Live at the Polack Inn

Ben walks into the Polack Inn, taking in the Friday night crowd and hazy atmosphere. In the back a band screams and plays raging guitars. Some things never change.

“Hey Dave.”

“Ben! What brings you to town?”

Dave picks up an empty beer glass and dunks it in the soapy water behind the bar.

“Oh, just felt like seeing some familiar faces.”

“Cool. I heard your tour sold out. Congrats man!”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Rum and coke.”

“Coming right up.”

Ben takes another look around.  Same pool table, same beat up floor, same feeble lights struggling to illuminate the room.

“Here you go. On the house.”

“Thanks Dave.”

Ben grabs his drink and heads to the backroom. It’s like he never left.

The walls around him vibrate and the decibels climb. He sees himself in the guitar player on stage, sweat soaked and high beyond belief, all attitude and push. Girls with pink-tipped hair whip their heads in time to the frenetic beat. The song ends in an orgy of feedback and swagger before the band disengages from their guitars and goes in search of beer.

In the deafening silence that follows, Ben steps onto the stage and picks up a guitar. He unplugs it and begins to play a simple tune that slowly rises like smoke hovering 5000 feet above ground level. He closes his eyes, lost in the moment, weariness from the road jettisoned and far away.

People applaud. He smiles, lost in the music.