• Facebook
• Instagram

In the Style Of…

James Brubaker

__________

Here is Ohio. And here is Dayton, and here is a suburb, a strip mall, a bar—a karaoke bar. I am neither a patron, nor an employee. I am something else entirely, sick with anticipation, throbbing from the bar’s early evening quiet. I wait for the noise. The bar’s patrons wait with me. This suburb is made up of people who stayed when they should have left, should have followed jobs and friends, people who will never escape the town’s pull. These people need what is about to happen. Watch: a woman takes hold of a microphone and waits for her song to start. She is wearing a green, sequined blouse. Her hair is piled on her head, almost stylish. Listen.  

*

The woman with the green sequined blouse and the pile of ash-blonde hair is named Barbara. Occasionally she’ll sing in the style of Janis Joplin or Stevie Nicks, but she usually sings in the style of Faith Hill or The Dixie Chicks. Or she’ll sing “Black Velvet” in the style of Alannah Myles. This is disappointing because Barbara’s voice has a slight, smoky quality that makes “Gold Dust Woman,” in the style of Fleetwood Mac, sound like sex. Barbara’s “Black Velvet” is nice, but she’s sung it so many times that she has started to look bored behind it, like a woman letting her husband finish before she falls asleep reading TV Guide. Barbara is divorced, though, and never takes men home with her. Some nights, perhaps, Barbara sings “Black Velvet” to allow herself the luxury of feeling as if she is bored with sex. One night, after her sixteen-year-old daughter Jane was dumped through a text message by the vice president of the high school’s student council, Barbara sang “You Oughtta Know” in the style of Alanis Morissette. That was some performance. Bar patrons stood up at their tables and clapped their hands above their heads as Barbara wailed like Alanis. Tonight, Barbara is the first singer. She is on stage waiting while the karaoke jockey, Stu DeBonte, works through some technical issues. The stage is not an actual stage, just a small nook where the KJ changes discs and talks to the crowd between songs. Stu DeBonte says things like, “Tip your bartender,” and “Who is buying the next round?” Scott, a regular, is sipping a Jack and Coke, hoping that Barbara will sing “Gold Dust Woman” because her performance of that song turns him on. 

*

Scott is disappointed when the opening chords of “Strawberry Wine,” in the style of Deana Carter, play instead of “Gold Dust Woman.” Scott finishes his Jack and Coke and hurries to the bar to order another. Scott will sing second in the rotation, tonight. Scott usually sings first because he gets to the bar early, but tonight he is having trouble picking his first song. Scott doesn’t use the karaoke binders, filled with titles and codes, splayed out on every fourth table. He brings his own discs in a small leather CD wallet. When Scott fills out the slips of paper announcing his intention to sing, he writes “own disc” and a track number on the form and leaves the slip and the disc on Stu DeBonte’s table. This annoys the KJ because he doesn’t really use CDs anymore, sticks mostly to files stored on a hard drive, but Scott has been a regular for so long, he puts up with it. Most nights, Scott has his setlist picked out before he even arrives at the bar. Tonight, however, he is unsettled because Avalon Software announced they would be laying off a third of their work force. Scott has worked at Avalon for only a year and is certain of his expendability. Instead of starting off the night with an easy song, a crowd pleaser, he’s decided on “Add it Up” in the style of Violent Femmes. One night, Scott tried to pick up an attractive semi-regular named Allie. She has auburn hair, wears flowing clothing and chunky jewelry, and teaches art at Edison Community College. Allie was interested in Scott until he sang “Add it Up” in the style of Violent Femmes. The song made Allie think that Scott might be a bit unstable. That night, Allie went home with a man who is not a regular. Sometimes that is best. 

*

Big Joe comes into the bar while Barbara is singing. He enjoys her voice but doesn’t like the song. He orders a glass of seltzer water and sits at the corner of the bar where he can watch people sing. Big Joe is a large man and owns his own lawn care business. The bartenders don’t mind that he sits at the bar all night and drinks only seltzer water because Big Joe used to drink beer and leave big tips. This ended recently when Big Joe was diagnosed with diabetes. Now that he can’t get drunk anymore, Big Joe doesn’t sing. Big Joe can sing only when he is drunk. A lot of people can sing only when they are drunk. This is sad.  The bar’s patrons used to love to hear Big Joe sing. He sang songs that everyone could relate to. Everybody at the bar loves Big Joe because he is one of them, is big, and sick, and sad, and when he sang he performed. Big Joe understands karaoke. 

