He sees us and makes a right-hand turn, muttering about checking the bathrooms, which only makes us laugh harder.
Hours later, much to my astonishment, I’m out of lemons—three whole bins of them—but the sweet tea orders keep coming, right alongside the beers and cocktails. Unc is stationed at the beer taps again and I’m running back and forth, up and down the bar, trying to keep up. As it turns out, he was right—two-dollar draft Thursday has nothing on live music night.
The pool tables are stacked, every seat has a butt, and the dance floor is full of people who are swaying more than two-stepping because there’s simply no room to move around the space.
And the infamous Bobby Tannen hasn’t even taken the stage yet.
Chapter 3
Bobby
“Thanks for coming out tonight. I’m Bobby Tannen.”
That’s the extent of my welcome speech because nobody wants to hear me talk, anyway. They’re here to listen to me sing, and I’m here to feed the monster inside me that needs this outlet.
Some folks have told me my voice is a gift from God, and maybe that’s true, but most days, it feels like slicing open my chest on stage and inviting every Tom, Dick, and Harry into my thoughts and emotions. It’s painful to do but worse on my own well-being if I don’t. Songwriting and singing are my sanity.
Maybe that’s true for the crowd too? Maybe the music gives people who can’t put their feelings into words a way to say what they can’t? I’d like to think so.
Unconsciously, my fingers work the frets of my guitar. Betty is both an extension of me and my best friend. The mahogany is warm beneath my touch, the strings dig into the calluses I’ve earned with hours of play, and the resonant twang is the soundtrack of my life.
I start my set list for the night, opening slow and strong with Strawberry Wine, tweaked slightly so it doesn’t sound like I’m losing my virginity to some dude in the backseat of his car. The crowd sways and sings along with the 90s classic, and I’m home.
I never would’ve thought I’d say that about being on stage. Once upon a time, I was shy and uncertain to the point of not telling my family when I was performing. I didn’t want them to see me. I needed a nameless, faceless, anonymous crowd that I could walk away from without any real care whether they liked the show . . . or me. But a few years ago, that changed.
Dad died.
Everything changed then. We lost the farm, literally. We sold it to the Bennetts, our neighbors, which should have been an utter and complete clusterfuck because we’d had a feud going on for years. As it turns out, that was Dad’s doing more than anything, and with him in the ground and not spewing his bullshit, we realized that the Bennetts are good people. So good that they kept me, my brothers, and sister on as workers when they bought our land, and over the last year, we’ve created a sort of adoptive, one big happy family situation with them and us. It’s weird as fuck but better than I ever thought it would be.
It’s good enough that the whole pack of them often comes hear me perform now, taking up a whole corner of Hank’s, being obnoxious with their hooting and hollering for more and generally giving me shit for being a soft-hearted pussy.
I love those fuckers, even if I don’t tell them. They know, same as I know they love me, or else they wouldn’t take the time to piss me off.
But they couldn’t come this evening, leaving me solo for tonight’s show.
After a couple of cover songs, I play a little shuffle riff and talk into the microphone.
“I was hoping you’d let me play a few of my own songs tonight too. Ones I’ve been working on, tweaking a little here and there. Y’all okay with being my guinea pigs and letting me know what you think?”
The crowd cheers back, and I hear a female voice call out, “I’ll be your guinea pig, Bobby!”
I’m not exactly sure what the hell that means, but I think she intends for it to be sexy. I smirk, my head tilted under the straw cowboy hat that keeps the spotlight out of my eyes. “That’s a mighty fine offer, ma’am. Maybe just the music for now.” I add a wink to soften the rejection. It’s not my first rodeo