I come in through the thick metal doors and have to take a slight step back to adjust my eyes from the bright sun outside to the prevailing darkness inside. The smell of beer is the first thing my senses capture in full. I look around and linger on for a few seconds at the one-man band, strumming the guitar, harmonica hanging from its neck holder, guitar case by his feet with a few quarters and a handful of single dollar bills. He’s singing about a love gone wrong, a Country-Blues song set in Mississippi. A man and a woman and a law enforcement man who messes up their love story. A gunshot in the lyrics of the song mirrored by a strong single tap of his hands on the body of the guitar. The song ends with the sound of his harmonica imitating the sound of a prisoner train who takes the jaded lover away for killing the cop. He tips his cowboy hat to me as he finishes the song, acknowledging my effort in trying to not enter fully into the bar until the song is finished.
There’s a bunch of wooden tables adorning the place, all of them empty. A pool table on the corner being played by four young men in their 30’s, a couple of beers dangling dangerously on the tip of the red felt table. At the bar sit a few young men and women, college types drinking beer and talking loudly about finals and football. They keep going back and forth from the bar to through the back door, like a revolving cast of characters in a sitcom.
I sit at the opposite side of the bar and see the singer sipping from his beer bottle before introducing a new song that seems to be directed at no one in particular but more out of an instinctive ritual. I signal to the bartender for a Lone Star by pointing at the big neon sign hanging above the bar. I move my attention to the singer as he’s now singing in a falsetto voice about working the cotton fields in Alabama and the slaves who found a way to revolt against their master’s cruelty and take a freight train for freedom. He’s now singing only for me it seems, nobody else in the bar seemingly paying any attention to him. But I get the feeling that this is his regular spot and crowd and he’s doing it more for himself than for everyone else.
At the pool table they’re racking up the balls again and the previous game loser heads to the bar to pick up another round of drinks. The college kids keep swinging from time to time from the bar to the back door, pairs of two always heading out and in from outside. The singer is finishing his song as the slaves jump a train heading west, the strumming of his guitar giving way to his harmonica slowly gaining cadence to imitate the moaning sound of the freight train moving down the tracks. I snap my fingers and raise my beer bottle to him in appreciation and he tips his cowboy hat to me and sips from his beer bottle. I holler for the bartender for another Lone Star, now deep in conversation with the college kids about the best fishing spots around. I head to the restrooms as the singer announces a ten-minute break.
When I come back from the restrooms the back door opens up again and I finally see what’s all the commotion that’s happening outside. An animated game of corn hole is happening on the back by the railroad tracks. I sit back at the bar, new bottle in hand and notice the singer not in his place. I sip from my beer and grow an interest in the game of corn hole happening outside instead, the door left open this time for two of the kids to take about a dozen beer bottles outside. It seems there’s a bet on the line for the championship between two teams to decide between the Gulf near Galveston or Key West for their next fishing trip around spring break. There’s a debate about the benefits of one over the other from both factions. It’s all conducted in a most civilized manner over beer after beer and the game of corn hole is the decisive factor. Except the level of drunkenness has to be in accordance with the distance to the target. The drunker one is, the farther away from the target one has to be. I cannot help but laugh at some of the proceedings which draws the attention of the college kids sitting at the bar, who challenge me to try one throw. I politely excuse myself from their invitation by proclaiming that I’m still not as drunk as the game requests, which makes them laugh in return as they all head outside to take part in the final of the championship. The door closes behind them and I almost feel tempted to join them outside to watch the proceedings but refrain from doing so. I finish up my beer and leave a $10 bill on the counter and exit, the pool game still to be decided this time.
Outside the big thick metal doors it has turned dark and cold. I flip up my coat’s collar and a voice announces “You gotta be careful with the weather around here. It gets real cold all of a sudden”. I look in the direction of the voice at the singer who is standing in the dark, smoking a cigarette. I acknowledge him by saying how much I love his old-time singing and playing style. He thanks me politely by tipping his cowboy hat to me and I’m more than surprised to learn that his songs are all original compositions when I tell him they sound like some of the classic Country-Blues songs from the 20’s and 30’s. He takes that as a compliment and asks me to come back on the weekend when the place will be packed and he will be performing with a full band. I say I will, but counter that I enjoyed the place just as it is.
I cross the railroad tracks and walk north, heading home. In the distance I hear the sound of a moaning freight train. I smile and wonder if maybe the singer is back in his favorite place and singing another song about trains.
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