Webber

It was a quarter to midnight at the Hound Honkey Tonk, a rankus little bar 20 miles west of Fort Worth, Texas. The smell of Lone Star Beer and Marlboro cigarettes lingered in the air as the young artist took the stage.

Calling it a stage was a bit of an understatement...it was a 6 x 6-foot wood platform in the corner of the bar. It stood about 2 feet off of the ground and put artists slightly above eye level of the crowd. The young artist grabbed a weathered bar stool and stood next to the stage. He placed it next to a microphone near the front center of the platform. He then removed an acoustic guitar from his case and sat down in front of the microphone.

The older crowd at the Hound this Friday night was indifferent to the young artist on stage. They went about drinking, smoking, and talking. The young artist approached the microphone...a gigantic relic from the 1950's. It was the size of a football and had more chrome than most cars of the 50s. As he began to speak, the old mic squelched with feedback, piercing the ears of the Hound's crowd. The older crowd was no longer indifferent to the young artist as their glares pierced the young man's soul.

He cleared his throat as he adjusted the mic. He then leaned in and said, "Howdy folks. I'm Webber and this is my song, Dirt Roads. I hope you enjoy it."

Webber strummed his guitar and struggled to find the right chords. After a few measures of eternity, he began the song and it was all downhill from there.

His voice cracked as he sang the first verse. The voice cracking didn't help the stumbling chords on his guitar. By the time the chorus rolled around, Webber had forgotten the words to his own song. So he improvised and start humming. "Dirty roads hmmm hummm hmmm in my heart hmm hmmm huhmmm Jesus".

As Webber entered the second verse, the crowd continued its descent into turning against him. The boos and sneers started from somewhere in the back, surging through the crowd. The mild disenchantment quickly surged into a full-blown inferno of hate. Webber's poor performance poured gasoline on the crowd's hostility and they directed directly at crawWebber. The first bottle of Lone Star hit behind him, shattering into a dozen pieces, spilling beer and spit over the stage. He pushed into the second chorus and continued to ride the struggle bus. "Dirty roads....hum hum hum"

Around the third or fourth hum, the second bottle of Lone Star hit Webber right in the guitar. He fell back ass-over-tea-kettle on to the stage. Webber exclaimed "FUCK" as he hit the ground. The crowd erupted into laughter and three more bottles of Lone Star hit around the fallen Webber. He scrambled backward, his slung guitar sliding along the stage on its side. He crawl-fell off the stage as more Lone Star Bottles pelted the stage around him. The bar manager had run over from behind the bar and was now helping Webber to his feet. "Get out of here...you fuckin suck" the manager said as he pushed Webber through a side door in next to the stage.

After stumbling through the side door, Webber found himself in a midnight dark parking lot. He studied his damage. His guitar was still in one piece...a little scratched and covered in beer from the beer bottle assault. His side hurt a bit from falling off the stool but no blood. His face hurt for some reason...perhaps the bar manager got a slap or punch in on Webber's way out the door. All and all, Webber wasn't too worse for wear considering the number of beer bottles thrown at him.

Webber turned to put his guitar away and realized his case was inside the bar still. He contemplated just leaving but that case was part of his lively hood. Webber lurched toward the side door and it flung open. Surprised, Webber started to walk into the bar when his guitar case came flying out toward him. It bounced off of the dirt parking lot once and slid to a stop at his feet. Before Webber could ask the Bar Manager for his $10.00 for his performance, the short, fat, bald Bar Manager yelled, "You need to get the fuck out of here you piece of shit."

The door slammed closed and Webber stood in the parking lot for a moment, evaluating the evening's events. He sighed and flipped open the clamshell guitar case. It had landed open and face down from the Bar Manager's throw. Webber then placed his beer-covered guitar in its case and closed it. He picked up the case and walked toward the old pay phone in the parking lot. He had enough change to call for a ride but didn't know where he needed to go.