Chapter Fourteen
Jack
T he bar is packed tonight—standing room only. This is the biggest crowd yet. I walk in and make my way up to the bar where Aggie is filling glasses with beer from the tap.
“What’s going on tonight?” I ask.
“They’re here for you, kid.”
“Me?”
I turn and look around, noticing people watching me. Some are pointing and whispering. This isn’t the kind of whispering and finger-pointing I’m used to back home. These people aren’t talking shit or making fun of me. I see excitement on their faces.
Are they really here to hear me play?
“Can I get a water?” I ask Aggie.
“I’ll get you water, but I also made you some tea. You don’t have the luxury of getting a frog in your throat tonight.”
“Thanks, Aggie.
I take the water and the tea she’s thoughtfully put in a to-go cup. The stage feels different tonight, like it’s charged with some unseen energy. I set my water and tea on the stool beside me and pull my guitar out of its case, running my fingers lightly over the strings to check the tuning. The crowd buzzes louder as I sit down. I glance up to see even more people squeezing into the bar. My stomach twists, but not in a bad way—more like the feeling you get when you’re standing on the edge of something big.
I clear my throat and lean into the mic. “How’s everyone doing tonight?”
The response is deafening, a roar of cheers and clapping that makes me grin despite myself. I hadn’t expected that. Usually, it takes a song or two to warm them up, but tonight they’re ready right from the start.
“All right,” I say, my voice steadying as I settle into it. “Let’s see if we can keep that energy going.”
I start with one of my older songs, something I wrote back on the farm when the nights felt endless and the days blurred together. It’s slower, more melancholic, but there’s a raw honesty in it that always seems to connect. The crowd quiets almost immediately, listening to me. No one is talking over me. All eyes are on me. It’s humbling, really, knowing these strangers are hanging on every word.
By the time I hit the second verse, I can feel the room shift. People swaying, heads nodding, and there is more than one woman eyeing me like I’m a prized bull up for auction.
I play a few more songs, some the regular crowd has heard before. And then, because I’m emboldened by the crowd’s energy, I decide to test the new one I’ve been working on. Jinnie came by last night and we worked on the song. With her help, I felt like it was pretty nailed down.
Now, it was time to test it. It was a little more rock, or as Jinnie called it, dirty country.
“Okay, guys,” I say and take a long drink from the water bottle. “I’ve got a little something different. This is a new one. Real new. This one is going to make you want to stomp your feet and maybe bang your head. You ready?”
Several ladies throw their hands in the air and scream.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” I tease.
It’s fun to flirt. These women are a few years older than me, but that doesn’t matter. It’s all about selling the music. And myself. If they want to flirt, I’m cool with it. But I’ve got to be careful. I don’t want some big-ass cowboy trying to kick my ass.
I strike the opening chord, and the room seems to hold its breath. The song starts slow, almost deceptive, with a low, thrumming rhythm that feels like a storm brewing just over the horizon. Then, like a crack of thunder, I slam into the chorus, my fingers flying across the strings. The energy in the room explodes. People are on their feet, clapping and stomping along. Even the guys who’ve been leaning against the back wall all night are nodding their heads, caught up in it.
I glance out at the crowd as I sing. I see Aggie behind the bar with a huge grin on her face. It feels like a live wire has been fed into the bar. Whatever it is, it fuels me. I pour everything into the song, letting it rip through me like wildfire.
By the time I hit the last note, the place is electric. The applause is deafening, louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. People are shouting for an encore, but Aggie steps up on stage and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Let’s give the man a break,” she says into the mic, her voice cutting through the noise. “He’ll be back tomorrow night.”
There are groans of disappointment, but they’re drowned out by more cheers as I step down from the stage. My heart is pounding, my shirt sticking to my back from the sweat. I feel like I could run a marathon or write ten more songs.
“Encore!” someone shouts from the back.
I grin, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Y’all are gonna make me work for my supper, huh?”
Another roar of approval. I sneak a glance at Aggie, silently asking her if I can do one more. She rolls her eyes and leans over the mic. “One more song, you animals. Y’all are going to get me in trouble for working this boy to the bone!”
The crowd roars. I hold up my finger as I down the rest of the tea that’s gone cold, but it still gives my throat a little soothing.
