Road Trip 04: Sweet Music

This is the fourth chapter of a multi-part story about a cross-country trip of self-discovery and adventure, with several different stops and a story at each. I'm writing this as I go, though I have a good idea of what will happen as our main character heads west. Each chapter is more or less a standalone, but there is an overarching story here, and many of the character moments and references will make more sense if you've read it all.

I initially meant this chapter to be a short, quick story, but it developed into something a little more intricate as I started delving into the music, which was a lot of fun to try to integrate. Some songs are here because of their words, and those are strategically placed. Others are here because they fit the sound I think Lizzie, the female character, would have gone for here. The songs I quoted or referenced in this story are listed at the end - not a bad playlist in and of itself.

CHAPTER 4: Sweet Music

Lizzie danced slowly with herself in front of the desk, her hands in her own hair as she swayed, lit lightly from around, and backlit from the screen. I watched her, my head starting to sway along with her fluid movements. I could imagine how moving like that made her feel, and then I suddenly felt it too, like I'd conjured up the sensation. After what felt like a long time but probably wasn't, I went to her, wanting to touch her skin, sliding my hand onto her side, exposed under the halter. As I did, she arched her back and leaned into me. Her head rested on my chest and she let out a little breath, a sigh or a moan or a call, it wasn't clear. It didn't need to be.

Day 13 - Friday, October 5, 2019

There was a chill in the air as I walked down 18th Street toward Baltimore Avenue. The sun was getting low in the sky and a breeze had kicked in from the west. Sweater weather was my favorite kind of weather, though, so there was a spring in my step as I wandered among the street vendors and open studios in the heart of Kansas City's Crossroads district, where the First Friday celebration was in full force.

I'd timed my visit here to make sure it coincided with this monthly event - an evening in which restaurants, studios, performance spaces, and people came together to celebrate KC's art scene. My hotel was only a couple blocks away, and I'd been wandering for an hour and a half now, spending some of that in art spaces featuring all sorts of things I appreciated, though probably didn't understand. I'd texted a few photos to Katie, my old friend the artist, who could do both.

Katie had been the third person to text me this morning, my mother and my cousin Sam being the first two. There had been a few others throughout the day - my dad, three or four friends from high school, another handful from college. And, interspersed among them, was the only one I hadn't answered.

Happy Birthday, Dan. I hear you're moving cross country. I hope it helps. I'm sorry.

Sarah hadn't reached out since the day I'd left the apartment, and neither had I. She could have fallen into a volcano, for all I knew - four months of total radio silence, until 11:47 this morning. When the text had come in, I'd stared at the notification for a while without opening it, knowing already what it probably said but not quite willing to acknowledge its existence yet. When I finally opened it over lunch, I read it twice, then ceremonially tossed the phone to the table, the clatter turning a couple heads at the sandwich shop I was eating at. I hadn't opened it since, but it played over in my head regardless.

I hope it helps.

Fuck off.

I shook the thought from my head for approximately the seventeenth time today - that text, and the absolute mountain of shit that supported it, was not going to ruin my 24th birthday, or my time here wandering the streets of KC enjoying the whirl of color, sound, and humanity around me.

After leaving Chicago - and Zahra - on Sunday, I'd spent a few quiet days in St. Louis. I'd done the tourist things - the arch, a riverboat ride, some bar-hopping, some music. Spent a while in the National Blues Museum, though I couldn't be convinced St. Louis was a better place for it than Memphis. My time there had been mostly solitary, though I'd talked to a few people at the bars. Here, though, in this lively place in a lively city, I felt more ambitious.

I'd started exploring at the center of the party, the corner of Southwest and Baltimore, and had wandered aimlessly from there, taking in the artwork and murals, watching the street performances, listening to the music, sampling the food, striking up conversation wherever. It was sort of freeing, the feeling of floating around in a place I was just passing through, sampling but not staying, traveling in whatever direction struck my fancy and always finding something worthwhile there.

That's why, as I approached an intersection and I heard a voice singing low and feminine and melancholic, I followed it. The depth of it grabbed me and drew me another block west, into the setting sun.

