by Becky Wicks
2.
Conor
McFlannerys was recently named the number one place to meet single ladies by The Nashville Scene, so says Lou. She’s sitting here now at the bar, spinning her Corona round in a circle by the neck.
‘Pickles fried and served with a side of homemade Chipotle ranch dipping sauce,’ she reads from the bar menu and I watch as she nods her head of cropped, dark hair in contemplation. ‘Is that what people are eating here? Really?’
‘The burger has free bleu cheese crumbles,’ I tell her, ‘and the garlic parmesan wings are good.’
She frowns at me, flipping the menu down flat. ‘How come you’re not the size of a barn, eating this shit?’
‘I don’t eat this shit all the time,’ I tell her. ‘I have you to thank for that.’ I put an arm around my roommate, squeeze her close in her low-cut purple shirt, but she pulls away sharply.
‘Stop that. The girls will all think we’re together. I came here for a purpose, Conor.’ She straightens out her shirt.
‘I thought you came to hear me sing?’
‘That too, but throw a girl a bone. I need to get laid.’
‘It’s not a bone you want though, is it, honestly?’
She rolls her eyes, swigs the last of her Corona and slams the empty bottle down. ‘You need to get laid, too,’ she says, wiping her mouth right on the feather tattoo that starts on her thumb and sweeps across the back of her hand. ‘Don’t deny it.’
I feign ignorance before turning back to the bartender. Her nametag reads Peyton. I signal for two more beers. ‘Oh, come on,’ Lou carries on. ‘How long has it been since the un-amazing Grace let you into her panties for a feel?’
‘I’m not talking about this again.’ Our beers are placed in front of us. I feel my back tense as her words sting. She doesn’t know the half of what I’m dealing with but what she does know provides her enough fuel to tease me relentlessly.
‘Oh, can we get two Fireballs?’ Lou asks Peyton now. Peyton, I realize for the first time, is a pretty college student, probably - she looks like one anyway - dressed in black leather hot pants, fishnets and a cropped shirt. She reaches for the bottle and a shot glass.
‘Just the one, thanks,’ I tell her and Lou tuts loudly.
‘Loser!’
‘I’m playing a set!’ I drop two dollars on the bar, pull my Corona forward in a puddle of condensation and Lou sighs. She throws back the Fireball as soon as it’s served and turns to her other side to talk to a girl, who I think is probably straight. I throw a look at Peyton. She giggles and twirls her brown braided hair round a finger.
I listen to Lou strike up a conversation about the absence of nutrition in fried pickles and smile to myself in spite of her. I love that my roommate will talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. Living with her has been problem-free for the past eighteen months, aside from one incident with a chick she brought home, who tried to make off with my guitar in the middle of the night. I only heard her crashing about because I was still awake at four a.m, lost in yet another song I was writing. It was about Grace, as usual, though I never told Lou when she made me play it later. When we broke up the last time, Lou pasted a post-it note to the refrigerator that said: Cry over cuts and stitches, not sluts and bitches.
Grace isn’t a bitch and she’s a long way off being a slut, but when Lou doesn’t like someone, she really doesn’t like someone. Plus, I guess the shouting has kept her awake enough nights for her opinion of us as a couple to be pretty low.
‘Busy tonight,’ Peyton says, cutting into my thoughts. She’s pouring a PBR and I notice one of her oversized butterfly earrings has twisted into her hair. ‘I think you’re on after Tal... the harp girl.’ She hands the beer to a bearded guy in a leather jacket and cowboy boots but never breaks her gaze from my face. I nod OK, looking around the place and catching my reflection in the glass across the bar. I run a hand through my thick hair, across the stubble on my chin. I’m not nervous, per se, but I’m playing some new stuff tonight and I never know how it’s going to go down.
I’ve seen the harpist girl around before. She’s pretty good; cute too, though her voice can be a little squeaky. I catch myself. That’s not entirely fair. But when you see the same people working the circuit, you do start to pick out the reasons why you think they haven’t been signed yet – even though none of us have and most of us never will be. It’s a Nashville curse.
