Performances

Mist floated from the fountained duck pond beside the restaurant patio. The day mild compared to the other days they had experienced here in L.A. Dallas was slowly being hypnotized by the low chattering of his fellow diners, the on-tempo affirmations his dad Greg was grunting into the phone. A random excited quack of a duck.

It was a strange feeling having his dad with him in this part of his life. He still didn't understand the man. Three years of being together 24/7 and he was still almost a stranger. He hated sand but loved to lay on the beach whenever possible and coax out a dark bourbon tan. He would go into deep introspective forays from time to time. Dallas would watch him in these moments, try to sus out what was churning in the man's brain.

This level of closeness was new to them. Dallas had been raised mostly by his mother. Though she and Greg had never divorced, he often spent long periods of time away. Whenever Dallas would ask about it he would get stories like his dad was a spy or an astronaut. He never got an actual answer to where his father disappeared to but as he got older, it stopped mattering. Greg's absences became longer with each one until eventually one day he left his usual note and didn't come back.

Dallas retreated to music to fill that gap that he didn't understand yet. Greg had brought a guitar back on one of his layovers between disappearances. Dallas was taken by the fact his dad could pluck a few chords, but nothing to completion. Greg noticed his fascination with it. The old Yamaha acoustic was propped beside Dallas' bed with a note that last time.

He resented the guitar at first, banishing it to his closet where he became blind to it.

He acknowledged its presence one day while his mother was cleaning the house. She put on a John Prine record, there was a duet with Cash. He thought of his dad.

The guitar was glued to his hands from then on. He plucked at it for months trying to learn "Ring of Fire." Greg always played Johnny Cash records when he was home, his Live at Folsom Prison was nearly smooth from the amount of plays.

Dallas actually managed to sound like the man in black after a while, a little out of tune but it was there.

Dallas had been doing local gigs in places where he was too young to drink. When he finally turned 21 his mother suddenly passed.

An aneurysm.

She had a ten thousand dollar insurance policy.

Two thousand cremated her. Scattering her at the ocean was a permit fee. The rest moved him to New York.

Greg listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, the horseradish in the hollandaise toying with his indigestion. He knew what they were offering was a crap split. He looked over at Dallas. His eyes were closed. He zoned out from the conversation.

Greg hadn't aspired to miss large parts of his son's life. It's one of those things that just happened.

Greg belched, sounding like a large bullfrog. Dallas was pulled back.

"What'd they say?"

"5 grand and half the house, they take 12% merchandise."

"That's a little low isn't it?"

"A little, but I know these guys. They're good guys and they know a lot of people that can help us, you get to the next level."

Dallas looked at his father, hopeful. Three years ago Dallas started to blow up a little, not a lot but it was still respectable. After four years of hard road gigging and session work he carved himself out a piece of the world.

Greg showed up one night after a small roadhouse show outside of Tallahassee. Dallas looked at him and kept packing his gear. He cried into a bottle of cheap whiskey, part of the show's pay package, that night at the hotel. Since his mother's death he had for all intents and purposes been an orphan. Now his father wanted to be present.

Greg followed him across the panhandle the next couple of nights. Prodding at the barrier between them after each set. It was after the third night that Dallas finally accosted him.

Unloading ten years of frustration.

Greg took it, standing silently while Dallas vented. For his part Greg said he didn't expect to be forgiven. He was sober, and he wanted to make amends. They didn't solve it that night but it started the foundation.

Dallas rubbed his neck, thinking. His dad watched the duck pond, brow furrowed. The sun shining through the wisps of gray-white hair.

"What are you thinking, Dad?"

Greg's concentration broke.

"It's not a great deal but these guys are solid guys. It's a good club."

"I don't know, other places might try to low ball us if we settle on this."

Greg snorted. "Listen Dallas, I told you I'd take care of you. Have I been wrong?"

"No."

"Then you gotta trust the process kiddo, the club is on the strip. Lots of foot traffic."

They were primo guys, all things considered. It's just that Greg was into them for about 25 thousand. Solid or not they knew he couldn't pay, they also knew he had a golden goose.

"Can I get you guys anything else?" The waitress looking at Greg expectantly.

"Huh?"

"Anything else?"

Dallas cut in. "Just the check I think."

She looked at him, started to speak then thought some more.

"Are you Dallas Quinn?"

Dallas laughed. "I sure am."

He flashed that cover art smile.

"I love your song 'Broken Wings Mend.'"

"Well I appreciate it."

She asked for a selfie. Dallas obliged.

The waitress disappeared to get the check. Greg looked to Dallas.

"She's cute."

Dallas laughed. "She's not my type."

"I was talking about for me."

They both cackled.

His phone vibrated in his hand.

A text from one of those solid guys.

"What's the deal? He playing or you paying?"