*

When Barbara finishes singing, she bows to light applause. The applause isn’t bad for nine o’ clock on a Wednesday. Barbara sits down at her table, nods in thanks. She blushes a little when Aaron walks by her table and tells her she did a nice job. Aaron is twenty-seven, a good fifteen years below the bar’s average age, and always wears cargo pants, polo shirts, and a white ball cap with the word “Cocks” on it, though he doesn’t follow college sports or know anything about the University of South Carolina Gamecocks. Aaron sits down at his table and pours a glass of Bud Lite from a pitcher, makes his girlfriend, a nice enough young woman named Amy, who never has much to say to anyone, pour her own. When Scott starts singing “Add it Up” in the style of the Violent Femmes, Aaron taps Amy on the wrist to get her attention then rolls his eyes in the style of a sitcom. Amy fakes a laugh but secretly likes it when Scott sings songs that other people don’t like. She doesn’t sing at all, thinks that karaoke is silly. Don’t blame her; it’s not her fault she doesn’t understand. Aaron, on the other hand, knows that karaoke is silly. He only wants people to look at him. Aaron sings Brittany Spears songs in a bad falsetto while poorly emulating dance moves from her videos. Sometimes Aaron sings “Walk Like an Egyptian” in the style of The Bangles, but changes the lyrics to “Walk with an erection” and pulls at the crotch of his cargo pants so the fabric tents. Aaron saves this trick for late in the evening when the room is drunk enough to think it’s the funniest thing any of them have ever seen. It is not funny. These songs are no joking matter. 

* 

Big Joe doesn’t like Aaron. I don’t like him either. 

*

Scott doesn’t know it, but Barbara wants him every time he sings “Add it Up.” No one in the bar knows it, because nobody would expect that Barbara would want anyone, let alone Scott, or that a deranged song, sung, albeit convincingly, in the style of the Violent Femmes, would be the song that turns her on. The way Barbara sways when she sings and the smoky tint to her voice imply a woman who wants to be caressed and sweet-talked, to be made love to. Of course it’s the song about fucking that excites her. She most enjoys the part in the lyrics about the guy not having anything to say when he’s between the woman’s thighs. Barbara likes to imagine that Scott is between her thighs. Barbara is a few years older than Scott. She likes that he has a peculiar edge, an air of rock and roll cool uncommon for a forty year old man. Scott is not cool. These songs, though, they bend the light, deceive the senses. Barbara takes a drag from her cigarette and, as she exhales, feels the hot breath of song curl around her. 

* 

Scott’s song also excites Amy. She would never admit this to anyone, especially Aaron, but she enjoys sex more on the nights that Scott sings “Add it Up.” For Amy, this response has more to do with the song than the singer. Amy likes that her boyfriend hates the song, and she likes the twisted need behind the lyrics. This is her small resistance to Aaron. Amy needs small bits of resistance because she and Aaron have been dating since they were juniors in high school. If nothing else, Amy tells herself, Aaron is stable, is easy. 

*

Most of the people in the bar know that stability is overrated, is an illusion. That is why they come to the bar, to karaoke night. 

*

When Scott sings the end part of “Add it Up,” in the style of the Violent Femmes, the part that requires him to wail “Day after day, I get angry,” before chanting “Add it up,” repeatedly, he is an impressive performer and the room begins to shrink around him. In the song’s final moments, we all understand something bigger. 

*

After Scott finishes his song, a non-regular is called up to sing. His name is Chad and he is interchangeable with hundreds of other non-regulars. Chad sings “Friends in Low Places” in the style of Garth Brooks. This is what non-regulars sing. While Chad sings, Scott goes through his discs to select a second song. Barbara watches Scott, trying to think of some way she can get him to invite her home with him. It has to be his house, so Barbara’s daughter won’t know, and even then, Barbara would have to be home early to make sure said daughter gets to school on time. Across the table from Aaron, Amy sings along to Chad’s rendition of “Friends in Low Place.” She never sings along with anyone, so Aaron isn’t sure how to respond. He decides to sulk, and that makes Amy happy. She thinks the singer is cute and he is in a sort of early Springsteen way. He has tight, curly black hair and is wearing a flannel shirt with the top two buttons undone. Chad doesn’t mind revealing a bit of chest hair.  

