The Lore of the Eternal West: Chapter 2 'Enter the Banjo' (Pt I of II)

 

Chapter 2: Enter the Banjo (Pt I)

You panic!

Your fingers, having sensed there is nothing there to hold onto or grab at, curl in disappointment and start to shake. It’s bad enough that it’s already the time of day –or night- by which you have already knocked down a couple- or a few. Now, you are completely unarmed, on top of it all.

Free of weapons in unknown territory, but not at all free of worries.

What if they decide to ambush you… NOW!

What if they are behind it all!

You could lose yourself on that tangent, but the painted lady in front of you does not leave you much room for it. The frame of her lips widens from side to side in what she probably hopes is a welcoming smile – it is so wide that you can’t help but think it’s almost sardonic- and beckons to you to step further into the cantina.

Satisfied that your holsters are empty, she drops the hand holding the sign to the side of her hips- the sign dangling loosely from her hand- and she extends the arm that was previously forming a gracious semicircle from shoulder to waist, in a follow me gesture.

Deafened by the newly returned ambience of the bar

and your thoughts of helplessness, you don’t respond to her call immediately. Instead, you look around you at the scene that is unfolding – just a generic bar room scene that is only abnormal in its heightened level of activity for that time of night. You remember the mental note you made earlier and command your eyes to steer clear of the gentleman voraciously devouring his meal as though it is his last- it might as well be, in this place! The poker players to your left are so engrossed in their game that they don’t pay you any mind, initially; their mumbling only interrupted by an occasional groan or guffaw depending on whether they were winning or losing.  As a matter of fact, a member of that tight group is now about to fold, mincing a soft curse in the mill of his mouth while he is at it.

Everywhere around you, there are patrons from all walks of life, most of them standing up as the seating area is filled to capacity, all of them lost to chatter, booze and chant. Not necessarily in this order. Amid all the hubbub of the bar, there is only one thing missing, that could mask it all with a layer of decency: music.

There is none.

Indeed, there doesn’t appear to be a piano anywhere in sight. What you do see on the far corner to your right, beyond the few round tables that would significantly delay your egress if you were to start walking in that direction, you observe a … marked absence of furniture.

In other cantinas, that’s where you would expect the piano to be, but not in this one.

And there is no decoration on the wall to make up for that emptiness there. The pale-white expanse of the paint on the wall is only interrupted by a single gas lamp that seems to have grown from some unimagined…bowels within the wall, rather than be fitted on it. You look at the flame inside its transparent cell and feel for it. If only you could set it free. If only you could touch it for a second. Feel it and not get burnt.

As if that’s possible…

And that’s when you feel your left hand burning!

All of a sudden, you start questioning the thoughts you were just having about the flame, recognizing them as… not yours! But you hardly have the luxury of time to ponder that when you  identify the aggressor behind this miniature arson. The unlikely agent of this sensation:

The palm of the painted lady’s hands as it is pressed tightly against yours.

 

 

Call me Samantha, she says, as if objecting to you thinking of her yet again as an unnamed character in this setting, and she starts leading you toward the bar counter by the hand.

As though hypnotized, you follow – although you do try to delay a few steps and assess the situation, which you fail to do as your whole body is somehow … locked into motion, blindly obeying … Samantha’s whims.

As you and your companion start this determined walk toward the bar, the whole scene freezes again.

Actually, that’s only your first, faulty impression of it.

Freeze, it does not. But everyone – literally EVERYONE- at the bar seems to have lost their interest in whatever their doing (including the dinner vulture you now cross eyes with in confusion, getting a brief glimpse of a red patch of goo on his right cheek. They are ALL looking at you.

Nay, staring at you.

Without a word.

Without a sound.

But… expectantly.

Marking your every step and breath until you reach your destination.

The large crowd of drinkers standing up in front of you up until seconds ago, now parts for you and your companion as did the waters did for Moses, unearthing the corridor that connects entrance and bar in a bond.

As soon as you’ve reached your destination, you are greeted by the bartender behind the counter who politely smiles at you and takes only a few more seconds to finish polishing the beer glass he is holding with much respect and admiration. Thus suspending your anticipation for a while longer.

For anticipation is what you feel, despite not knowing why you do.

But you are right in your assumption that something is going to give soon. He does. A shot of bottled courage, to you. He motions for you to drink up before you have time enough to question what is happening.

Still under a spell that you can fathom only as much as you can break, you lift the glass to your parched lips, toast the gentleman silently and empty its contents into your mouth.

 

It burns.

You replace the shot glass.

He does too – with one more.

He holds out two fingers for your reference.

You start counting them, thinking that this is a test. You are not that drunk yet!

You begin to understand.

You down the second shot too.

And the third.

And that is when the spell is broken and he finally opens his mouth to give voice to the first and only complete utterance you will ever hear him articulate:

What took you so long?

 

**********************************************