“Let’s go get a couple of beers and soak up some of this sun,” Ian suggests, stretching his arms and taking a deep breath.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Travis agrees.

John, however, still clutching the mixer box just looks down at it and whines, “I wanna’ play with my new toy.”

“Ah c’mon,” Ian says, waving his hand in dismissal. “I’ll buy you yours.”

John smiles brightly, but Travis just says, “What about me?”

“You can buy me a beer if you want,” Ian replies.

“Where do you wanna’ go?” asks Travis.

Pointing down the street, “Flanngan’s? They got a patio.”

“Sounds good to me,” offers Travis.

Walking down to the pub, Travis remarks, “And if we accidentally get plastered, it’ll be that much easier to walk to the car since its right in front!”

“Actually,” John announces, still clutching his precious mixing board, “let me put this in the trunk.”

“We’ll meet you inside,” Ian calls, opening the door to the bar for Travis.

It is early afternoon, but the interior of the bar seems drastically dark by comparison. Most of the sunlight doesn’t filter in through the tinted windows that run the length of the west wall. The mahogany wood and buzzing neon signs seem to suck up any ambient light for themselves. The cool air makes the room darker still, the moisture of the shadows like a pleasant crypt. Travis and Ian both take a moment to let their eyes adjust to the change as the bouncer approaches them. Most of the bars in town had just opened for the day and wouldn’t normally check identification, but Flanngan’s was one of the more strict bars that always carded. A young man approaches Travis and Ian from one of the tables. He’d been sitting reading a paper. Ian and Travis present their IDs. The young man takes Ian’s first, giving it only a perfunctory glance. He takes Travis’s and holds on to it for a moment, searching for the birthdate. The license claimed to be from Montana—that always threw people off. Travis always felt that fact was to his advantage, and in his own mind, it was where he was from anyway—or where he was going. Handing the license back to Travis, the young man heads back to his newspaper.

As always, even though it was midafternoon, there is something quietly mischevious about their entrance that brings smartass smiles to their faces. Vaquero and Pirata had outfoxed the Man again.

“Ya’ see, that’s the thing,” Ian remarks, keeping his voice low. “It’s all about presentation—how you show the God damned thing.”

“Yep.” Travis is in complete agreement.

“We should give lessons in confidence when we give these things to people.” Ian lowers his voice and lets it drop as the bartender approaches them.

“What can I get you fella’s?” he asks.

“A Guinness.”

“Make that two,” adds Travis.

Looking back to the door for a second, Ian looks back to the bartender and says, “Three actually.”

“Right,” the bartender replies, taking off to get them.

Turning their backs to the bar, Ian and Travis sit down and examine the emptiness of the room. There was no one but the pair and the bouncer—a pair of king’s and a joker… or a pair of joker’s and a king. Taking in a deep breath, Ian says, “I love these… calm little moments before the storm.” Looking around he thinks out loud, “I should really do some shoots in the afternoon here. The light’s almost tangible.”

John approaches from outside, a silhouette against the wide glass windows at the front of the bar. “The parking meter witch tried to bite me.”

Ian and Travis nod in knowing agreement. “I hate it when that happens,” Ian replies, shaking his head.

“She caught me putting more coins in the meter.”

“Did she make you move the car?” Travis asked.

“No. She gave me a ticket.”

“What’d you do with the car,” Ian asks.

“I told that if she didn’t ticket me, I’d move the car. But if she did ticket me then I was just going to leave it there.”

Ian laughed. He could already figure the result. “What’s she say?”

“Suit yourself,” John said, imitating the woman with a high-pitched whine.

“And she didn’t even tell you to move the car?” Travis asks.

“No.”

“See, I would have ticketed you and then told you to move the car,” Travis explains.

“Would you really?” John asks, sounding upset.

“Yes.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Travis weighs the insult in his head. “Yeah. But I’m not a ticket bitch.”

“True.”

“That’s what—a step above primordial goo?” Ian asks.

“And John,” Travis adds, jerking his head toward his companion who just grins in reply.

The bartender comes back with the first two beers and looks to John for his order. Ian interrupts though, “I’ve got him.” Nodding, the bartender moves to go get the third Guiness.

“You don’t have to do that, man. I was just kidding about not coming.”

“No, don’t worry about it. You’re playin’ this weekend, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Consider it a celebratory drink then.”

John smiles, genuinely.

“Who’re you guys opening for?” Travis asks.

“Homespun Noose.”

“I think I saw them play at the Shoebox a while back,” Travis says.

“Yeah, you did. I was there too,” Ian adds.

“I was at that show too, dummy,” John adds.

Travis shrugs.

“They’re not bad,” Ian says.

John keeps his opinion to himself. He was a musician, not a critic.

The bartender returns with the third beer, Ian and Travis pay him, and all three of the boys stroll out onto the patio, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. “Do you think you’ll get a good crowd?” Ian asks.

“First weekend of summer—I’d expect a few people.”

“Forty or fifty,” Travis offers.

They all sit down around a black wrought-iron table near the sidewalk. John lights a cigarette and thinks about it out loud. “Homespun has a pretty good following. Some of their people’ll show up halfway through our set… and we’re starting to get a bit of a crowd. Forty’s about right.”

“That’s good for summer.”

Peering down Clayton street, John makes a dismissive face. The numbers weren’t what really mattered to him but it mattered if the band wanted to keep playing big venues.

“I can’t wait,” says Ian, sitting back, putting his feet up on another chair. “I missed your last two shows—couldn’t make the one in Atlanta.”

“That was a blast,” Travis notes.

“Yeah?” John asks.

“Dude, that whole thing with the cape and –” he turns to Ian, “They sang the theme song to Greatest American Hero acapello.” “What, the old TV show?”

“Yeah, remember?”

“That’d be pretty funny.”

John laughs. He wasn’t sure how he’d been talked into that.

“It was hilarious,” Travis says.

John smiles. “That was great of all you guys to come down and see us. It was a Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Travis replies. “Besides now I got dibs on that old ‘I remember when’ phrase for when you guys are famous.”

John just smiles modestly. “I was fucking nervous at that show.”

“Oh, you could tell,” Travis agrees, “but the energy was just that much better for it. You guys were solid.”

“Are guys gonna’ start playing Atlanta more?” Ian asks.

“Lee and Eric really want to. I think we should wait until we’ve headlined at the 40 Watt.”

“That’d make sense.”

Gradually the light from the afternoon turns a darker shade of blue, the sun reflecting off the west faces of the taller downtown buildings. Further up Jackson Street, running perpendicular to Clayton, the sounds of the sirens of the downtown fire department wail and fade off in an unknown direction. The group suddenly notices a tall, lean figure across the street wearing a gas station attendant’s jacket and waving frantically at them. They all laugh and hold up their beers as Nick the Fat Kid and a very attractive, young woman cross the street.

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