I was going to write about something else, but I can't do it. Not after last night. It wouldn't be fair to the good people I saw.
This is a small town. Our band played music in a small abandoned storefront with dusty floors and plywood on the windows.
I asked about the plywood windows. Someone said that recently, two different vehicles smashed into this place. The surprising part was: both drivers were stone sober—if you don't count beer.
Anyway, I believe it. No sooner had I arrived in town, than someone shoved a longneck in my hand.
I met country accents. I met kids. I met a fella
with so many freckles, he put buckshot to shame. I met an elderly woman who said she'd skipped her nightly meds— since they would've made her drowsy. She said, “I don't want to fall asleep and snore during your music. Or worse.”
I didn't ask her what could be worse than snoring.
In the front rows: my friends, my wife's friends, my family, cousins, surrogate aunts, somebody's lap dog, and folks who were at my wedding.
I shook hands with opposing mayor candidates, and swore that—if I were a resident here—I'd…