Crazy in C by Noreen Todd, black coffee

The bartender gripped the baseball bat.

            “You know I can’t let you in here, Joe.”

            “I’ll sit in the corner. No one’ll know I’m here.”

             Pale blue eyes that could pierce your soul softened like water in a rain barrel. The bartender sighed, unable to resist the vulnerability so out of place on the face etched with hard knocks and steely resolve.

            “Okay. But just coffee. I’m still finding bits of your guitar between the bottles. One peep from you and I’ll go after you with this bat.”

            “You won’t have any trouble. I’ll take that coffee black.”

            Joe eased into the back booth near the restroom. Sewer gas mingled with the smell of stale beer. He removed his cowboy hat and ran his fingers through his long black hair, loosening the tie that bound it. A fleeting memory of hair cascading over his face as he leaned in for a kiss. Two silken hands raking it back so she could see his eyes. She had mocked them. Not enough color there to let anyone in. Ghost eyes, she called him. He shook his head and slurped his coffee. Grimaced. It tasted older than his worn boots.

            In the background, guitar cases snapped open. Fiddlers practiced jigs. Guitar strings rumbled into tune. The open mic began.

            Joe kept his back to the stage. The first player wailed out a Willie Nelson song. Joe’s shoulders relaxed to the familiar tune. His fingers twitched against imaginary strings. The next player got up and then another. No turn for him tonight or any night since he smashed his guitar. He grimaced at the memory of wood splintering against the bar. Guitar strings screaming a final angry chord. Her terror filled eyes as the wood shattered towards her perfect face. The face that another man’s hand had caressed.

            He slid towards the edge of the booth. He would sneak out. Hug the wall, keep his eyes low. No need to engage with the voices he recognized. No need to see the fury reflected from their judging eyes.

            But then he froze.

            A nervous laugh vibrated through the mic. Shaky fingers strummed an out of tune guitar. They wavered on the G chord and failed the next. Another small laugh. An apology and a request to start again. She fumbled, her voice weak and a crack in it that broke his heart. He stood and met her eyes. Dark brown eyes that stopped his breath.

            Her lip quivered, “Joe.”

            He stepped forward. Her palm flew up with an emphatic stop. He paused but kept coming. The bartender crashed through the gate of the bar, bat in hand. Joe pointed to the guitar. “Let me play for you. I don’t want anything else.” That was a lie, but he hoped she believed him. The clinking of glasses and buzz of conversation stopped. The drone of the amp, the only sound as all eyes swerved towards her.

             She squinted at him and bit her lip. He removed his hat and looked down at his boots.

‘Crazy, in C,” she said.

 A grin flickered at the corner of Joe’s mouth, but her warning eyes erased it. He glided the guitar from her hand and slid the strap over his shoulder, then magically brought it into tune with a few turns of the pegs. He began the opening rift, and her clear perfect voice resonated through the bar.

Voice and guitar wrapped in an embrace. At the interlude, he took over with a guitar lick that danced like fingers down a spine. Her cheeks flamed and she looked away. He forced the strings into a plaintive bend that called out for her forgiveness. He led her to a perfect ending as the pain and longing in her voice hushed the crowd once again. Neither moved. He waited but she was a statue on the barstool. Eyes averted. He set the guitar against the wall and mumbled, “Thank you.”

            Outside he leaned against his truck, waiting for the sound of her step, her voice calling his name. He would beg her forgiveness. Tell her how they made beautiful music together.

A car ground gravel as it swerved from behind the building and tore down the road.

The back door.

            Hinges creaked on his rusted truck. He longed for the scent of her perfume mingling with the stale tobacco and sweat and oil-stained work clothes. He started the engine. The radio crackled on. Patsy Cline crooned “Crazy”.

About the author

 

       Noreen Todd has never lost her dream to write a novel and now, retired from a career in healthcare, is working on the final draft. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys playing the guitar and violin. She was recently published in Bright Flash Literary Review. She lives in Connecticut. 

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