Lou’s sighing loudly next to me now. I notice the girl she was chatting to has walked straight into the arms of a tall guy who’s just come through the door. ‘It’s early yet,’ I remind her, nudging her shoulder. She pulls a face.
‘By best place to meet single ladies, they did not mean my type of single ladies, Conor,’ she says, signaling for another Fireball. I shrug. I probably could have told her that, but I know she’s secretly happy anywhere that serves alcohol and while McFlannerys is definitely not a gay bar, it’s definitely a place with a little of everything. It’s busier here than usual for a Friday night at seven thirty. The dark wooden floors are already streaked with a few spills and the photo booth in the corner has been flickering with some tourist’s attempts to look good in the cheap, ratty cowboy hats left out as props. The flat screens fixed to the dark red brick walls are showing country music videos, a Memphis Grizzlies game and what looks like scenes from the Tennessee Boat and Fishing Expo.
The door opens again and right on cue Tal walks in with her harp in its huge case. I almost jump down to help her. I know what it’s like lugging all this equipment round for every gig, but there’s someone else holding the door open now – a petite girl in jeans, a tight white shirt and brown ankle boots. Her long blond hair is tied in a ponytail and it’s bouncing around her shoulders as she helps Tal with the harp. They’re both laughing as the door threatens to shut on them.
‘Hot damn,’ Lou says, squeezing my shoulder and joining my gaze.
I pull away from her. ‘Hey, what if the girls think we’re together,’ I mock and she pulls me in close anyway, drops a kiss on my cheek just to piss me off.
‘Seriously now,’ she says into my ear, pulling me closer. ‘I haven’t seen the blond around before. Have you?’
I follow them with my eyes as they make their way through the crowd and put the harp down on the floor by the small stage. The girl in question looks around her as Tal busies herself with getting the instrument out and I watch her adjusting her shirt above the silver belt that’s looped through her tight blue jeans. The buckle, I can see from here, is the shape of a guitar. I almost shake my head at the cliché but she catches me staring and her bright blue gaze burns into mine from meters away, pushing all other thoughts from my head.
‘Earth to Conor,’ Lou says, waving her second Fireball shot in front of my face. I bat it away and she downs it, wincing at the burn. ‘Woah, where did you go there?’ she manages to say. ‘Want me to go talk to her?’
‘No, I do not,’ I tell her, seriously now. ‘Get yourself a love life, Lou, I can assure you it’d be way more interesting than mine.’
‘Well, you’re not wrong there,’ she sighs. ‘I think a stuffed toy would have a more interesting love life than you.’
‘Leave it, will you?’ I say and she holds her hands up, grins, draws a zipper across her lips and leans back on the bar on her stool, just as the first guy steps onto the stage and starts adjusting his guitar strap. When I look to the blond again she has her back to me. She’s standing between the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign and the chalked green Irish clover on the brickwork, watching him. Tal’s walking towards me.
‘Hey,’ she says, squeezing between my bar stool and the next one and smiling at Peyton. ‘Two Fireballs and two Brooklyns, thanks.’ She turns to me. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘I’m good,’ I say. I realize that while we know each other, we’ve never actually been introduced. Her eyes are caked in heavy eyeliner behind her glasses. ‘Decent crowd,’ I follow and she nods as Peyton hands the beers over and starts pouring the shot
s from a brand new bottle. ‘Conor,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘I’ve seen you around.’
‘You too, I’m Tal,’ she replies, shaking my hand. ‘You’re guitar and piano, right?’
‘Right,’ I say as she motions to Peyton’s twisted earring. Peyton pulls it out of her hair, blushes and says thanks.
‘Grace’s boyfriend?’ Tal adds suddenly, and her words take me surprise. The mic switches on; the guy on stage starts introducing himself and before I can reply, Tal picks up her shots and with her hands now full, hurries through the crowd towards the stage. I realize I’m pissed I never got to ask who she’s here with. Then I realize I probably shouldn’t drink any more beer. What does it matter who she’s here with? And how does she know Grace? It can’t be from any gigs – Grace hardly ever comes to gigs. Any time I spend doing my “thing”, she spends doing hers, hanging out with her horses on the farm, mostly.
