Life in a Northern Town, Part 6

"I want to see your Nick play," Da tells me.

I've just come from my room, looking even spiffier than I did last week, and there's me da in his chair looking three times as spiffy. Auntie Bev is standing right behind him, decorated up like last year's Christmas tree at Roger's Corner Store.

"We'll take my station wagon," she says, her face beaming. "We haven't seen a show in years, baby. It's very excitin'."

They're waiting on me to say something. To give my consent. But what am I supposed to say? He's my da and lord knows he don't get out of the house much. If he wants to see a show, dammit, he deserves to see a show.

"You look real good, Da," I say. "You too, Auntie Bev."

Auntie Bev makes a noise that's akin to Oh, this old thing and she blushes. Da enjoys the compliment too. I doubt if he's been told he looks good in a long time. I feel bad about that. I'm gonna make it a point to compliment him more often.


The pub isn't as busy as it usually is, especially on a Saturday night, so we're able to get a table near the stage. Of course, Da would have gotten us a table even if the place was packed to the rafters. He's well-liked around here. He's chatting it up with anyone and everyone who passes our table, whether he knows them or not. Auntie Bev is flirting with the patrons like she's a high schooler, and it's a bit embarrassing. Even so, she classes up the joint significantly. That's saying something. We order drinks and settle in.

Nick arrives and starts setting up. My eyes don't leave him once he walks in. He sees our table and gives us a nod. Da yells, "Hey there, Nick!" and I feel my face go red. Then Da nudges my arm and says, "Look, Adam. It's Nick."

"He sees him." Auntie Bev comes to my rescue. "We all see him, hon. He's on a G-D stage."

"I know that, you all bitty," Da says, thankfully a bit more quiet. "But Adam here needs all the help he can get."

How humiliating. Endearing, but humiliating nonetheless.

Things quiet down and Nick begins to play. It's a small set of six songs and me da is crying not even half way through it. That's where my soft heart comes from, his side of the family. They're to blame. Nick has glanced my way more than once during the set and dammit if that don't make me feel special. I sit up a bit straighter for it. Of course, Da and Auntie Bev keep embarrassing me, so in the end my stature about evens out.

He's done and is met with scattered applause. I find this infuriating. So does my da and Auntie Bev. They cheer loud and long, God love 'em for it. "Damn good!" Da hollers. "Real damn good!" And he means it. He's wiping away the tears from his eyes as he applauds.

Nick puts the guitar in its old character of a case and then makes his way to our table. Of course, no one in the pub gives a shit that Nick has chosen us to hang out with, but I feel like I been given an award or something. I got this tingling in my belly, like a tiny pine cone doing flips, that gives me a happy grin.

"Have a seat," my da says to Nick. "That was real damn good."

"Thank you," Nick replies with a half-grin. Like he's surprised at the adulation. If nobody's ever given that boy a  standing ovation, well, that's some bullshit.

"Wasn't that real damn good, Adam?" my da asks me. I can't be the only one who sees the pointed finger and raised brow in the question.

"It was. Sure thing, Da," I say. "But Nick always gives a great performance."

I get the full grin for this and my tummy nearly makes me laugh out loud.

"Good," my da says, more to himself than to me. "Good."

"Why don't we let these two talk?" Auntie Bev says. "I need to get drunk, and I hear they got a new MegaTouch machine. I just been dying to play it.."

"Well, wheel me to the bar, woman," says Da. "But first," he says, halting Auntie Bev as she starts to wheel him away (and I think to myself, "Oh, shit. What's he gonna do?"), "Let me invite you for dinner, Nick. My boy was supposed to ask you over last week, but you know how things get. Life's a real bitch that way."

"I'd love to come over," says Nick. He looks me in the eye. "I'd love to. Yes."

"Good," says Da. "Now that's settled. To the drink!"

Auntie Bev wheels my hero da off to the bar, both of them singing some expletive-rich song about alcohol and happy times. Me and Nick look at each other and laugh.

"Listen," I say, still nervous as all hell, but getting better. "I was gonna ask you over, but I chickened out and...because I wasn't sure if you...I mean..."

