Being Alive

Charlie

Charlie Barber had to admit—he spent too much time in this theatre district bar. It was located down the street from the rental space that housed the Rep, his little struggling theatre company. The bar was convenient, warm, cheerful, and it meant he didn't have to go home to his sparse apartment. He'd once had a beautiful walk-up with his now ex-wife, but he could no longer afford such a grand space. His company had been gutted by the time he spent on the West Coast and he was literally starting over.

Swiftie's became Charlie's home away from home. He didn't really drink or smoke much, just one, maybe two Johnny Walker's when he stopped in. He refused to devolve into drunken sorrow each and every evening.

His therapist thought going out after work was a step up from the isolation and crippling depression that had gripped Charlie when he arrived back East. He drank his one—sometimes two—drinks, enjoyed talking to the bartender or waitstaff, and then went home to fall asleep on his couch in front of the quietly playing TV.

It was on such a night that he saw her for the first time. It was raining like crazy out and Charlie was averse to going home in the mess. He stayed longer than usual in his favorite booth by the little stage with its piano and microphone. He once had sung a song there while members of the Rep company had watched.

He laughed to himself, thinking about it. What a horrible time. His divorce had been so ugly.

Taking another sip of his watery whiskey, Charlie saw that the open mic session was about to start. He had nothing else to do, so he decided to stay.

The manager was drawing up the list of participants in the corner. The piano player took a seat and played a couple of notes to warm up. Charlie watched while participants and onlookers clustered around tables. The manager added another two mics to the stage and tested each one. Finally, he stood in front of one and announced the name of two individuals. They stood up and consulted with the piano player, then took their places at the mic. They sang a lively tune that Charlie didn't know. It was all right, for amateurs. Charlie shrugged mentally—he was not directing anyone tonight.

Another few singers performed—and then that's when she came up to the mic.

Most of the participants demonstrated strong stage presence and sang confidently. But this woman seemed different somehow. She wore a light green dress with soft pink flowers on it, tied in the back. Her hair was straight chestnut brown, except for a deep wave in front on one side. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and her lips and cheeks were pink. She was excited and nervous.

She was also lovely. Charlie drew in a deep breath. He hadn't seen such a pretty woman in a long time—or maybe he just didn't bother to notice.

"I'm Rey Johnson," she said softly into the mic. "And I'm here to sing Sondheim's Being Alive."

Charlie blinked. That was the exact song he'd sung in this bar for his friends and co-workers.

The piano player hit the opening bars of the song. Rey opened her mouth to sing.

Charlie's eyebrows shot up at the sound.

It was awful.

Rey was enthusiastic, for sure, but... but... she could not sing. Not at all. Her voice was off-key and strained, even though she was clearly enjoying herself.

She got into the song further. Charlie didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or plug his ears. He pressed his lips together to stop himself from... what? Having a real emotional reaction, as he hadn't in two years? Yeah.