For the next thirty minutes I watch the guitarist, whose four songs are country-rock. His cowboy hat is tipped over his eyes – a mistake, I think. There’s no connection with the audience. I feel bad for him. Not even five minutes in and people are chatting away like the songs he probably poured his heart into are just background music. My own eyes shift involuntarily to Tal and the blond. They’re chatting too, quietly.
‘This man needs to shoot himself,’ Lou says to my side, motioning to the singer. ‘Tell me you’re not gonna moan like him up there. I can’t even hear what he’s saying.’
I put a finger to my lips. I always try not to talk when someone’s playing a set. I hate when people do that to me. It’s true though - he’s kind of muffling his words and his face is still lost between his hat and the mic as he leans over his guitar and barely moves. I’m not surprised people have switched off. ‘How do you even know he’s moaning?’ I whisper, and she grimaces.
‘Course he is, look at him. He needs to get laid more than we do.’
I swig my beer to stop from laughing.
‘If you sing any shit like that, Conor, I’m dragging you out of here by your sexy little ear.’
‘I’d expect nothing less,’ I say and she sticks out her pierced tongue.
Lou’s in a punk rock band called Cat Skills. She plays bass but she doesn’t pretend she’s that great, or that the band will ever be signed, or famous. Mostly she’s happy just playing for kicks and working her job as a dietician and nutrition assistant to the rich and famous. The job not only gives her insight into people’s stupidly extravagant homes and lifestyles, but her thankful clients (the ones she’s not supposed to divulge but always does) are always giving her free tickets to big events and big-name concerts. She gets to go to loads of free ‘health’ events too, actually. Sometimes I’m her plus one.
Tal’s up next. The room falls quiet as she takes her place on the stage and the moaning cowboy helps her with the harp. No one says a word throughout the first song and even Lou’s quiet. She shoots me a look that says she’s impressed, and so am I. Tal’s improved since the last time I saw her. The way she plays that harp is kind of mesmerizing. She closes her eyes, does a lot of head flicking as her fingers move like lightning over the strings. Her songs are decent, too, though she needs more projection. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no critic; I’ve just been to thousands of shows.
When it’s my turn, I leave Lou talking to some college guy in a Tennessee Vols shirt and head for my Guild D-50 standard – my only go-to for acoustic sets. The keyboard is already set up on stage and a few people clap as I take my place. I swing the guitar over my shoulder and check it’s still in tune. ‘Thanks McFlannerys, for another great night in Ireland,’ I say, adjusting the A string. ‘Or the closest we can get to it here in Nashvegas. Hope you’ve all had your Fireballs! Peyton over there’s running through those bottles pretty fast.’
A girl who comes to all my gigs, called Candice, claps and whoops, waves a shot glass at me from over by the photo booth and I hold a hand up to her. She’s dressed in leopard print leggings, a red shirt and black cowboy boots tonight and I know she’ll be dancing on the bar before midnight. The later it gets, the more raucous it is in here.
‘I’ve got some new stuff for you tonight,’ I say, adjusting the mic stand a little more. I’m taller than the last guy. Candice whistles through her fingers and I notice a girl in pigtails slapping her shoulder to shut her up. I smile, drag the stool closer, look to the blond for a split second. She’s looking right at me intrigued now, leaning against the wall, still beneath the PBR sign. Something about her is kind of familiar. Tal’s at the bar again.
‘I’ll start with a little something to warm us up,’ I say, tweaking the bottom E string. ‘Kenny Chesney’s doing OK from this one. We’re may not be in Mexico but with those Fireballs running low over there, we might be onto the tequila soon.’ I strum the D chord, sink straight into the song Beer in Mexico and the clapping and toe-tapping and the occasional whistle hit my ears.
I always start with an up-tempo number to get people going. Already more people are watching me than the last guy, but by the time I reach the chorus I’m not really thinking about anything. I’m connecting with the audience; the odd grin, the odd look, but it’s another world up here. It’s me and the music. And the responsibility of doing it justice.
