She sits on the high stools at the table by the wall where she can see the entire coffeeshop from her perch. The lone acoustic guitarist strums mellow songs... eventually he comes to singing "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." A table of three guys talk about poetry, a distant generation of the beatniks who forgot thei black shirts for charcoal grey sweaters and muted-green t-shirts paired with jeans or pin-striped slacks. They're not smoking because of the city's "smoke-free environment laws," or maybe, just maybe they are non-smokers in this small college town. Afterall, it is a dry town - no alcohol sold anywhere except for at least another 10 miles towards Richmond at Monty's Liquor Store. Oh, no... there goes two now, reaching into back pockets for that hard pack of Malboros or Camels. The poetry the boys are reading comes from books titled Post Modern American Poetry and Modernist Words to Live By.
There is a changing of the guard at the mic -- open-mic night at Ground Effects -- and a new guitarist is tuning his honey-stained guitar. Across from him is a friend also tuning -- maybe they will collaborate a tune or two.
About four or five teenagers are talking at the couch -- one girl is standing, blonde hair falling to veil her right eye, and her lips catch a light's highlight from the cheery-flavored lip gloss she wears. One of her boy friends is saying, "And you know Joseph Stalin called me yesterday and asked for his shopping cart back, and Mom told him to shut up and leave her alone."
There's a slow leak in one of the glass mugs, and he returns the cup to the barista while Lee begins a song vaguely sounding like it came from one of Johnny Cash's childhood nightmares -- working in the field behind the family farm with the threat of Father's whip against his backside but also the hope that he'll escape to the riverside for fishing daydreams, only is the soybean picking is done early and Father hasn't arrived home yet. And the boy runs for the river, short pole with a long string, bait dangling from the end, and an eager smile peeking on his lips.
As lee sings, a man answers his obnoxious cell phone -- the juxtaposition of the lyrics and the old man's conversational answers fit, not interrupting, not overlapping, but seemingly a call and response, though they have nothing in common. Lee sings of bad luck too many times, carrying on in spite of the hardships, and the man's conversation -- "Are you coming down here? Ok, I'll come and meet you. Bye."
"Summer's blowing up your skirt but Winter's in your eyes" sings Jack Mahri at the mic now. "God bless Vermont for keeping you fine." The lyrics are strikingly unique and everyone knows it is a tune that should be recorded, burned, published, sold, bought, aired on radio stations, played in concert halls, covered in small college town coffeeshops.
At the barista counter a guy is highlighted in laptop blue glow, stark shadows creasing jawline, Roman nose, furrowed brow.
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