the Troubadour

A Short Story (Part Four).

I should have been thrilled when Freddy agreed, but instead I was uneasy. He was way too eager. 

Freddy hated going out, and he hated Ray even more, so the response I had expected was a smirk or a chuckle, followed by a big “HELL no,” or a smart remark like he’d rather stick needles in his eyes. 

But Freddy said yes, and he said it without hesitation. He seemed excited to be going to the concert with me (to see his nemesis perform, no less), and there I was – feeling anything but pleased. 

Suspicious was more like it. And then I couldn’t even remember why I’d wanted him to go with me in the first place!

Later it dawned on me. I needed him to be my designated driver. I had turned 21 a few weeks prior and I hadn’t really celebrated (plus I was nervous about seeing Ray at the Troubadour), so drinks were at the top of my agenda.

Freddy said he’d drive, as long as we took my car. I was perfectly fine with that, because his old Ford Falcon was held together with zip ties and electrical tape. It was embarrassing to ride in… and probably dangerous. The cops were always pulling him over, just because it looked so ghetto.

Two of those times he was taken to jail for drunk driving, and that’s how he ended up in A.A. It was court ordered, but Freddy took it seriously and eventually he stopped drinking. 

After that he swore he’d never get rid of the old jalopy. He said she saved his life.

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The line to get in the Troubadour was down the block and around the corner. I assumed that ‘James Ray’ had a huge following, and my heart was palpitating from the excitement of knowing him personally.

Freddy scoffed at my assumption, however, pointing out that there were five other bands on the marquee. 

The tickets I had were General Admission, and once we got inside I found out what that actually meant: First come first served, standing room only. 

Luckily, it was still pretty early, so most of the people were loitering around the bar. Freddy pushed his way through to buy us drinks – a rum and coke for me, and a bottle of water for himself  – and then we looked around for some prime standing room.

“How’d you get our drinks so fast?” I asked. 

Everyone at the bar had been bumping shoulders and shoving their hands high in the air, trying to get the bartender’s attention, but Freddy was in and out of there in a flash.

Working with him at Leon’s, I knew that he had one speed (slow), not to mention the fact that he was passive and clumsy, so his stealth and swiftness was surprising to me.

“The bartender’s a friend of mine,” he answered, very matter-of-factly. 

I was shocked. There was more to Freddy than what I knew… and I thought that I knew everything.

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READ ON

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Notes from me…

The nostalgia is still with me as I write this story. The Troubadour, for one (it’s probably been 40 years since I saw a concert there), and guys with old cars that shake, rattle, and cough. Ha-Ha!

I’ve noticed that I use alcohol a lot in my stories and it’s made me think. For one, that’s what my youth was full of – so it’s pretty much what I know. They say write about what you know… so there you go.

I’m thinking that if or when I decide to write ‘seriously’, I might use it (alcohol) as a tool – incorporating my own experiences with “the evils of drinking” into the story that I’m writing. Just a thought.

Writing about drinking is also like nostalgia to me, and I realized tonight that what’s sad is that there is so much I don’t remember. Take the Troubadour for example – I remember going there, but very little about the actual evening.

Is it because I drank? Or was it just not a memorable experience? I never know if my lack of memory is standard, old age, or alcohol induced. Anyway… you could say that writing about drinking is therapeutic. It helps me remember I have a problem – something that can be easy to forget.

I’m not trying to be a downer – no way. These are just things that go through my mind.

I’m also kind of happy that my narrator (I think her name is Jenny but I haven’t committed to that yet) is starting to realize that she doesn’t know it all… and that maybe she’s not the great judge of character (and esteem) that she thought she was.

Anyway, the image was a lot of fun. I haven’t much to say about it though, because it’s pretty self-explanatory. I enjoyed the colors for sure.

I meant to keep my comments short – and I’ve probably topped the word count of my story. So… goodnight for now. I’ll be back soon to finish this off.

Until then,

Peace & Love, and thank you for reading!