* 

Chad is at the bar tonight only because he quit his job earlier that day. He had been working as a shift manager at a Distribution Center for one of the area grocery chains. Chad’s job was to make sure groceries got on and off trucks and on the road in a timely fashion. He quit because one of his friends, Tom, was fired for falling asleep in the break room. Nobody cared that Tom had come to work with a 102 degree fever to avoid getting in trouble for calling off, or that Tom was a single dad raising two little girls, fighting to keep up with ever growing credit card payments. Management only cared that a supervisor found Tom sleeping when he was supposed to be working. Tom was fired on the spot, was escorted out by two security guards. He hung his head as he walked. Chad tried to get his friend rehired, but the brass wouldn’t budge so he left his apron on the manager’s desk and walked out. Chad is not a karaoke person. Tonight, though, it feels right. Chad liked Barbara’s song and, though he wasn’t crazy about the song Scott sang, he admired the performance. 

*

After Chad’s song, Aaron sings “If I Had a Million Dollars,” in the style of the Barenaked Ladies. He is followed by a string of other bar patrons who are sometimes around, and sometimes not. Gary with the bad toupee, who wants to write his own songs for a living, sings “Secret Agent Man” in the style of Johnny Rivers. Ron, a small but muscular ex-marine, sings a staccato, angry version of “Whole Lotta Rosie” in the style of AC/DC. Carrie—who doesn’t eat as much as she should and only pretends to drink beers—sings “Sk8er Boi” in the style of Avril Lavigne. And Seth, a tall artist with a head of massive curls, and who painted the bar’s logo on the wall in exchange for beer, and who likes to make abstract line drawings inside matchbooks while he’s waiting for his turn at the microphone, sings “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” in the style of The Tokens. 

*

This is the first hour of karaoke. Bar patrons sing songs and others applaud, polite and bored. Soon, the songs will become something else. An atonal thrum will overwhelm the room. The singers will begin to change. We will all begin to change. Maybe it is the drinks? It isn’t the drinks. Maybe it is the lights? It isn’t the lights. 

*

At ten o’clock, the bar gets busy. New singers enter into the rotation and are forced to compete with the room’s growing din. The first new singer is Robert. He sings angry white guy songs from the early aughts—“Superman” in the style of Third Eye Blind, or “Kim” in the style of Eminem. Robert wears white undershirts and baggy jeans. He used to bleach his hair so that he looked like Eminem. There is something sinister about Robert when he sings, as though he might too much enjoy the songs he’s singing. Tonight he sings “Kill You” in the style of Eminem and, as he flawlessly delivers the lyrics, hitting every word precisely on the beat, the room thickens, grows dark and heavy. Robert relishes the violent lyrics. He stands up on the rung of a barstool and throws a hand in the air, flicks his elbow and points with each line’s accented words. What only a few of the bar’s patrons know—Scott and Barbara among them—is that Robert is an accountant, is married, has two daughters. One of the girls was recently diagnosed with leukemia. Robert doesn’t like to go home, but he does. As Robert works through Eminem’s verses, Mike and Tony T. arrive. Tony T. goes to the bar and orders two Miller Lites. Mike and Tony T. also know about Robert’s family. They think Robert is a good man.  

*

Even though he thinks Robert is a good man, Mike doesn’t like him much. Mike was born and raised in this suburb and thinks that high school was the best time of his life. Mike is forty. He is also a KJ, works Thursday and Saturday nights, occasionally fills in for Stu DeBonte on Wednesdays. He used to be married to the bartender, Trina. They have three kids together. Trina left Mike after she caught him having sex with one of the bar’s regulars, a twenty-two year old girl named Brandy. Brandy doesn’t come to the bar anymore. Mike gets extremely drunk when he comes to the bar, primarily so he doesn’t have to interact with his ex-wife, but also so he can sing. Mike needs to sing to feel good, to feel like he did in high school. Trina gets angry when Mike sings. It isn’t the songs that make her mad. 