I play two more songs before finally calling it. My fingers ache, my voice is shot, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.
As soon as I step off the makeshift stage, people swarm me.
“That last song—where can I buy it?” A woman with purple streaks in her hair grips my arm.
“You got a YouTube channel?” A guy in a flannel shoves a napkin at me. “Sign this?”
I blink, overwhelmed. “Uh no YouTube. Not yet, anyway.”
Aggie rescues me, herding me toward the bar with a firm hand on my shoulder. “Give the man some air, folks.”
She slides a water toward me as I collapse onto a stool. “Holy shit.”
Aggie laughs, counting a stack of bills from the register. “Told you you were good.”
“Who are all these people?”
“Word’s getting around.” She nods toward a group in the corner. “That bunch drove up from Carbondale. Said someone at the diner told them about you.”
I take a long gulp of water, trying to process. Strangers. Driving hours. For me .
A thought hits me like a lightning bolt— Dad should see this.
The image forms before I can stop it: his face, slack with shock, as a roomful of people cheer for his useless, guitar-playing son. The way his jaw would tighten when he realized I’d actually made something of myself. That I was actually making money screwing around with my guitar.
The satisfaction of that fantasy burns through me. Maybe I will ask Aggie to record me so I can send it to my brothers. They can show him. It won’t be as satisfying without getting to see his expression, but just to know he knew I was kicking ass would be so worth it.
“Jack?” Aggie’s watching me, eyebrows raised. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shake myself. “Just thinking.”
She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but a customer calls for another round, and she’s pulled away.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of handshakes and compliments. A college kid with a nose ring says my music “speaks to her soul.” An older couple offers to buy me a beer but I have to decline. They tell me they haven’t seen energy like mine since Springsteen in the early years.
That’s one of the best compliments I’ve heard.
By closing time, my head’s spinning. Aggie hands me a wad of cash—tips plus a bonus, she says—and sends me on my way with a pat on the back.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she teases, but her eyes are proud.
Back at the campsite, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the crowd again, hear the applause. I never would have thought I could get that kind of reaction. It’s addicting. I want a bigger stage. More people watching me.
Most of all, I want to tell Jinnie the song was a huge hit. I owe her a lot. She’s the one that got it dialed in and helped me nail down that chorus. I’m going to get up early and go to the bakery and tell her. Is that bragging? I don’t want to be that kind of guy.
But damn, it was so awesome!
I can’t sleep. I want to try and capture this moment. I’m riding high on the thrill of success, but there’s something else. Maybe a little smug.
I sit up, fumbling for my notebook. I turn on the solar-power lantern and grab my pencil. The words pour out—something about stages and spotlights and proving them all wrong.
Let them laugh now. Let them see.
The song takes shape quickly, angry and triumphant. It’s in a similar vein as the song Jinnie helped me write. The song that nearly blew the roof of Aggie’s bar. I think this is where I want to be. More rock. I can hear drums pairing well with this. It’s good. Really good. The kind of song that could be big.
Big.
The thought stops me cold.
What if this isn’t just a local bar thing? What if I could actually make it? Tour. Record. Really show Dad what I’m capable of. I don’t even know where to start to achieve that goal.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over the search bar: How to find a music agent.
But then what? I don’t have demos. No recordings except the crappy voice memos on my phone. No idea how any of this actually works.
I toss the phone aside, frustrated.
I stare down at the lyrics I’ve written down. I know exactly who they’re directed at. Somewhere out there, Aiden Miller’s probably still in our hometown, still working at his dad’s auto shop, still the big fish in a tiny pond.
And me? I’m here. Playing for crowds. Making money doing what I love.
That should be enough.
So why does it feel like I’m still trying to win some stupid fight from high school?
The song lyrics glare up at me from the notebook. I’m not sure I want to give any oxygen to Aiden or the assholes who made my life miserable.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll figure out how to shape the song. Maybe I’ll ask Jinnie if she can offer any tips. And I’m wondering if she could help me get my music out there. She’s got that social media savviness, seems like the type who’d know about that stuff.
I close the notebook.
For now, the bar is enough. The crowds are enough.
Even if part of me still wants more—still wants to shove this success in everyone’s face until they have to admit I was right—but that’s not why I started playing. This is for me. It makes me happy.