And he leans in and he kisses me. On the lips. Right there in the middle of the pub. My heart is exploding and it feels like TNT, but there ain't no way TNT could feel like this. And now I'm laughing out loud and my eyes are welling with tears. I put my hand to my mouth so I can feel where his lips touched mine and I'm wondering why I'm reacting so. I've played this scene out in my head numerous times, but it's never been like this. This is so much better. "Thank you," I say, because it's all I can say.

"Ain't you never been kissed before, Adam?" he asks.

"Not like that. No, sir." I can barely speak. It's almost a whisper.

"Well, then, you've got some catching up to do."

And he kisses me again. This night...well, it's just become the best night of my life. I look to the bar and see my da and Auntie Bev. He lifts his beer to me and I see his eyes all watery and filled with...joy. What a night, man! What a fucking awesome night.

Life in a Northern Town, Part 5

I've seen him all week, passing him as we work here in the mines, but we avoid eye contact. At least I do. It's not that I don't want to try and strike up a conversation. But what would I say after last weekend's disaster? I've not got the gift of words like he does. And, you know, I been thinking, he's the songwriter, why doesn't he try and chat me up? But there I'm getting ahead of myself. Huh. I don't even know if he likes me at all. Not in the way I feel about him. Maybe he smiles at everyone and I just don't see it. I'll have to watch him more closely.

More closely? Shit. How much "more closely" can I watch him? I'd have to be glued to his pretty face. Every moment I ain't working my eyes are on him. Or at least searching for him.

I wish I was the easier sort. The kind of laid-back fella who gets everything he wants with a wink and a smile. Things just come to him because he has no problem asking for them. But then, those type of guys don't work in these type of mines, do they? And if I didn't work here I wouldn't ever have met Nick.

Still, dammit, why can't something just come easily to me. Just this once.

There's a tapping on my shoulder. I think it's the foreman telling me my break is done with, so I turn around to say "I know," but it ain't the foreman standing there. Instead, it's my brokenhearted wordsmith, eyes a-shimmering.

Instinctively, I remove my miner's hat and push back my hair. "H-hey there, Nick," I says.

"Hi there, Adam." My name. He knows my name. He said my name. It's like I've never heard it said by anyone before. Don't it sound pretty coming from his lips. Suddenly, all the noise, all the miners, everything around us, doesn't make any sense at all. It's just filler.

"I-I want to apologize for the way I acted the other night," I says. "At the pub, I mean. I had something to ask you, but..."

He smiles and my mind goes quiet. No. Numb. That's the more appropriate word. What was I going to ask him?

"It's no problem," he says. "I enjoy seeing you at my shows."

"Truly? I mean, really?"

"Really and truly." His eyes are searching my face for something. "It's good to see a...your face. You'll be there this weekend, right?"

Truth is, up until this moment I wasn't certain if I was going to make it. I'm still carrying around the shame of cowardice from last weekend. But I blurt out like struck oil, "Absolutely!"

We're standing here, grinning like two fools, and it's the best half minute ever. I could live in this moment, dirt-covered and all.

"Back to work!" shouts the foreman from somewhere behind me.

Me and Nick nod at each other. "See you this weekend," he says.

I just keep on grinning, but I think to myself, "Best break ever."

Life in a Northern Town, Part 4

This serial has been extended to six parts, thanks in large part to all the encouragement you have given me. Enjoy!


I've never been on a date before, but dangit if this don't feel like one. Nick's playing at the pub tonight. I convinced myself to clean up and head here looking as slick as oil. I intend to talk to Nick tonight. That is my intention. Yessir. That is, assuming these chattering teeth let me speak.

I looked in the mirror before leaving the house. Sweet Jesus. You ain't never seen someone look as desperate to impress. I got on my tight dark blue Wranglers, my best blue plaid shirt, and my non-shit-kickin' boots. My hair is parted to the left and maybe a bit too gooped. I take my hand and feel it every few minutes just to make certain it's still in place. Yup. Still petrified.

Da and Auntie Bev looked at me like I was a unicorn or something when I emerged from my room. Then Da finally said, "You look real nice, my boy. Real nice." Auntie Bev even made me pose for a photo. From the way Auntie Bev acted, you would have thought I've been walking around naked my whole life and just found out about clothes.

