Passerine

Chapter One

If you walk outside in between high noon and dusk, you can see the sun's light trying to reach
everyone at once.

It's the one perpetual thing about the Mississippi weather. It can be as wintry as a frosted frog or it
could be pouring dowa ain, and yet you always see the sun trying to poke her lights out a little bit.
It reminds me of the way that your inner psyche lives. In a way, your spirit is like a passerine.
Whether you float from place to place or flap your wings with purpose, you always fly away one
way or another. Your songbird of a soul lives her whole life singing the same song. The only thing
that changes is whatever the clouds are putting down on you.

What the clouds were putting down on me was a devilish amount of rain. My dad's friend's
saloon was just a couple blocks away, so it wasn't like I was hurting nobody. I had Gloria the
Guitar strapped to my back enduring a flood to her strings, but that was all the damage I could
count. The dirt road scratched the bottom of my brown boots like they had a right. The buildings
passed by like memories; the doctor's office, the inn, a bunch of other places I had never taken the
time to learn the names of. The town was just a bit empty, but it was just about suppertime; it
would've been plausible if everyone had gone home.

"Hey, kid!"
A voice broke the Arcady. I turned to the source of the voice a few feet over yonder. A
man was standing a few feet in front of me, leaning out of a door to a building made of maroon
bricks. He had dirty blonde hair and a beard longer than his suspenders.

"You're Amos' boy, right?"
To a lot of people, this wasn't that big of a situation. Some dads go out and make friends all
the time. But my father's friends never stayed. They always went somewhere; to find gold, better
jobs, or a better economy. I would've known if Dad had a friend that he could speak to in person,
rather than in letters. Regardless, I replied "Yes, sir,"
"What's yer name again? Ivan? Ivor?"
"Irving, sir."
He took a handkerchief out of the pocket of his khaki apron. He started wiping the grime buried
deep in the crevices of his palms. The glow of the streetlight made his pinched face look radiant.
"Irving, eh?" He continued. "I hear you playing down at Mink's." I suddenly became very
conscious of the oak wood instrument hanging from her pouch.
"Yes, sir. Four nights a week, six o'clock."
The man pulled a bronze pocket watch from the same pocket as the kerchief. His sunken
eyes squinted trying to read the time,
"5:48," he thought aloud, "You best be getting on your way, son."

He studied me with an intensity that wasn't in his eyes when I first saw him peeking out of,
presumably, his shop. It was like he had an inferno behind his eyes that seeing me set ablaze. But it
wasn't a bad inferno; it was the kind of anticipation you find in the eyes of someone who just
bought a lottery ticket. Well. There I go again. My sister says I think I'm too important in other
people's lives, that I don't affect strangers as much as I think I do.

Other than his cordial persona at the beginning ot our very awkward interaction, I had no reason
to believe anything else than that I was just another stranger he saw that day.
"Isaac? You alright there?" The voice of the man snapped me out of my paranoid cyclone. "Yes, sir.
I best be leaving." I replied, not taking the time to correct him that my name, in fact, was not
Isaac.
He nodded briefly before closing the door to his building and disappeared into the dark brick
building. I lingered for a moment, before starting back on my way to the saloon.
A few minutes later, I stood before the glorious sign of Mink's Saloon. The incandescent glow of the
sign in the early twilight made it feel like I was standing before Saint Peter. The door swung open
to reveal my dad, standing in all his glory with his brown trousers and simple navy smock. His hair
was untrimmed but styled.
"Irvin', where you been?" He asked.
"Got stopped by one of your friends. Said he heard me play."
My dad's brow furrowed like a seed in the dirt. "Which'en was it! Vinny? Silas? Didn't know none of 'em was in town." Dad certainly had a lot of friends, but very few of them ever stayed in town very long. He had Mink, the owner of the saloon, and that was
about it that were within reach.
"Nope. Man in the brick building by that inn place." I replied.
Dad's eyes widened, but only for a split second. Then, he was back to his regular industrial worker
expression. "Alright. Well, Ida and Bill are inside waiting for you. Why don't you go get
settled!" Dad's light brown hair fell in front of his face as he shook his head.
"But who was that stopped me? You know'em" The sound of a voice crack was evident in my prying,

"No, I don't." Dad's eyes darkened, "And I don't want you knowing him either." He said to me, sternly.
Dad meant it, you could tell by his tone. "But how'd he know you?" I asked again, "How'd he
know me?" I must've looked pathetic because Dad did not look very pleased. "Irvin', I don't know.
I don't like that a man I ain't ever seen before knows mine and my son's name." Dad put his
hands on his waist and for a moment he looked exactly like Ida. "But what if"
"Irvin', get inside and play your pesky lil' heart out."
"Yes, sir." I took a shaky breath and paced towards the entrance.
I opened the door to Mink's place, taking in the sight of all the people: There were men at the bar,
having drinks and laughing. There wete people at tables conversing. It looked like someone's idea
of fun. But I made my way to the slightly risen stage on the eastern side of the bar and pulled out
my songbook from the satchel on my back. My songbook was handmade from one of my sister's
childhood dresses and parchment from the factory Dad worked at. I took time to run my fingertips
over the soft cover before setting it on the music stand. Gloria rested on the floor while leaning
against the chair; a risky position, I'm aware.

I noticed that it had gained the minor attention of some people in the room. A man glanced at me
every so often with an expecting look in his eye, another was eyeing Gloria like she was a pile of
gold. I was used to attention; I had been playing for Mink's since I could hold a guitar. But I
opened mny songbook, turned to the page I knew well, and grabbed Gloria. I caught my sister Ida
looking at me like she expected a flood to flow out of my throat, her husband Bill next to her
already on his third whiskey. Under the stares of all the men (and Ida) in the bar, I hesitantly put
my fingers on the strings and played a G chord.
Singing came easier than walking, taling, or eating. Since I was 7 years old, melody after melody
just came to me. The notes fell out of my mouth like the floodgates had been opened. The song
was my favorite, the one I always opened my humble saloon shows with. It felt like I was returning
home after a month-łong trip. Performing with Gloria had always bandaged the wound, no matter
how hard the times were down in the southland.The men at the bar, tables, and at the door
chanted along to the folk song of generations.
And they cheered. I had heard their cries so many times, but I still felt like I had dug a chest of
gold. I was playing in a bar in Northwest Misissppi, but for a split second, I was playing in he
biggest concert hall. This happened every show, and it was like a euphoria from heaven.
And then, song after song later, it was over.