to the chorus with gusto.
And had she but told me before she disordered me,
Had she but told me of it in time,
I might have got salts and pills of white mercury,
But now I’m a young man cut down in my prime.
I have to admit, Likely Lad is a pretty good picker and the sound adds another dimension to our music. Uncle Christy isn’t stupid. Even if he can’t fetch me with the particular lad, he can draw in Bridie with musical talent. The song ends and Likely Lad glances back at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
I smile. I can’t help it. He’s not a bad sort and it’s not his fault my uncle is thrusting him at me. Then I chew my lip. I can’t slip up and show him even an ounce of interest or Christy will pounce. So I strut past him without a backwards glance and go to the microphone. Bridie and Kai don’t ask what I’m about. There’s only one song I sing solo and they know it well.
Bridie turns to Likely Lad. “A Pair of Brown Eyes by the Pogues.”
He strums the melody and I bite my lip. Okay, he knows his stuff. What he doesn’t know is why I’m singing. The song is about a battle-scarred soldier who lost his love, a brown-eyed girl. Now he roves the streets of Dublin searching for a pair of brown eyes.
I know the feeling. It’s a song I can truly sing from my gut. The violin solo is particularly poignant and I have to swallow back my emotions while listening. I gaze out over the audience who are swaying along to the melancholy tune. At the front of the bar, near the door, I spot a pair of round sunglasses, Lennon-style.
My heart lurches. I gasp and blink in case the bright stage lights are playing with my eyes. The crowd shifts and I can’t see him anymore. Bridie plays the opening to the next verse with more emphasis and I realize I missed my cue. I step away from the mic to clear my clogged throat before I sing again.
I spot the glasses again on a young man with dark hair. He could be Asian, but it’s hard to tell. Could it really be Lennon? No, impossible. Right? It’s been two years. Would he still be wearing those glasses? And remember the name of an obscure pub that I’d mentioned maybe once in our conversations? No, it’s not him. Just another dim reflection that I won’t chase after.
The song ends and I dip my head in thanks for the applause. When I look up, he’s slipping out the door.
“I have to use the loo,” I whisper to Bridie.
Her brow curdles. She’s tired of being stuck between the rock of Christy and the hard place of me. “Good. Cool your heels in there until you can behave.” Then she steps up to the mic with a bright smile. “The next song will be Conor’s choice.”
Likely Lad plucks a few strings. “How about ‘Red is the Rose’?”
He really does know his stuff. And I could care less. As they strike up the tune, I sidle along the edge of the crowd, away from the bathroom and toward the front of the pub. I’m out the front door and half expect to see him leaning against wall, waiting for me.
He’s not.
It’s after 10 p.m., but the street lights are bright enough for me to see up and down the block. No Lennon. There are a few people on the street, lingering in front of the restaurants after their late night dinners.
Then I feel it. I’m being watched. Lennon. He’s somewhere nearby.
I turn this way and that, scanning every doorway. Then I breathe in and exhale with a little laugh. What a ninny I am. Why would Lennon come here to see me? Even when he does return to San Francisco, would he bother to come see me? What we had was done two years ago. I need to move on.
The strains of Likely Lad’s reedy voice reach me.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows,
And fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any.
I hope he finds his red rose, but it’s not me. I’m not anyone’s fair lily or bonny lassie. That stuff and nonsense is for the sort of Strowler that walks the Glory Road. I’m Penny Sparrow and I walk the Wayward Way. Alone.
Copyright
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Lori Saltis
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