It got even worse when I walked in here. The pub got all quiet. I noticed those smirks on a few dirty faces too before I quickly looked away and found my usual place against the wall. Nobody said anything, though. At least not to me. Thank God for the waitress Lucille. She came up to me and said, "You look real nice. Don't let those filthy buggers bother you. What'll you have tonight, hon?"

So, here I stand, drinking my beer, feeling like there's a circus in my stomach, and hoping Lucille's right and I look nice. But what have I got to compare 'nice' to? Nobody around here looks nice. Except for Nick.

He's playing that guitar, an old thing that I bet has quite a story to tell, and his singing is enough to calm the rowdiest of guys in here. Nobody's even playing pool. His voice is memory and nostalgia and chances not taken, and I bet you everyone in here feels it. I can even hear some sniffles from a few of the old, old-timers. My eyes ain't leaving the stage, not even when Lucille comes back around and asks me if I want another drink. I just nod. She keeps 'em coming. Nick's looking at me and he smiles. It's a real honest-to-Jesus smile and I swear I feel the edge of my own mouth raise a bit, like it's on a curtain hook, half-smiling in return. It's a start, right?

His set is over. It's gone by way too fast. I breathe deep, a cleansing breath. His music, his voice, has washed the rock dust out of my lungs. The pub returns to life as if Nick hadn't just been up there singing. Pool balls are striking each other and dirty jokes are being told. I stay where I am. I order another drink, feel my hair again, and wait for Nick. He packs up his guitar into a case that's older than the mountain, scuffed all to hell, and there's a satisfied look to him. He steps down from the small stage. I stop slouching and stand up as straight as I can. My eyes are as open as if a big ol' truck is heading right at me. But it's Nick and he's standing in front of me. My God, he's beautiful.

"Hey there," he says, his voice as soft and comforting as a blanket.

"H-hi," I stutter. I was really hoping I wouldn't stutter. Dammit. "That was a good performance. I mean, it was nice. I mean...Damn, you got a voice, don't ya?"

Shit. Just take a drink.

He's laughing. I made him laugh. Me.

"You look real nice," he says.

"Th-thank you." What do I say now? How does this conversation proceed? This is the longest moment in the history of the world. I can't just stand here and look into his eyes forever. Do something, you moron!

"Well, I best be going," he says.

What? No. Don't.

"Oh, okay." I let him pass. "Listen, Nick. Do you wanna...?"

He's looking at me, waiting, but I can't finish the damn sentence. Just read my mind, Nick. Please.

He gives me another sweet, sweet grin. "G'night," he says. He's turning around. He's leaving.


*

I walk in the door and Da's waiting up on me. He's all smiles. Auntie Bev's sleeping on the couch in front of the TV, snoring like a bulldog. "Well," Da says, "How'd it go? Did you invite him for dinner?"

I don't respond. I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of my cowardice. I just head for my room with my head down.

"Next time," I hear Da say. "You'll get him next time."

Life in a Northern Town, Part 3

We're at the general store near the base of the mountain ordering a new wheel for Da's chair. He's needed a new one for a while now. In fact, he's needed a whole new chair. The one he's got was a throwaway when we found it. I can only afford to replace it a piece at a time, though. Da says he don't mind, but I can see the grimace on his face every time he rides over a bump in the house.

He insisted on coming down to the store with me. Says he needed to get out of the house. Says he don't want to be a shut-in. I'm glad for the company, and it's good to see him out. His face ain't so ashen when he's outside. The air seems to do him good.

Once we got into the store he took off on his own. He don't need me pushing him. Get my da on a flat service and it's like he's in the drag races. You'd hardly notice the oxygen tank strapped to the back of his chair. Makes me smile to see him shooting this way then that, as giddy as a kid, chatting as best he can with other customers, many of them people we've known our whole lives. And they're all glad to see him too. Surprised he's still alive, but glad to see him. I let him be and order the wheel and some other things we need for the house - a new hinge for the front door, a new shower nozzle. I also get some groceries and then splurge on some black licorice for Da. That's his favorite candy.

I hear Da whooping it up with someone, not letting them get a single word in between his chatting and his coughing. I turn around and my heart is in my throat. It's none other than Nick, standing there all polite-like and hearing what Da has to say about anything and everything. The shock of seeing Nick nearly makes me drop my bag of groceries. I've gone all prickly cold and my knees are shaking like I'm naked out in a winter storm.