I say all but a sentence before launching into my own song. One I wrote the other week. One that now, in a room full of people feels as raw as when Grace walked out for the millionth time and the lyrics flew into my head. Everyone’s quiet now. The girl with the big blue eyes is watching me intently.
Our world is a battlefield
Where we both use words to harm
Two sides, no one knows who’s right
But we both wear equal scars
Disgraced
Look at what takes place
When our dreams and schemes collide
At first light, pull your armour tight
Cos there’s nowhere left to hide
Our love was a shelter
Now it’s the bomb that starts the war
Maybe we could warn the innocents in our path
If we could stop to ask
What all this fighting is for
Swan dive into all our lies
Swimming hard against our hearts
Hanging on, while it feels so wrong
Letting go’s the hardest part
Our love was a shelter
Now it’s the bomb that starts the war
Maybe we could warn the innocents in our path
If we could stop to ask
What all this fighting is for…
I’m vaguely aware of the lump in my throat that I have to ignore. I sing right over it like I always do, working through the emotions with the words and when I wrap up Battlefield and introduce another new one, it’s not just Candice who whoops at the back of the room. The blond, now with Tal back by her side is clapping furiously. I meet her blue eyes and something in my stomach jolts as I realize they’re watering. Is she crying?
‘Well, thank you so much,’ I say into the mic, putting the guitar on the stand and moving the stool over to the keyboard. ‘Good to see some new faces here tonight.’ She swipes at her face again. She’s beautiful.
I force my eyes away, sit down. ‘You’ll have to go easy on me, guys. I’m giving you the new stuff tonight. This one’s called Time.’ I put my fingers to the keys, take a breath, settle into the padding of the stool and start to play. Candice squeals. The melody soars through the speakers as our eternal battle sounds out yet again around the room; this time to a different tune, faster, only just, but just as hard. Just as therapeutic.
My shirt was too big
And the sleeves fell over your fingers
But you wrapped yourself tightly inside
Making sure your scent lingered
The moment I asked for it back was the moment you’d dance right out of my hands
And you’d sigh, pull my hair, kiss my mouth everywhere
With the same sweet
line
What's yours is mine
What's yours is mine
But there’s such a fine line
Between playing for keeps and living a lie
‘Cause what’s mine isn’t yours to be loved, then ignored
And I need more time
I need more time…
I let my eyes close and I’m surprised to feel tears sting the backs again, but it’s not just Grace or our inevitable break ups that are running through my mind up here now. It’s my brother, too. I’m singing one song, but now I’m thinking about the one I’m holding back.
Last time I tried to sing about him, people talked over it and I almost lost it. I never tried again, even though every week I itch to – just to release him – as if it would actually release him from my thoughts. For some reason the musical strands of my relationship are prime fodder for public consumption. I can bleed up here over Grace and feel healed afterwards. But Micah is one open wound that my music can never close.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the blond, swiping at her cheeks, looking from me to the floor. I stop, get up from the stool as the room erupts into a huge applause that leaves me speechless for a second. I have to force myself to voice my thanks back into the mic. I catch the girl’s eyes again. She’s definitely crying.
Tal’s whispering something into her ear now, tugging at her shirt sleeve, but she’s looking straight at me, ignoring her. Something makes my heart pound like a boxer at my chest as I walk back to the guitar, ready to pack it away. I lost myself in those songs. My head was all over the place as usual and I don’t even know where I went, exactly. But I know that girl came with me.
‘Good job, Conor, wow, man, hat’s off. You didn’t moan. You whined, very eloquently,’ Lou grins, coming up behind me and slapping my back in her usual way. ‘You made the whole fucking room cry. Everyone wearing mascara hates you.’ I turn to her and she high fives me. ‘Seriously man, everyone loved it all… even if it was all about her.’ She pulls a face. ‘Least she’s good for something. Listen, I’m out. It’s SINdustry night at Play - I’m gonna go scream-talk over drag queens singing Bad Romance. Wanna come?’