It only took five words for Will to convince Hyde to join him: “I’m quitting tonight. Wanna go?”
Will tugged the bottom of his open blazer. He sported his fedora for the last time. It was early May, but Boulevard Street was already littered with bar-hoppers like a mid-July night.
Stack Mattoon was checking IDs outside Big Blue’s. Will nodded to the beefy bouncer; he nodded back and waved them in.
The hair on Will’s arm stood tall with a single glance around the bar. “This place is a powder-keg,” he said.
It was impossible to walk to Marsh’s office without brushing against a half-dozen patrons. Starting at the bar, there was Stanley Bright drinking the cheapest beer on tap. To the right of the office door was a band of men howling and buying beers for their soon-to-be-married buddy, tipping the waitresses’ cleavage and gladly accepting playful slaps. In the back corner was a group of businessmen (the same from Easter Sunday?) chatting quietly, probably about the day’s nine-to-five banality. A birthday bash came next; the twenty-one-year-old boy wore a fedora similar to Will’s. He was surrounded by six friends pounding their fists on the table and chanting, “Drink motha fucka, drink motha fucka, drink motha fucka, drink!” The boy dropped a shot of Vodka in his beer and downed the depth-charge to the cheers of his comrades. Will suspected the boy was one drink away from slipping on his own puddle of vomit and he saw a bit of Billy not-too-deep beneath the surface. In the center of the room, three tables had been pushed together for a bachelorette party. The bride-to-be wore a wedding dress and tiara and her skin was covered from face to arms to chest to legs with boys names in black magic marker. The girls were the calmest group in the room but their eyes never left the bachelor party in the shadows.
“I need you tonight, Will. It’s Friday!” Marsh pointed out the open office door. “I’ve got three parties! They’re bar hoppin’ but I’d like ‘em to crash here. For that to happen I need entertainment. Just finish your shift tonight and I’ll double your pay.”
“Not anymore,” Will said, rapping his fingers on the desk. “I already spoke with Duane and he’ll finish off the night.”
“We love you here, Will. You’re easy-going and the best damn piano player I’ve ever met. If it’s a raise you want, you’ve got it.”
“It’s not about that.”
“I’ll let you play your songs. Two... three songs per night. You write ‘em and you play ‘em here.”
“Fact is, Marsh, I just don’t need the money.”
“You never needed the money. What’s going to be your outlet if you leave? I know William Carmel... If you’re not playing my piano, it’s only a matter of time--”
“This was never an outlet. You’ve been good to me.” Will removed his hat and placed it on Marsh’s desk. “I’ll stop by sometime.”
Marsh snatched the fedora and frisbeed it across the room.
(Live the life you’ve imagined!)
Will joined Hyde outside the office door. “Sit with me,” he said. He meandered to the bar, sighed hard and plopped on the stool. He cocked his head and took in the drone of the crowd and Duane’s easy melody.
“Can I buy you a Coke?” Hyde asked, brushing the stool for crumbs until it was clean enough to sit.
“Shot of Gin, please Milly.” Will said as if Hyde didn’t exist.
“No-can-do, Mr. Carmel.”
“Call me that again, Milly, and I’ll tell everybody your real name. Now pour me a gin.”
YOU ARE READING
The Brandywine Prophet
General FictionSuburban life has turned William Carmel from a drug-fueled creative prodigy to a gentle husband and father. When the voice of God commands him to construct a million-dollar amphitheater on the hill behind his home, the budding prophet obeys and unle...