*

After Robert’s performance in the style of Eminem, Tony T. is called to the stage to sing “Closer” in the style of Nine Inch Nails. Tony T. has a thick neck and sells cars at a Honda dealership in the liminal area where this suburb bleeds into the next. Tony T. is married to another regular named Jenn. Tony T. impregnated Jenn in a moment of drunken hubris—he was certain he could pull out but didn’t. Jenn said she knew immediately that she was pregnant. Whether she was full of shit when she said that or not doesn’t matter because she was pregnant, and the two had a quick wedding at a small chapel in Gatlinburg. Jenn isn’t at the bar, tonight. She loves Tony T., and he is good to her. He is at the bar because he is always at the bar and because he is thinking about buying it. He is a businessman at heart, which makes his performance of “Closer,” in the style of Nine Inch Nails, unusual. Instead of channeling the song’s uncomfortable desperation and frustrated, pathos-laden need, Tony T. sings the song like a jock jam, grinding with himself on stage, making spanking motions with his hands. During the instrumental bridge, Tony T. talks to the crowd, tells people to dance. Only two or three girls ever do—they grind on each other because Tony T. has turned an angry, desperate song into a filthy, sexy song. The stage area begins to feel humid, sticky, disgusting. Sometimes Tony T. also sings “Bawitdaba” in the style of Kid Rock, in which he unleashes an unearthly, guttural scream that seems to come from someplace else. Big Joe likes it when Tony T. does the Kid Rock scream. I like it, too. Big Joe doesn’t like much of anything now that he’s sober, sipping on seltzer instead of beer, so his approval feels important. Tony T. deserves credit for that. Sometimes Tony T. also sings “Purple Rain” in the style of Prince.

* 

And here in the mess left behind in the wake of Tony T.’s performance, the rotation rolls back to the top. Barbara stands on stage, ready to sing, again, oddly out of place after the spectacle that just took place. What will she sing? Something in the style of the Dixie Chicks or Faith Hill? Barbara’s song begins. What is that bass line, that slow bop? This is new, something she hasn’t sung before. The song is slow and her voice enters at a whisper, a tentative break in the song’s skin. This is “Blue Bayou” in the style of Linda Ronstadt. Barbara sings the quiet parts in her low, smoky voice, staring at Scott, wondering if he notices. He does, but she doesn’t know that he does. Scott imagines scenarios in which he takes Barbara home and slowly undresses her, lightly runs his mouth across her belly. He wonders if she’d stay the night and wake up at six in the morning when he gets ready for work, or if she’d leave directly after. Scott can’t think about the song he is about to sing because he can’t stop thinking about Barbara. She is now singing the song’s chorus in any which way but the style of Linda Ronstadt—Barbara’s is rawer, more from the gut. Scott can’t not watch her. The only person in the bar not glued to Barbara is Aaron, who spins a quarter at his table as he notices that Amy keeps looking at Chad. If he’d just listen to the song. Just listen. Listen. 

*

I need you to listen. 

*

Nobody wants to sing after Barbara. They all know that none of them can haunt the stage like she did, but someone has to try. The task falls to Scott. Robert is sitting at the bar, wondering what awful song Scott is going to sing. Robert doesn’t like it when Scott sings because Scott sings older songs, songs that aren’t relevant to the life of a young man with a wife and two daughters, one of whom has leukemia. Scott’s next song is “White Wedding,” in the style of Billy Idol. As the thin, canned music starts playing, Scott wishes he’d chosen a different song, something sexier, more thoughtful, meaningful—something he could sing to Barbara, who probably enjoys “White Wedding,” but it’s not what he wants to convey. Surprisingly, Big Joe enjoys Scott’s rendition of the song, sits on his stool at the corner of the bar and raises his fist in the air, screams along every time Scott gets to the part where he sings, “Start again.” This is the first time Big Joe has liked anything in weeks. Scott sees his enthusiasm and it feeds his performance. Of course, the “Start again” part of the song is popular with most of the bar’s patrons, whom, if we look around, we can see are starting to become unglued, sloppy. Bodies slink from one point to the next and choruses of shouts rise from the tables when Scott’s practiced tenor waivers with his characteristic intensity or when he drops to one knee with the microphone stand trailing behind him and raises a showman’s hand, drawing cheers the way a conductor’s baton induces music. 

* 

As Scott sings, Amy slips off to the restroom. Aaron watches her go, wonders if she’ll come back. Before she has the chance, Scott’s song ends and Aaron is called up on stage to sing “Piece of Shit Car” in the style of Adam Sandler. Aaron doesn’t sing well, relies on his humor to carry the performance, but here, now, that isn’t enough. As he runs through the song’s jokes the room’s energy dissipates. The bar becomes muddled. Big Joe boos from his corner perch, which catches everyone’s attention, because normally he can’t be bothered to show disinterest—something is in the air tonight. The spell woven by previous singers fades beneath the weight of Aaron’s novelty song. Amy uses the resulting mess of movement and conversation as camouflage, makes a detour on her way back to her table, walks by the bar, makes eye contact with Chad, holds his gaze for a moment, considers their mouths mashed together in the style of that Violent Femmes song from earlier. Aaron doesn’t know what Amy is doing. All he knows is that, when he finishes singing, Amy is sitting at the table, politely putting her hands together in the style of a golf clap. 