Oh Jesus! Don't look at me! Don't look at me, please.

But he is. He's staring right at me again with those gem stone eyes and he's smiling. It's a shy smile, kind of scared and unsure, but it's a smile, sure enough. And what am I doing? What the hell am I doing while he's smiling at me? I'm standing here like a dummy five feet away from my own da and too green and stumped to do anything else. I can't even smile. I bet I look ridiculous to him. I can't even remember if I combed my hair this morning. I want to drop the bag right now and run my hands through it to make sure it's lying flat.

"Ain't you gonna say hi to the man?"

Thank God for my da. It's like he reached out and shook me out of my stupor with a big ol' "Get a hold of yourself." I start walking towards them, all awkward and mechanical, and I even eek out a constipated grin. It's the best I can do. I think I'm gonna say something to Nick, to at last introduce myself. All I have to do is reach out my hand, right? But, goddammit, some nervous devil takes me over and instead of talking with Nick I'm telling my da how we better get back home. How Auntie Bev is expecting us. How we don't have time to dally.

I hate myself.

*

In the truck, on the ride home, Da is silent. We don't have time to dally? Why not? That's all I've been wanting to do these last few weeks. To dally. With Nick. I am furious with myself. I could have said something. I wanted to say something. So, why didn't I? My head is a big empty chasm walled of stone, and all I hear are mocking echoes. My heart is flesh and blood, though. I'm certain of that now more than ever.

"I like him," says Da as he chews on his licorice.

"Huh?" My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

"Your friend. Nick." Da's staring straight ahead. "I like him."

"We're not really friends, Da. I hardly know him."

"You should have him over for dinner some night." He's nodding like a decision has been made. "I like him. Do you like him?"

I get it now. "Yeah, Da. I like him a lot."

"Good. Everybody needs someone they can...like. We all deserve a friend. We'll have him over some night. Does that sound right to you?"

"Okay, Da."

"Okay then. Thanks for the licorice."

And I can't help but grin. I don't think my da saw, though. He loves his licorice.

Life in a Northern Town, Part 2

Monday is a long day. It's the same for most folk, I guess, but in the mines there ain't no clock on the wall to tell you your day's winding down. To offer some sort of escape, reprieve even. You kind of lose yourself to the dark a little bit more every day. The picks and axes hit the stone and it makes a forceful sort of music. Industrial, but with less heart. The music of the damned, maybe, if that ain't too heavy-handed. Shit. Heavy-handedness is all we got down here. You can't be light-handed, light-footed, or limp-wristed because everything's so damn dark.

But enough of that. I'm on break. I'm outside now, trying to enjoy the breeze on my face, though still coughing up the earth's dirty core. I brought myself a sandwich from home, but I don't feel like eating. Once I touch the bread with my dirty hands that pretty white bread will be stained with soot. The same soot that will eventually kill me.

Suddenly, there's a commotion coming from the south. Men resembling old mining stereotypes are yelling and running, calling for the foreman, spouting off nonsense about tommyknockers and vengeful ghosts. There's been a collapse. One of the mines has completely caved in. I'm standing here, thinking there's nothing I can do to be of any help, when it hits me: the south mines, ain't that where Nick works?

I'm off like a jack rabbit, pushing my way past miners, even knocking one down. "Nothing to be done," they all yell, every one of them a Gabby Hayes. "Nothing you can do for the poor bastards."

But I don't listen. I don't want to hear nothing but Nick's voice, his plaintive songs. I'm breathing hard as I reach the south mines and everything here is in a right tizzy. Rocks are being pulled away from where the mine's entrance used to be, guys are yelling down open shafts for any response, the injured are covered with dust and soot and are being tended to or carried away on stretchers. And all the while there are calls of "Where's the foreman?"

And then I see him. Nick. My heart nearly breaks, but not from grief. From sheer pent up exhilaration.  From a flood of relief. He's dirty, covered in dust so that he looks like a stage actor with too much makeup, but he's alive, sitting on a rock, breathing rough-like, and drinking water from an old canteen. Thank God he got out! My knees feel like they're gonna give and I wanna smile and cry at the same time, but I control myself. I don't break. Not even when he looks up at me and nods.

