Fiction: Sunday Evenin Comin Down

On a July Waterton weekend we lucked into Soulfest 09 at Twin Butte, which is a general store with a bar and a Mexican kitchen. It was a big boozeup with bar bands all day. A field full of campers, RVs and tents attested to the draw.

When we came for dinner Sunday night the crowd had dwindled to a small group of bikers, ranchers, biker molls, a few tourists. A truckload of Hutterite men hovered around while one of them went for a jug, then they drove off. 

We’re inside eating excellent Mexican. A small wreck of a man, old and frail enough to be Willie Nelson’s daddy, stumbles in and barely makes it to a bench against the wall. He looks like he’s dying. But he manages to croak aloud a couple times  “A Kokanee. I said I want a Kokanee.” Served, he subsides so we forget him. 

After eating we go outside and linger to hear the current band. It’s pretty good, working through credible renditions of country and rock songs. The setting sun casts a different light and shade on each face in the audience. It’s like a Fellini party’s-over scene. 

And there sitting front center on guitar is that wreck. He still looks dead but he’s singing and plucking and I decide he’s still alive because he’s plugged into the song. The band is good and I conclude that you don’t have to be really good in music to be really good. The song elevates the singer. Thus reaffirmed and having had a warm Corona myself I sing along.

Then our wreck swings into “Gee it’s good to be back home again.” In the midst of a verse he breaks down. We chime in to help but he drops again. One of the women backup informs us “This is a tough song for him. It’s personal.” The old wreck recovers, keeps playing, tries another verse or two then breaks down, sobbing. Both women onstage gather round to comfort him.  The band keeps the beat going till he recovers, well enough to play, but any lyric dissolves him again. 

“Let him sing one about beer and titties,” a biker gal suggests from the house. “That works every time.” 

The wreck pulls himself together long enough to say: “I got a grandson last week. Jayce. Four pounds six ounces. He’s going to take over from me.”

The cheers and clapping from the audience help him back and the band rolls into another number.

The moment was magic. When’s the last time you heard a singer who meant his song?