*

What the bar’s patrons don’t know, tonight, is that Big Joe has decided that soon, he will move to New York, to try to become a famous chef, he’ll tell them when he eventually leaves. Big Joe knows that he will not be a famous chef, but he’ll still make a living. Tonight, he watches the other patrons in the bar, his friends, sees the ways they hurt and long. He sees Amy’s restless wandering through the bar, sees Scott and Barbara longing for something, though he can’t tell it’s each other. Big Joe wants to help, but how? 

*

Now is the time of the evening those who only when they are drunk are summoned to the stage. There is Chris, who arrived earlier with his friends, and is playing pool in the back—he sings “Jeremy” in the style of Pearl Jam. When he is done, he will notice the balls will have been moved around the pool table. Then John sings “Break on Through” in the style of The Doors. He does scissor-kicks and wraps the microphone chord around his neck. Big Joe claps his enormous hands together and laughs at the performance. Gale, a retired policewoman with short, bleached hair, wearing leather pants and a turtleneck is called to the stage to sing “Joy to the World” in the style of Three Dog Night. And then the room begins to jump again, the air gets thicker and the songs begin to push at the walls. 

* 

And now Mike will sing. He staggers to the microphone and says “Hello Ohio,” and the other bar patrons answer, “Hello, Mike.” Behind the bar, Trina drops a glass. It shatters on the floor. Trina throws her rag at the sink and goes to the back for a broom as Mike begins to sing “Rock You Like a Hurricane” in the style of The Scorpions. Mike sings this song because it was popular when he was in high school. Mike holds the microphone in both hands and shouts “Here I am,” as Trina returns with a broom. Trina hates the way Mike pumps his fist and rocks his head back and forth with the song’s guitar riff, hates the way he grips the microphone and points at the crowd when he sings the chorus, hates the way he sometimes falls down because he’s so drunk when he sings. Sometimes she wants to break a bottle in his face, other times she wants only to slam his head into the bar. Regardless, when he sings, the bar pulsates. But we should all know by now, it isn’t Mike that makes them move. Not really.  

*

Now, the room hums and quivers with the pulse of pop—my pulse. Someone sings “Living on a Prayer” in the style of Bon Jovi. Someone else sings “Black Dog” in the style of Led Zeppelin. Big Joe gets up behind the singer and shimmies to the crowd’s delight. Nobody is singing slow songs and nobody cares who is singing. Every song is a sing along. Every song is a dance tune. Everybody will survive another night, will be alright. Sing for us, Big Joe. Sing, for me. Big Joe knows tonight is a night for singing, decides that he will sing even though he is sober. Big Joe writes his name and a song on a slip of paper. Robert sucks Jell-O shots from plastic cups the way some men eat oysters. Amy is holding Aaron’s hand now, resigned to the fact that she’ll go home with him tonight, like every night, and they’ll sleep together, and he’ll make a bad, hopeful joke about not wearing a condom like Tony T., and she’ll tell him to put the fucking condom on while that song in the style of the Violent Femmes runs through her head. Barbara won’t sing anymore, is tired and ready to go home, but she’s waiting so she can see Scott sing one last song. Scott, who is is trying to pick his song, is looking for something heavy and true, something that might convey the loneliness and fear and anxiety of being alive at this time, in this suburb, in Ohio—picking a song isn’t easy when one’s goal is vulnerability, is exposure. For Barbara, the waiting is torturous—while the room bends and bounces around her she is a rock, an anchor, the center of the goddam universe keeping watch for angry bosses and bad boyfriends and lost jobs and premature ejaculation and sad families and cheating husbands, but most of all, she’s just watching for Scott to do or say something. 

