the adventures of shady

I was at the bar last night to play in a songwriter’s showcase (where I would later confess that I’m not so sensitive after all). Of course, I over estimated the amount of time it would take to get down there, and got there early.  With time to kill, I pulled up a stool and started watching some ESPN – not because I was particularly interested in what was on the screen, but because I just didn’t want to talk to anyone at that moment.

There comes the inevitable time when at a bar by your lonesome you hear “Is this seat taken.”  No other words can shatter a sense of peace and sanctity as effectively. This skinny fellow sits down next to me.  We'll call him...Shady, because that's what he was.   He started talking to the guy at his right, kicking off a conversation punctuated with many "I'll tell you what"s and "buddy"s with the occasional "son" thrown in for good measure.  I learned Shady's friend - we'll call him Weirdo with the Long Dangling Earring and Bizarre Haircut – finally got rid of his van of fifteen years by conveniently driving it into a tree.  Nice.  The Dread Pirate Ketus was really messed up.  Totally hammered.  He turned to Shady and stated that it was time to go pick up dinner for the wife and kids, and with great flourish, he stumbled away.

The next logical event occurred.  Shady turned and started talking to me. And talking to me.  And talking to me. And not shutting up.   Shady had just gotten out of his alcohol rehab meeting.  He was in dire need of a drink.  In the space of our little chat, he ordered two kamikaze shots (for himself) and multiple beers.  All the while, telling me about his twenty-four year old girlfriend who is using him for his money.  Mrs. Shady does not put out nearly enough, but he loves her.  He was going to do the right thing and stick it out.  Thank god.  Love is alive and well in Silver Spring.  The conversation then took a tangent where I learned that Nighthawk is the greatest band ever.    He went back to the subject of Mrs. Shady.  She calls him sugar, he calls her brown sugar.  The drink stirrers that I had jammed into my ear canals did not serve as an effective hint that I just didn’t feel like talking.

In the end of the conversation, which miraculously did not involve a bullet or kerosene, Shady gave me his card and promised me, should I call him, I’d be hooked up with some kick-ass seafood down at his crab shack.  You know, where he makes all the money that brown sugar is using him for.  But really, he loves her.