Failing Upward

Chapter 3 (part 1): Que Sera, Sera

The Road House. A dive built out in the middle of nowhere. Cornfields and forests and a small lake surrounded it.

Still for being remote, the bar attracted students from two nearby colleges and a university, and during the summer months, the bar still managed to pull in a lot of locals along with the die-hard year-round college crowd. Built on scenic Pine Lake, you'd think the owners would keep up the property better. Still, taxes would increase if the place looked too nice. Maybe it was a way around the system.

The outside of the building was constructed from old field stone and peeling stained pine planks resembling a huge hodgepodge cabin. The sign in front needed repair and paint as well. The inside was no better--pine wainscot walls lacquered with the quaint veneer of decade's old cigarette smoke. The ceiling's rafters, constructed of the same dark pine, were low. So low that Bill Wiggins, our skinny, six foot plus lead guitarist had to crouch and duck them when he was on stage or he'd hit his head. His solution? Jump out on the floor and play.

The locals and college kids loved Ol' Bill. When he jumped out on the dance floor, they liked to play air guitar next to him. Bill's odd ball sense of humor got in the way on occasion--like when he said something off-color to one of the campus hotties. Sometimes they get offended. Most times they'd just met up with him after the show. It never failed to amaze me--if you were a guy in a band, you could look like Quasimodo and still get laid on a regular basis if you wanted. Not that Bill was Quasimodo, just that he's not that good looking, and he's kind of an ex addict; he was balding with deep eyes that said "I'm a creeper." Women wouldn't give him a second look on the street--or if they did, they'd run in fear. Frankly, he looks like a homeless guy. On stage--or at the Road House off stage--he suddenly became as attractive to them as Benedict Cumberbatch.

Mary and I got there after the band began warming up for their first set. Bill was at it already: some cute blonde was sticking her 34C's in his face with him on his knees cranking out the jams and inhaling her cleavage like it was ambrosia. I walked by Bill and waved. I went and leaned against an amp, scoping out a good place for us to sit. Since there was no "backstage" at the Road House, we were limited to the audience. There was a spot in the front with a group of college boy regulars who were more than happy to ogle Mary for the evening.

"Hey, John," yelled, oh... what's his name? After a while they all looked the same--college boys with the perfect white teeth and scrubbed faces. The guy was kind of a dick. "Heard you were in some car accident. How are you?" His eyes along with the rest of the table, never left Mary, who wore a slinky, red dress, gold belt and pumps. Was it her fault she was a penis magnet?

"Yeah, I was. I'm better," I yelled back. The guy completely ignored me and pulled a chair out for Mary to sit down in instead. I pulled a chair up from the next table and sat down, wincing. I had nixed the painkillers earlier in the day so I could have a few beers. Maybe I should have nixed the beer instead.

"You look like shit with those black eyes," the college boy said and shook his head toward the stage. "Your band sounds great tonight. Of course not as..." I strained to hear the rest and didn't catch it. Sitting next to amps wasn't conducive to good conversation.

As normal, the dance floor was empty during the first set. Only large quantities of beer and hard liquor give most guys the nerve to ask women to dance. The crowd hadn't reached saturation.

I decided to check out the reason why I'd come. My eyes pulled to the stage. I studied the guy who was subbing for me. Not bad. I couldn't decide yet if I'd anything to worry about, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Shit.

"Want to dance?" Anderson stuck his face near mine.

"Fuck you," I answered. "You're not funny."