The Gentleman Callers
The Gentleman Callers: A History in Prose

 

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Pops Gower knelt on the gouged wood of the barroom stage and lay down black tape over the snaking cables from the mic stands, hoping that after the show, with fifty bucks in his pocket and a belly full of Maker's Mark, the tape might come up cleanly, without the wet adhesive tangling the cords, like the past had gummed up so much of his life.

Just about the only thing Pops had going for him at this point was The Callers, a group of shiftless nobodies he'd screwed down into an outlaw country rock outfit so jaded that they sneered when women told them they loved them. Pops plugged in his phaser, checked the clock, and worked his way to the bar. There was time enough for some bourbon before he went on.

He ordered the drink by holding up three horizontal fingers for the barman to see. He sipped the booze, feeling it warm his insides as quickly as a good Waylon waltz, or a heated barroom brawl, and he paused to think about The Callers.

They'd played their first show up in Mount Pleasant, Michigan on a whim two years prior. Leroy, the guitar player, had just gotten out of jail after Ronnie Dobbs ratted him out for a snowmobile they'd stolen. The boys thought it'd be good to welcome him back to the world with a boozy, honky-tonk night, but once they played, Pops knew they had something worth keeping.

When Kernel beat the drums that night, and Leroy made his telecaster shake, the sounds called to mind the ravages of man's greatest failures, the mediocrity of his successes, and the fleeting pleasure of a willing woman.

At some point on they added Shooter to the mix. With bass in hand and the letters G, C, and D tattooed on his left forearm he caught on passably well.

Now they were all up there on stage, Kernel with a bent Winston dangling from his lips and Leroy's guitar sounding smooth like a Hank Williams yodel while he tuned. Shooter was drunk, sure, but country music ain't brain surgery, and Pops threw back the rest of the bourbon and dropped in some Copenhagen before heading for his guitar and the place he hoped waited for him after death.

Now, with everything else in the world broken and sour, The Gentleman Callers were just about perfect.

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