Well I was out there, and all alone

I was searching for a friend

Even with my sunglasses, the glare was too bright to see her at first, and she only came into focus when I got close enough to put the sun to my side. She sat on a chair on the sidewalk, with a beautiful bright mural behind her, a portable amp next to her, a mic in front of her, and an acoustic guitar in her hands. There was no one else who had stopped to listen, though people were passing by here and there; we were now toward the outskirts of the event area. For her part, it wasn't clear to me that she saw anyone who was passing by: her eyes were closed and her face turned slightly upward, so that if she'd been looking, her gaze would have flown over the low slung buildings across the street and into the orange-red tinged clouds above, almost the same color as her long auburn hair.

You saw my need and you came along

With your charm you took me in

She was small. Petite, I guess one would say instead. She looked delicate, thin-boned, with pale skin like porcelain. She leaned over the guitar as her long, thin fingers danced and strummed, her nails painted a deep crimson. But while she was small, her voice was deep and robust and textured and timeless, with a bit of the sound of curling smoke to it, like it came from an old juke joint. She sang in a minor key, slowly, wrenchingly. I'd never heard the song that way, but the interpretation felt natural.

Overnight, you captured my heart

Turned the smoke into a flame

She looked the part, too. She had a small nose stud, and I could see the slightest edge of a tat on her right collarbone, though the rest of it disappeared under her shirt and denim jacket. Her newsboy-style hat was just old enough to look earned, and not old enough to look like she'd bought it secondhand. She leaned over that guitar as though it was a part of her. Yet her face was round and young, with the faintest freckles, giving an innocent tinge to a voice that oscillated between soulful and world-weary.

I can't free my heart from you baby

'Cause you keep it hanging on your string

I can't free my heart from you baby

'Cause you keep it hanging on your string

As others passed by, I stopped, and listened. She built the song brilliantly, letting the desperation of it grow and growl in her rendition, and I was transfixed. She never opened her eyes as she sang, not even to look at the two or three quarters that fell into the guitar case she'd left open from people who walked by while she sang.

Your way of loving is my weakness

You made me yours, body and soul

My mind tells me to leave you

But my heart won't let me go

'Cause you tie me down to you in every way

Turn my pleasure into pain

I watched her every move - her throat quivering as she belted it out, her pink lips forming each word, her left hand sliding expertly over the frets while her right hand strummed, her foot tapping out the beat while her knee, exposed from a hole in her tight jeans, kept time. It was sexy, both in the traditional sense and in the platonic ideal. I felt drawn to her presence.

Every time I try to break loose

That's when you tighten up on your string

I can't hold up to what I'm going through

My heart is weakening from the strain

She was nearing the end now, and I leaned up against a tree, my own foot following hers.

Now I know if you untied me

I'd be bound to you just the same

I can't free my heart from you baby

Cause you keep it hanging on your string

I can't free my heart from you baby

'Cause you keep it hanging on your string

I can't free my heart from you baby

'Cause you keep it hanging on your string

She was silent and still a moment after finishing, the last word hanging in the air. Across the street, a group of passers-by cheered, and she finally opened her eyes to acknowledge them, a wry smile on her lips. That's when she noticed me, and I saw her crystal blue eyes focus on my face.

"That was really something. I've never heard that song performed live before. I love what you did with it."

"Thanks - you know it?"

"Heart on a String, Candi Staton. My favorite of hers, I think. Up there, anyway."

"Mine too." Her spoken voice didn't match her singing - she sounded eminently normal, where I might have expected a Janis Joplin to emerge.

"Do you perform a lot around here?"

"Here and there, yeah. Mostly coffee shops, some opening act stuff for other local artists. I'm playing a small gig Tuesday night."

"I hope it works out, more people should hear you. You have an amazing voice."

"Well thanks - I hope it does too." She smiled, and leaned back, taking a break for a minute.

"What else do you play?"

"Old soul and R&B is where I usually live for performances, but... older country, rock, hell, I can knock back Taylor Swift. I just like to play."

I started to ask about her set list when a voice called "Happy birthday!" from across the street. I looked, surprised, wondering who knew me here, and saw an unfamiliar group, with one of the guys waving. Then I heard her answer.

