BLACK to Reality Read Online Free PDF Page B

bartender moved near, he modified his order to a tequila shot and a glass of Red Hook, already feeling guilty at squandering his precious dollars.
    The liquid courage warmed him, and when Roxie found him, he was telling a joke to two hard-looking bikers wearing sunglasses long after the sun had set.
    “So there’s this place in Anchorage, I swear, called Skinny Dick’s. The sign by the highway says, and I’m not bullshitting you, ‘Liquor in the front, poker in the rear!’”
    The men laughed together, and Black waved the bartender over for another shot of tequila. Roxie sidled up to him and elbowed him in the ribs.
    “Save some of that for onstage. And yes, I’d love a Grey Goose, straight up.”
    “Sounds expensive.”
    “You get what you pay for, Boss,” she said and winked in a way that was anything but professional.
    Black felt a wholly inappropriate stirring. He shrugged it off as one of his companions described being in the Bakersfield joint for two months pending trial. When the drinks arrived, Black laid a few of his remaining bills on the bar and turned to Roxie, cocktails in hand.
    “Mud in your eye.”
    “Josh said you should head up there whenever you’re ready. You guys talk about what songs you know, and they’ll figure it out,” Roxie said and then knocked back her vodka without blinking. “Now would be a good time, unless you’re planning to ride bitch with one of your new boyfriends instead of playing tonight.”
    “You do know how to frame a persuasive argument, don’t you?” Black said and downed his third tequila shot, his nerves now humming. A familiar sense of excitement coursed through him as he prepared to take the stage.
    The reality was anticlimactic. Playing in front of maybe forty people, most of whom were there for lack of anywhere else to go, was hardly a substitute for standing in front of a sold-out crowd at the Whiskey. When Black stepped on the stage, he suddenly felt claustrophobic, the area more the size of Mugsy’s kitty litter box than a real venue. Josh handed him one of his spare Les Paul guitars and switched on a backup amp and, after a hurried discussion, launched into a Pearl Jam song Black thought he could play in his sleep.
    That turned out to be an exaggerated belief. The next song, “Black Dog”, went even worse, and by the time they finished an Eagles number, Black was sweating and ready to leave. Josh was courteous, but Black could see in his eyes he was as anxious to be rid of Black as Black was to get off the stage. It hadn’t been a complete disaster, but when Josh turned Black’s amp down by half in the middle of the second song, it sent an unmistakable message: you suck.
    Which the few courtesy claps and occasional muffled boo from the back of the room had underscored.
    When he lumbered off the stage, Roxie wouldn’t meet his gaze, and all his suspicions were confirmed. If it hadn’t been terrible, she would have gleefully given him a supersized ration of shit. As it was, all she did was hand him another tequila shot.
    “You can tell me the truth, you know,” he said, sweat beading down his face as he tilted his head back and swallowed the harsh liquor in a gulp.
    “There’s no Santa or Easter Bunny.”
    He grimaced from the burn in his throat. “I meant about my playing.”
    “I’d say it speaks for itself.”
    “Pretty terrible, huh?”
    “I’m bored. Let’s get out of here.”
    Black nodded and moved to the exit, Roxie close behind, and when they were outside amidst the cigarette butts and exhaust fumes, she slowed.
    “Okay, you asked for it. It was rough. Embarrassing, even. I mean, there were moments where I wanted to gouge my ears out with a jam knife to make it stop.”
    “Don’t sugarcoat it.”
    “But there were also a few where it was decent. Not good. Decent. And you could see that if you kept practicing, it might get better than decent. Which I’d think you’d know. How many years were you playing before you got