The Texture of Glass

The place was far more dark and musty than he remembered, or he noticed it more since his senses had cleared. Barely in the door, he got a sharp whiff of alcohol and nearly turned right back around. But not touching alcohol himself was only half the battle. He had to be able to do this, to hang with his buddies, to be able to see others drinking, to smell it, and not give in. It was the next test.

Maybe he wasn’t ready. The urge to go straight to the bar and grab a drink was too strong.

Still, there was something comforting about the old place with the scratched up wooden bar top, water-stained wooden tables, and the wood plank floor that was so well-used the planks curved in from wear. James would love to think that Raucous had been there and walked on the same floor, sat at the same tables. In the middle of the western Pennsylvania boonies, though, he didn’t figure it was likely.

Sipping tea, unsweetened, which Davis also harassed him about, and studying people in the bar, as well as the bar itself, with different eyes than last time he’d been there, James thought it might be cool to buy the place and remodel, turn it into more of a social hangout than the seedy run-down cheap entertainment it was now. And draw better acts, screened and paid acts rather than open mic, or even screened open mic acts mixed in with others who did have talent and needed a place to start. A lot of them were good. None of the good ones returned to Sam’s, though.

After three not-so-good acts, a couple of which were local favorites he’d heard before and hadn’t like then, either, he was ready to go somewhere without singers who couldn’t hold a proper tune and guitarists who screwed up their chords and laughed about it. Davis and Gavin had been keeping their remarks low enough for only their table to hear, but after a few beers with whiskey chasers, they were getting loud, despite Bruce and James trying to hush them. Two girls had come over to ask him to dance and he refused politely by saying it was too early in the night, his usual reply until he got at least half lit and then always agreed. His buddies hassled him about refusing, but for now, he was trying hard just to hold it together. A couple more girls threw looks at him and giggled with their friends. Only a matter of time before they got up the nerve to approach, he figured. Between the childishness at his table and his urge to order beer, with the urge growing stronger the longer he was there, and girls hitting on him, which he both wanted and didn’t want, he had to get out.

“I’m out of here.” He stood and shoved his chair in. Good thing he’d driven his truck. Bruce might have a beer once he left, but he’d stay sober enough to get the other two back safe.

Waving off their objections, he headed toward the exit, got stopped by another girl who asked if she could buy him a drink, brushed her off, and was nearly out the door when the newest bait from the stage began to sing. Through the audience noise, including his buddies who were still at it, her soft voice came through everything and he turned to watch. The girl hesitated at the heckling, but she continued.

Wanting to hear better, he made his way back toward the open mic area, slowly, watching her, listening to her words. She was dressed boyish, in a black tank top too big for her and old jeans, topped by ultra feminine blue and purple scarves that matched the prettiness of her voice. Her hair was longish and kind of jagged, as much as he could see of it. Some brown color he couldn’t tell in the bar’s bad lighting, even with the spot lighting over the performing area that wasn’t much better. She wasn’t a looker at all, and it didn’t look as though she was trying to be. But the song was real, heartfelt, with beautiful soft strong words that came from deep within. Her voice was deep, lower alto but not contralto, and clear, with enough vibrato to create a rich tone but not enough to overshadow the voice and words. Her range was good. She shifted into falsetto seamlessly, without getting thin or tinny. Unique. It was a unique voice. And pretty, although the girl did not put off a “pretty” vibe. It was more like a “stay the hell away” vibe. Except for her voice. And the lyrics.

Her acoustic guitar, an older Martin, not too expensive, was tuned well and she played it well. Technically good, but without the heart that was in her voice. Due to nerves, maybe.

He crept closer, swerving tables and chairs shoved out in his path. Before he realized it, he was standing right in front of her and his buddies were heckling him instead, but he blocked them out to keep his focus on the singer. She was still somewhat faltering, nervous, with glances over at the stupid comments, and at him, also, questioning why he was so close, he guessed.

Davis yelled “get off the stage” in his drunken garble and the girl stopped singing, stopped playing. She gazed at the floor as though trying to decide whether to actually get off the stage. Chuckles flooded in from around the room, along with some kinder people trying to hush the rest.

“He’s an idiot. Keep going.” James caught and held her eyes. Light brown eyes. He was close enough to see them well. “Keep going.”

After a slight hesitation, she played a couple of measures and then started the song where she’d stopped.

People behind him told him to sit down, but he paid no attention. He was too drawn in. Not only to the music, but to her, to her eyes, her softness, her strength to put up with the idiots who likely couldn’t hold a tune if their life depended on it, to include his roommates, and keep singing, not even a cover, but her own music. He knew it was hers.

He turned long enough to tell Davis to shut the hell up, and returned his focus to the girl.

He recognized the next song. Infiniti. When You Tell Me. One of his favorites. Coincidence. It was a big song, not so surprising that she’d sing it. Back in the early two thousands, it was a big song. Fifteen-some years ago. Still, it was popular. Lots of bands covered it in local shows, or they used to. He had to wonder if the Raucous connection was intentional. She did it well. It meant something to her.

It was definitely more than the music pulling him. It was something inside her. How everyone in the crowd wasn’t standing there awestruck, he couldn’t figure. The girl was mesmerizing. Her voice needed some sharpening, some fine-tuning, but it was a pretty voice, luring. Unique. This one could do something in music.