"Thanks, Tom!" she waved back.

"It's your birthday?" I asked, startled by the coincidence.

"Technically yesterday, but who's counting?"

"Oh cool. Happy birthday. Mine's today."

"No shit? Cool. And you're spending it... wandering around talking to buskers?"

"Seems like a pretty good way to spend it to me."

"Long as it's not the only thing."

"I guess we'll see there." She flashed me that wry smile again.

"Got a request for your birthday? I was about to pack it up, but I'll play you one."

"How about two requests? 'Dark End of the Street', and a drink after?" She smiled - not the first time a guy had tried to pick her up while playing, no doubt.

"Tell you what. I'll grant you number one - and that's a hell of a song - and give you a rain check on two. I have to meet a friend for dinner soon." I smiled and nodded, only a little chagrined. I tried.

"I'll take it."

"Want to get up here and sing it with me?" A little mischievous glint in her eye there.

"Absolutely no one wants to hear that, I promise you." She laughed, then started in.

Dark End of the Street was a classic, a tale of infidelity and longing. James Carr. I don't know why I'd requested it specifically; maybe hearing from Sarah had sparked an association. Despite the subject matter it always hit me as fundamentally sweet and optimistic - a song I could always imagine in a movie. It hit different from her; like the Candi Staton song, she slowed it down a bit, tinged it with some bitter sadness that fit my new perspective a little better. While the original had a choir behind Carr, this woman's version was stripped by necessity, raw. It was a short one, but worth it to hear her voice deliver it, with powerful feeling.

And when the daylight hours roll 'round

And by chance we're both downtown

If we should meet, just walk on by

Oh, darling, please, don't cry

By the end, a couple passers-by had stopped to listen to her sing, her voice cracking just right with the weight of the words. She poured herself, her body, her voice, into every syllable. I was transfixed by her, again. She wasn't exactly my type but in that moment she was the sexiest woman I'd ever seen.

Tonight, we'll meet

At the dark end

Of the street

When she finished, the couple of people around applauded lightly. One dropped a buck into the guitar case. I didn't say anything - just paused appreciatively, then took out a twenty to drop in there too.

"Hang on, I don't want you money, that was a birthday gift!"

"Yeah, but it was your birthday too, and I can't buy you a drink, so this will have to be good enough. Thanks for the tunes - you're really talented." I started to leave.

"Hey, come to my show Tuesday?"

"Wish I could, but I'm not going to be around then - I'm just passing through. Leaving town Sunday." I tried to look at her in a way that communicated how tempting the invite was, though.

"Tell you what..." that stopped me. "You're from out of town so you probably don't know about Gather Night."

"What's that?"

"Little tradition around here, started up maybe seven years ago - not too many people in KC even know about it. But every weekend, there's a party, exclusively for people who celebrated birthdays in the week. Starts at 11, every Friday night. Music, booze, even dancing, depending on the crowd. No guests, no exceptions, just people with birthdays from Sunday to the Saturday of the party."

"How many people do they get? Bars don't usually go for small functions like that on a Saturday night."

"It's not a bar - this is very much an 'on the side' deal. Run out of an old storefront over in West Bottoms - you know where that is?" I nodded.

Cash only, ID required. I've gone for my last five birthdays, since I was 21. And it's not all that small - there are usually 40, 50 people there over the course of the night. I know it sounds sketchy, but it's actually kinda cute and chill. A police lieutenant's brother runs it, so it doesn't get 'noticed'."

"Sounds like it could be fun, I might check it out. You have an address?"

She looked it up on her phone, and I took it down in mine. "You should come. It's always entertaining - loose, good vibe. Not even really a party spot, we get older folks come too. There's an 80-something year old woman who has shown up last couple years who is one of my favorites."

"I'll think about it, probably see you there tonight."

"Cool. Hey, what's your name?"

"I'm Dan."

"Nice to meet you, Dan. I'm Lizzie."

We parted ways then. I went out to grab some food at a BBQ food truck and watch the sun set, finally. After a drink at a nearby bar, I went first to an ATM to get some cash, and then back to the hotel for a quick power nap - sounded like I was going to be out late tonight.

