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

                        Chapter 2: Enter the Banjo (Pt I)

 If you had been given a few seconds to contemplate the scene, you would be now asking yourself what he meant by it.

But don’t worry, you will get your answer either way:

The painted lady- Samantha, she corrects your- turns her back against you in defiance (but you also feel a strange aura of protection emanating from that gesture) and faces the… audience.

Yes, you already begin to think of them this way.

The show is about to begin!

She announces, to which the deafening silence responds by… leaving the room, succeeded by an enthusiastic cheer.

At this very moment, all the patrons of the establishment, including the few little kids that are here, begin to bang their forks, spoons or any other form of cutlery they might have against their plates and/or glasses. Even those standing up try to contribute to the noise, by clapping their hands in syncopation to the steady beat of steel against china.

Samantha steps to your right side now, revealing the star of the show to the hungry audience.

You curtsy.

They appreciate it but do not relent.

Samantha is now pointing toward the corner that is now to your far left – the empty corner you were gazing at earlier.

You know you better start making your way there sooner or … else!

Again, this word pops to the fore of your head like interference, and you know better than not to accept an offer you can’t refuse anyway.

You start dragging your boots in the direction of the gas lantern, native to the wall ahead.

Each dragged footstep trying its best to delay the inevitable, but succeeding only in bringing you closer and closer to your destiny.

In a matter of seconds that you wish were centuries- and which probably are in a parallel reality- you reach the… stage.

You take a moment to concentrate on the flame, once again. Beheld in such close proximity, it’s even more tempting yet… scandalous.

And you forsake all else for just a few seconds which, this time, do feel like minutes at least, and draw as much energy as you possibly can from the core of the flame. You haven’t practiced this, so it still feels as though you are being delusional, but you suddenly feel a strange yet pacifying warmth engulfing your whole body, starting from the top of your head and slowly trickling all the way down to your toes.

You are now fully charged and ready to face  the music, quite literally.

You do a 180 degree turn and wave to them.

They respond by making even more noise.

You raise your hand up high and make a halting gesture. They obey.

The show now really is about to begin.

Problem is, you don’t know what show.

You don’t know what you are expected to do.

I mean, you do feel you are supposed to entertain them. That much is strikingly obvious. But you don’t know what with. All that time you have dedicated to mastering the art of the revolver was time not spent on the discovery of any other inclinations that might reside within you.

You don’t want to admit it – who would- but you start to lose it, once again.

But this time, unlike your 6-shooters which disappeared magically less than 5 minutes ago, something … appears.

You feel an unwelcome weight on your back, something you have never felt before. What feels like a sizeable volume seems to drag you back, although you don’t have to try too hard to resist it.

With your right  hand, the one that was halting the crowd only seconds ago, you reach for your upper back, as though in search of some phantom itch in the nape of your neck.

But this time, it is your turn to be halted. By something hard and relatively, probably made of wood – you are not really sure. It feels like the top part of something connected to a larger … body. You have to… unsling it from your shoulder.

Yes, something is slung over your shoulder like a mailman’s bag, alright. You can now see the leather strap extending from your right shoulder diagonally toward the lower left of your midsection. Something that wasn’t there earlier, you are sure of that. At least, you are sure of something!

Still in a dream-like daze, you persuade your hands to get it over with and bring to the fore what almost… grew on your back, pretty much like the lantern on the wall.

The moment you see it, you know it was always meant to be there. You feel a strange mix of heartache and passion. You strum it with your bare hands just the once to make sure it’s in tune.

It is.

It’s a banjo alright!

You’ve never played one before, still you feel as though you were always destined to play one. As though every little tidbit of experience was but a stepping stone, the sole purpose of which was to help you cross the river and… arrive… here!

You strum it once more, this time teasing a closed chord… fretting it…

It feels so right yet… a little bit wrong. As though your right hand is not exactly meant to pluck the strings without a… buffer.

And as if in response, you feel a pinching sensation coming from the ends of your thumb, index and middle finger. As though someone was trying to choke them, but a little more gently so. And that’s when you see them for the first time. The thumb and finger picks. Your ring finger curls up and the pinky follows suit. They both anchor themselves against the coarse flatness of the drum head. You try again.

This is what comes out… naturally:

You stop and draw breath.

You are not exactly tired, but you need a little break.

But the crowd is not exactly patient.

If they had relented a little, to allow you the courtesy of fumbling your way around what you were expected to do, they are now back at it in full swing. This is when you first notice they appear to have a ring leader. It’s the man with the meat-juice and beer smeared all over his face. The messy eater.

Not only does he seem to be the most enthusiastic of the bunch in pounding his fist upon the table, but the rest of the crowd seems to steal a glimpse of him every now and again, seemingly in search of confirmation.

And confirm, he does. He confirms away, oblivious or indifferent to his wife’s blank stare – which has you as its aim now. Those eyes look… dead.

And you will soon be too, if you don’t do anything about it, your inner voice tells you. The one that knows better. You know better.

You refocus your attention to the banjo and, as you do, the commotion starts to dissipate.

It takes a few seconds to decide what to play, drawing on an apparently new-found repertoire, and, for some reason, this is what you play.

 

As you do, everyone seems to be transfixed by the notes coming out of your instrument – equal parts captivated and overwhelmed with a sense of doom.

As the melody flows from an unknown compartment lodged in your heart or… soul, all the way out through your finger tips, onto the metal and the wire and out of the resonator, you start feeling more and more at ease in your new role. At some point, you are even on the verge of joining your audience in their silent trance, running on autopilot.

Yet, you sense a very slight pull in the center of your forehead, like a tension headache that is slight but… there.

It feels as though someone is trying to pull your forehead with a gentle… hook, piercing your skin but with just a pinch, tugging at you every few seconds or so, as if to command your attention.

 

When you decide to look in the direction from which this mysterious force seems to be emanating, you find yourself looking at the… bartender!

At first, you puzzle at why he should be beckoning at you in this inexplicable way. Does he have some sort of super power? Does such a thing even exist, by the Lord Harry!

Well, you can’t answer that right now.

You have to keep on playing…

As soon as you’ve played the last few notes, the crowd breaks into a roaring applause.

It feels good.

Like the waves of the cool ocean when the break upon you after having been roasted until well-done by the scorching August sun.

 You almost get carried away… almost….

For you can’t help but shudder at what you think you saw, even if briefly, while looking at the bartender mid-song.

You wouldn’t stake your life on it, but you are nearly certain that you saw it:

At some point, and only for a fraction of a second – there for a mom.,/ent and nowhere the next- his eyes had turned red.