*

It's taken me a while to get back home. Da's beat-up old truck's about had it. The poor thing's like a loyal horse with bad lungs. It's all fine by me, though. I needed the steady racket of the old truck to smooth away the edges of the day. I imagine Nick's in the seat beside me sometimes, but I know that's silly. Why, I wouldn't even be able to hear him above the truck's rattle.

I get out of the truck and start walking up to our small house. I'm always shocked by how quiet things are in the rest of the world. Outside the mines, I mean. It's nice, but also a bit unnerving. Like something's about to happen. Something real bad just sitting in wait. I ain't six feet from the door when I hear my da coughing and carrying on like he's calling up the dead. It's the worst I've heard him in a long while. Shit, I think. God's spared Nick, but He's gonna take Da.

I race inside, nearly tearing the door from its hinges, and what do ya know but there be my da laughing - laughing - with Auntie Bev. She's all spruced up in her high stacked peroxided hair, heavily applied eyeliner and lipstick, and gawdy accessories, and he's as read as a a pickled beat. She's entertaining him with dirty jokes.

"What the hell is up with you, sweetie?" she asks me. I can't tell if her eyes are wide with surprise or if that's just the makeup.

"I thought you were dying, Da," I say, trying my hardest not to sound too frustrated. Oh, my poor heart.

"I am," he answers, wiping away tears and spitting out phlegm. "Your auntie here be slaying me! She's a filthy woman."

"Naw," says my aunt. "I'm just colorful." Then to me, "You go clean up, hon. I made a stew. You're pale as a ghost. My stew will put some color in your cheeks."

I tell her I'll be back in a few and head to my room, leaving them to their merriment. I shut my door, standing, back against it, for a moment. And this is when my knees finally give and the tears come and I crumple, silently sobbing, to the floor.

Life in a Northern Town, Part 1

I'm running this story here first just to see what type of response it gets. It's a serialized story of four short chapters. If it goes well - I'm writing it week to week - I'll expand on it:

He sings, his voice as thin as tissue paper.  Not saying that it's a delicate thing. He can tear your heart right out, by god. His song is a sad, plaintive thing. All of them are. He's begging us, begging me, to listen, to try and understand the pain. It's just him and his guitar. Every weekend he's up there on that tiny stage in this dark pub on the edge of a mining town.

And he's beautiful. Not in the rock star way. His nose is maybe slightly crooked and his face can look a bit drawn in the wrong light. Sometimes he lets his hair grow long and then seems to forget about ever combing it. But his eyes are rocks of wisdom and sorrow. His fingers chisel through that pain. They're the only ones that seem to know how.

His name is Nick.

During the week he works in the mines like me. I see him, but I doubt if he's ever seen me. He doesn't seem to see anyone. In that we are similar. Both of us keeping to ourselves. I don't know what's on his mind and more than I know the day I'll die. My own mind is filled with thoughts of home. Of my da. He's dying, you see. Ain't no use in trying to deny that. He's been dying for a couple of years now, every day worse than the one before. My da is a good man. He's worked in these mines since he was 13, even before he met my poor departed ma. They got him in the end, though. The mines get a lot of us. They're selfish places and you should know it going in. I mean, they're called "mines." It's right in the name, ain't it?

Da knows how important these weekend trips to the pub are to me. Especially when Nick is singing. He insists I go. "Git," he says in between deep, phlegm-laden coughs. "Go see your singer friend."

"We ain't friends, Da," I tell him. "I don't even know him. Just like to hear him sing."

"Well, go hear him sing then. I'll be fine here with your aunt Beverly. She takes good care of me. Now, git. Have yourself a good time." If he had any money, he'd give it to me.

Auntie Bev takes good care of him, it's true. But I still worry. He's my da. I worry I won't be there when the mines take him. Eventually I'm convinced, though, and I head to the pub once my auntie arrives. And so, here I am.

What's this, then? Deep in thought, I was, and he looks straight at me. I'm in the very back of the pub, keeping to myself and leaning against the wall with a beer in hand, but I swear he looked right at me just then. Oh, my heart, my breath. Right at me! I never seen two prettier stones in all my years in the mines. I better pay up and leave. Ain't no way the night will get any better than that. Man oh man. This is something to tell me da.