___________________________________

It was about 11:10pm when my Uber dropped me off outside the venue. I wasn't the only one getting there around that time: a man in his forties wearing a suit had just emerged from a car parked across the street, and a blonde woman who looked to be about my age was just getting to the door, wearing a small red dress and high heels. I worried I was underdressed - Lizzie made it sound casual, but the blonde was anything but casual, and the forties guy was wearing a suit. I was still in my hoodie and jeans. Oh well - I'd find out soon enough.

The windows were blacked out, though I could tell there was light inside, if dim. There was a man out front, and I watched the blonde show ID. He looked, nodded, and gave it back as she entered, wobbling a little - seemed like this wasn't the first bar she'd visited that night. I could hear faint jazz as the door swung open.

I got to the front just before the other guy, and showed my ID. The bouncer gave me an extra look - probably a combo of the PA license plate and the fact that the photo didn't reflect my beard, a post-Sarah addition to my face. But it was still obviously me, and the birthday matched, so in I went.

Turns out I hadn't needed to worry about dress code - it was about as varied as I could imagine. There were about twenty people there already, and it was a true mix. Looked more or less gender balanced, but weighted younger: I could see several people who I estimated to be in their twenties, and several more who might have been in their thirties. After that, a few in their forties or fifties, and a couple who were older, including a black woman in the corner who must have been in her late seventies pushing 80. She was swaying along to the Charlie Parker (A Kansas City guy, I was pretty sure) that was playing from an honest-to-god jukebox in the corner. Most everyone else was around the bar, drinking and mingling.

The place was odd - it was clearly not built for this, but had been done up nice. The "bar" was a long series of tables with chairs organized around some built-in shelving where the booze was kept. There were old posters, mostly band posters from old KC shows and some weird birthday-related vintage stuff, on the walls, and Christmas lights around the room for ambience. The only other light came from some old floor lamps that looked like they'd been picked up at an antique store - hell, maybe all of this had.

I was pleasantly surprised to see they had my favorite bourbon, so I ordered one straight and sipped at it, letting the warmth fill me from the first taste as I looked around more. I hadn't seen Lizzie yet, even though three more people - a thirty-something Asian man, a younger Black woman, and a tall blonde-haired man of somewhat indeterminate age - entered. Clearly some of these people remembered each other from previous years; that must be a weird feature of this, meeting people only once annually, and only around each other. And yet they seemed to have bonded to some degree, too. I wondered how many other first-timers there were here.

The guy at the bar next to me turned. He was one of the older folks, a brown-haired man in his fifties, with a mustache and glasses. "Don't think I've seen you at one of these before, first time?" I nodded.

"Dan." I introduced myself. He was Mike, he said, and we shook hands. "Today's my birthday. Or, I guess yesterday. Friday. The fifth."

"I gotcha. Mine was Wednesday, the 2nd. 57 years young!" He laughed, as though that was an original.

"24." I replied.

"That's my youngest son's age!" It seemed like he wanted me to be impressed by that.

"So how did you hear about this? It seems very hush hush."

"Friend of a friend knows Dave here - Dave runs the place." He nodded toward the bartender, who gave me a curt nod as he mixed a drink for a thirty-something in a very sparkly top a few seats down. "Good way to get out, away from the missus for a bit."

"Well, whatever works for you, I guess." He didn't seem like he heard me there.

"What about you, what brings you here for the first time?"

"Uh, well, I met someone earlier who told me about it - haven't seen her here yet, though, woman named Lizzie."

"Lizzie!" He reacted to that one for sure. "Good kid. Looker. Helluva singer too, you hear her sing?"

"That's how I met her, actually - heard her singing on the street today. Yeah, she's great."

"She is. We don't always overlap here, but last couple years she's gone home with some guy here, Brad I think. Haven't seen him here tonight either. But don't get your hopes up there, buddy." Sigh. Not only was that not the info I wanted to hear, the delivery was irritating. I needed to switch conversation partners.

"Thanks for the advice. Nice to meet you, Mike."

"You too there!" And that was that; he'd clearly already forgotten my name.