* 

Now, Stu DeBonte, the KJ, takes a moment to sing “Born to Run” in the style of Bruce Springsteen. He muddles through it. That’s okay because the rest of the bar sings for him—coming out of the song’s bridge, they all shout, “1, 2, 3, 4”…

* 

…and then Aaron sings “Walk Like an Egyptian” in the style of The Bangles. Of course, he changes the word Egyptian to erection. But now, this is the right thing to do. Everyone laughs and high-fives each other because now, it is funny… 

*

…now, Tony T. and a woman named Kitty, a music teacher at one of the elementary schools who is always in the bar alone, and sometimes sings “Piano Man” in the style of Billy Joel, which everyone takes to mean she is lonely, sing “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” in the style of Meatloaf. Tony T. mock puts his arm around her waist, and she mock pushes him away…

*

…and now someone, who fucking knows who, is singing “Hold My Hand” in the style of Hootie and the Blowfish, then someone else is singing “Goodbye Earl” in the style of The Chicks, and there’s “Billie Jean,” and there’s “Baby’s Got Back,” “Rapper’s Delight,” “Summer Nights,” “Don’t Stop Believing.” The room flutters, shakes, blurs, runs out of verbs—ecstatic… 

*

…now, these are my people. This is paradise. We are born of sound, are so close to something, something, something… 

*

…and now, Scott is called to the stage and Barbara is excited to hear him sing. It is just after midnight. Scott will sing “Time” in the style of Pink Floyd. First, the famous explosion of clocks chiming, then the thunderous keyboard chords freeze the room. This song is heavy, is dark, is real. Too real. The room slows down, begs Scott to sing something else, anything else, but Scott sings his song, and he sings with conviction. Scott owns the song, his best performance of the night. Barbara feels sad as she watches him, listens to his tired voice, reads the lyrics as they flick across the display monitor. Scott doesn’t move or perform as on previous songs—this song is bigger, heavier, more important. This song is too important. 

*

Here: the odd sensation of air rushing out of a room, an airlock opening into space, the atmosphere fleeing. I shrivel up in the air, become the sad mixture of Jack, flat coke, and water at the bottom of a glass. Nobody sings along. Nobody dances. In the pale bar light, in the sad glow of Scott’s song, the bar’s patrons see who they really are.   

*

Hear: loud voices shrinking to murmurs, the tired, digital blips of electric dart boards, the clatter of pool balls bouncing off of one another. 

*

Barbara will go home alone tonight. So will Scott. They both know before Scott is finished singing. Something about quiet desperation. Something about how far away across the field, bells toll and initiate some sort of lonely mass. 

*

We can’t leave it like this. We just can’t. These people need. They need. They need.

*

And Gale will gather her coat and purse and go home alone. And Chris will finish another game of pool and leave without his friends, walk out to the parking lot and drive away leaving them stranded. In the morning he will call and apologize and by the next evening, they will return to play pool again. And Tony T. will go home to his wife and child. His wife will be angry that he is late but will forgive him before the morning. And Robert will go to his family and kiss his daughters on the head and feel bad that he is always gone. And Mike will start to leave, not knowing that Trina has finally exacted some revenge, has called the police to report a drunk driver. And Trina will feel bad until she gets home at three in the morning and pays the sitter. And Carrie will… And Gary will… And Ron will…And Chad will…

*

We can’t let the evening end like this. Something needs to be done. 

*

Ah, but there will be one last singer—the big finish. Big Joe, will you please get up to the stage. Everyone, let’s have a round for Big Joe. Say it along with me now. Big Joe. Big Joe. Big Joe. Go on, Big Joe.  

*

And Big Joe announces that he’ll be leaving for New York, soon, and so sings “New York, New York,” in the style of Frank Sinatra, his beefy baritone filling the room, his mock leg-kicks causing the audience to laugh, causing their little town blues melt away. Start spreading the news—let these people have a few more minutes before going home to bed only to wake up in the morning feeling old and tired and sad.

*

And sure enough, while Big Joe sings, time slows down so that no one is quite old, quite tired, quite sad—not yet. 

*

In a moment, Scott will pack up his things, Amy and Aaron will leave together, holding hands, Chad will vomit in the bathroom and worry about finding a new job, Seth will draw in his matchbooks, Barbara will already be gone, and on and on into the night they will go. And I will stay where I am, will go on, and on, and on.    

But first, Big Joe—the big finish.

_________

Playlist song: Linda Ronstadt, “Blue Bayou”

__________

James Brubaker is the author of a few books, most recently We Are Ghost Lit and The Taxidermist’s Catalog. His fiction has also appeared in venues including Puerto Del Sol, Diagram, Michigan Quarterly Review, Booth, Indiana Review, and Zoetrope: All Story, among other venues.

__________

🢠 Back Next 🢡

To learn more about submitting your work to Boudin or applying to McNeese State University’s Creative Writing MFA program, please visit Submissions for details.