Downtown I browse in record and bookstores. I buy a copy of Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? by Raymond Carver. I’ve always meant to read him and the title makes me think what an idiot Will is.
After a burger, I come across a flyer in a record store called Streetlife. It’s for an open mic music night at a bar down the street called the Blue Lagoon. I might not sing like Kurt Cobain, but playing guitar always makes me feel better. I don’t suck as long as I keep it to four chords. I played in a band when I was at university in Bristol. We only ever did half a dozen gigs before splitting up. All I need to do is get hold of a guitar.
The Blue Lagoon is a dive bar. There’s a tattooed girl with black hair and dark red lipstick, standing outside in a black vest, smoking. She looks me up and down with bored indifference. I’m pretty sure in jeans and a green flannel shirt I’m generic enough not to offend anyone. Inside has that funky smell of places where so many alcoholic combinations of drinks have been spilt that they’ve soaked deep into every available surface. It’s the kind of bar where there’s always a deal on shots. Tonight it’s $4 for a PBR and a shot of Jack Daniels or Jim Beam.
There’s a small raised stage at the back, and only a few more than a dozen people dotted at tables. I take a seat at the bar, order a beer sans the shot, and take out my book. I check the time on my phone and stare idly at the screen. I try connecting to the wi-fi to check Instagram and spend a couple of minutes playing with it before giving up.
As the place starts to fill, two girls take up seats along the bar from me. A tall, attractive blonde with long wavy hair loose to her shoulders, who has an understated hippy thing going for her in a short summer dress. All she needs is flowers in her hair. She has a sticker-covered guitar case and looks like she can sing. She’s all guitar chords and songbooks, sunshine and sadness. With her is a shorter, slim brunette with a bob cut that hangs long at the front and tapers at the back. She’s dressed in jeans and a loose black strappy top, and she is quietly beautiful. Her face reminds me of a picture I saw of Vivien Leigh. There’s that same spark, which would light up any room, and my heart skips a beat.
I spend too long looking her way, and this doesn’t go unnoticed. It causes the face of the brunette to redden, and she brushes her hand through her hair.
This amuses the blonde girl who beams while looking straight ahead in a practised stare as they sit down. I do my best to smile and look cool. What I perform is more of an awkward wooden nod. While the blonde smiles, the brunette looks my way and purses her lips. She gives me a small half-smile, no more than a slight non-committal inflexion, and it completely sucks me in. Of course, I don’t say a word. I return to my beer, I check my phone, and I open Raymond Carver. I give the impression that I am reading rather than sadly sitting.
A guy with big curly hair, little round glasses and one of those barely-there goatee beards done to a point appears on stage. He announces that the sign-up sheet is up for the night and open to anyone before the official bill. He reads out a few names of those playing tonight; one is someone called Josie something. There’s a round of clapping, and the blonde at the bar lifts her hand. I figure this is my moment. I turn to the two girls and put on my best BBC British accent.
‘Sorry to interrupt, but could I ask a huge favour?’ I say, pausing to give them the time to tell me to get lost. The blonde tips her head, and looks at her friend who offers a small shrug, which I take as a sign to continue. ‘For reasons too boring to explain I want to do an open mic song, my only problem is no guitar. So, is there any chance I please borrow yours? I get it if that’s a no.’
That’s my pitch. Whatever happens next is in the hands of the gods. I could end up on that stage and sing my heart out or drink a beer or two and head for the door. My night could be over. As I wait for an answer, it feels like fate has been twisting all day long, from the moment Will announced that ‘our paths diverge’. Maybe it will continue to twist now, each turn tumbling in a new direction? The two exchange a look. There are layers of female non-verbal communication at work here as they silently weigh up my request between them. After a few moments, they turn back to me.
‘Tell me that isn’t a line,’ the blonde, Josie, says.
I could tell them about Will, and how tonight is all about sending him a message. Or at the very least make myself feel better about a crappy situation. But no one wants to hear some British guy sit
