Return to Oakpin(106)
The third band was four guys who looked like brothers; they all had identical razored goatees. They could sing. They started a reasonable, if slow version of “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” and when the three lead men met at the mike for the chorus, people listened. They got it all and changed the mood in the room for those minutes. Then they made the strategic error of singing a folksy ballad full of strange religious references. “God did a lot of stuff in that song,” Craig told the table when the goatees were through.
Then it was a two-man band—the Experts, they called themselves—and they tried to cover “Sweet Home Alabama,” which was a curious choice because they lacked the punch for it, and the guitar player was rusty and behind the lyric, and it emerged as a kind of tender credo, a dirge, which wasn’t unpleasant. After their second song, Bobby Peralta came up and announced a twenty-minute beer break, and the intermission was louder than the bands, and the room stood up and was at the bar four deep. The sound system filled with Johnny Cash singing “I Walk the Line,” the only one of his songs that would be heard all day. Frank came back from the men’s and said, “Armando Jensen is here. Somewhere.”
“Goddamned pennies in the urinal,” Sonny said.
“He does that?” Marci said.
“Everywhere,” Sonny said. “Some men won’t piss without marking the spot.”
“I can’t afford it,” Craig smiled. They were all speaking loudly, the room a roar.
Frank laughed. “He calls it his tithe.”
“Jimmy should write about this place. There’s some characters.”
“He did,” Mason said. “And you’re looking at them.” He lifted his coffee cup. They all touched every glass. Mason showed the group his hands, which were trembling, and said, “Look. This is very fine. I’m nervous.”
“It has been a long time,” Frank said, “but nobody’s paying attention, so we’ll be all right.”
Shirley Stiver appeared through the mob, dragging a younger man by the hand. She was done up proper in a golden western dress with tiny beaded fringe along the scalloped pockets. Her partner was all denim, the new shirt stiff, and he shook everyone’s hand.
“Your honor,” Frank said, “out among the people.” He said to Mason, “Tom’s the mayor.”
“I’m undercover,” the man said.
“And out of town,” Frank added. “Good to see you.”
“When do you guys play?” Shirley asked Mason, tousling his hair.
“Too soon,” he said. “You’re going to want to get a drink, more than one.”
“Break a leg, Oakpine. We’re working the room.”
“Everybody’s working this room,” Mason said.
“And Shirley,” Frank called to her, as the couple moved back into the crowd, “I already broke my leg. We’re just going to make some noise and stay out of the weather.”
The milling around didn’t really stop after the break, as the room had filled even more now. All the latecomers out of the dark shook off snow in the entryway and called out to their friends. The next band was called the Cutbank Cowboys, and they had some difficulties, stopping their first number right in the middle so somebody could hand the bass guitarist a glass of whiskey. They tried to start over, and there was hooting, and Bobby Peralta came up and said, “Just go to your next song.” The drinking musician looked at Bobby and took the microphone and drank and said, “I’d rather have this glass of jack than the goddamned trophy, Mr. Peralta.” He was drunk and got a huge cheer by his remarks, so he added, “Besides, we are filing a protest. Are there any lawyers in the house?” This got a huge cheer as well. He drank again and dropped the empty glass and said, “Goddamned lawyers!” This raised the roof, and Mason called out, “Amen!” The Cutbank Cowboys finished with “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” and the dance floor was shoulder to shoulder.