It’s the perfect mix. A prime fusion of a charismatic front man, swagger pulsating through slick songwriting and melodies crafted from thin air, all laid on sultry drumbeats and strings. It’s a grainy demo tape gone digital, a Lo-Fi mix for a rainy day, yet a jukebox jam fit for the dancefloor of an obscure dive bar. And that is where we are.

As the sun falls low in Central California, the sky opens itself to the heavens, painting the scene in vivid colors. Fiery oranges and brick reds give way to indigo clouds, soft like cotton candy, adorned with hues of pink and blue.

A tape deck from the analog era rests in the dash. Sitting on tight leather seats, a thin-rimmed steering wheel is firmly in your grasp. Only chrome finishes here, no plastic, just iron and muscle. Riding along, your eyes squint at the brilliant orb descending into the horizon, then open wide under the shade cast by a mountain, and squint again in the late evening rays.

You are triumphant. Here in this seat, you are in control. Your confidence slides around each bend and curve. Your passenger seat is empty, but that seat is a top ticket. It’ll be occupied soon, but for now, its your glory. This is your moment. You’re living.

It’s show time. As you back into a makeshift parking spot, the sun has just crossed below the horizon, though its rays cast the full color spectrum through the sky above. Somewhere overhead, stars are clocking in for the night shift, grabbing their coffee and stalling outside the office building somewhere way up in the sky. For now, the only twinkle comes from the string lights that line the canopy of the patio just a few steps ahead.

Gravel crunches as you strut across the parking lot. Grill smoke scents the air - tacos al pastor. Pairs of folks nurse their beers at picnic tables on the patio. Los hermanos estan acerca de la parrilla, belting out banter as they slide hot-off-the-grill meat into tortillas de maiz, dashing it with onion, cilantro, lime, and of course, a radish on the side. There’s no bouncer at the door, no cover, just come right in.

There’s confidence in your walk. The hard bottoms of your boots hit the brick masonry with authority. That sound of your step is as crisp as the crease in your denim, fresh as the fur that lines your jacket. “Not a stain on me.”

Yeah, you bad, but that goes without saying. It’s already spoken for, through the swagger in your stride, the puff in your chest, and the lift in your chin. You move with intention as you saunter through the saloon's open doors, no side-eye unspotted.

The scene comes full circle. This is what you came for. The lights are low. The energy is high. The room buzzes with humans, faces indiscernible, but body language understood. Feet move side to side, elbows fixed at 90 degrees. Hair curled, pressed, pinned, jewels catching the faint light coming from above the bar. There, shadowed faces lean in and place their orders.

Heads turn to the side, exchanging quick words, shooting glances. Cropped hair sits just above the shirt collar while the neck bends and fingers ruffle through dollar bills. Behind the bar, tequila is poured, bottles at twelve o clock, thick glassware and clear liquid catching the light of the lone bulb overhead.

House margs and tequila shots slide across the bar, while a few jack and cokes are seated close by. The precious liquid eases its way through ice, down the incline and into rouge lips. Eyes are wide, casting an inviting gaze from all three sides of the bar. Drinks slide, dollars are dropped, and places are swapped as the beverages head toward the floor.

Before them is the stage, vacant, but expectant. Lights cast a magenta hue, forming a semicircle on the curtain in the rear. The stage is set, mise en place: Keyboard positioned to the left, two microphones stationed to the right, and a drum set in the middle, its seat awaiting occupancy.

The room continues to buzz. Heads lean, feet shuffle, and elbows rise and fall. Electricity is in the air. Smoke flows through the stage lights. More feet cover the floor, and bodies inch closer together. Louder grows the chorus of inaudible voices. The room is doused with lighter fluid, ready to burst into flame.

Let the show begin.

Tat-Tat-Tat, Dum Dum

“Baby get your shit together we hitting the town”

Keys, bass, and angelic voices fill the room. Lights shift from pink to green to gold to blue. Shoulders sway from left to right, fingers snap, and bodies rock back and forth.

“It’s been a long time since we drank all night, I wanna see that ass move around”

Drinks are held high, waistlines draw circles, and hands are welcomed on supple hips.

“Pick up the liquor leave your kids at your sisters”

Smiles open up across faces in the crowd. Teeth gleam through low light.

“Pick out your shoes and your favorite smelling perfume… a lil while longer, baby girl I’m gonna get you.”

The beat is steady as the drummer whispers sweet nothings into the mic. The ladies fill the air with an ethereal lullaby that tickles the hair on your neck, an itch that longs for the touch of a warm hand. Mellow keys weave effortlessly into the easy rhythms while the bass is unbothered, steady as she goes.

The universe dissolves into this moment. The room spins gently on its axis, rotating on the cadence of the band. The sound is an aphrodisiac, drawing out the sweet nectar of human passion. Soft pastel lights mix with smoke and lay upon skin. With warm palms and cool metallic jewelry, human forms make acquaintance. Curves are accentuated. Dimensions grow apparent. Lights are low, and temperatures rise.

Predispositions give way to a human experience, raw and true. Human is what you are, a child of nature, subject to the rules of her house. Have no doubt, nature rules this place too. Down to the chemicals, the pheromones, the electrical sensations, she leaves no details unaddressed. Even as you drift, she beckons you to return, reliable as the kick on the downbeat. As the room goes round on the potter’s wheel, you melt away, your rigid exterior falling into soft matter. Falling, floating, sinking deeper.

Tat-Tat-Tat Dum Dum

⧟

A blast of cold air from the window AC accompanies the arrival of a new tenant to the ashtray. Hunched over the coffee table, forehead in your hands, you massage your temples to clear the fog. The blinders cast their thin shadows on your skin. The frayed leather couch is sticky to the touch, should it contact your exposed arms and shoulders.

Upon the glass coffee table, innumerable bottles, once containing beer at some point the past days or hours, huddle together on the tabletop as a crude decoration, with water-damaged playing cards and an inglorious mound of cigarillo guts to match. The ceiling fan overhead grinds its way around its path. Whatever noise it makes goes unnoticed. You sit in the pseudo-silence of the AC, fingers working through your hair, staring blankly into the tabletop for unknowable minutes.

Motion comes from behind a bedroom wall, and the door opens. Cousin emerges, shuffling toward the kitchen in his boxers. You glance in his direction briefly, then return your gaze to the coffee table, not saying a word.

The Monday morning silence is broken by the kitchen sink. Sipping a glass of water, Cousin returns to the living room, looking you up and down.

“What the hell is going on with you? You look crazy,” Cousin says.

“Huh? Leave me alone,” you reply indignantly.

“There you go, on that shit again.”

“What you talking bout?”

“You know what I’m talking bout. Always letting some pussy mess your head up.”

“Don’t you need to be applying to jobs or something?”

“Why I gotta go get a job? You letting these women live in your head rent-free.”

*With Cousin’s words reverberating, the scene fades to black. To be continued…*