A Single Slip, and You Stumble

A musician begins a headlong rush to doom.

Nick Kolakowski

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(Taken from “The Farm,” a historical novella that’s the centerpiece of “Finest Sh*t!”, my new collection of short stories.)

I.

Ridley’s Saloon offered its musicians a small pinewood stage, a dented microphone, and a free shot of whiskey along with a five-dollar bill at the end of the night. Peter strode onto the stage twice a week for a one-hour set, in a white jacket that glowed in the smoky light, his high and reedy voice slicing through the crowd’s applause. Peter’s songs of wronged men and lonely women packed the house and made it roar.

That popularity earned Peter a whole pint of beer alongside his whiskey-shot and fiver. “Ridley, you cheap bastard,” Peter would mutter under his breath, glass in his hand, but down the alcohol nonetheless.

Ridley reminded Peter of his long-dead grandfather, T.C., another alpha dog with scarred knuckles and a graying beard. The wealthiest man in this dirt-poor county, Ridley still insisted on working five shifts a week at his own establishment in order to spare the expense of a full-time bartender. He spent hours on his feet dispensing beers and the occasional beating to the more belligerent drunks. From his perch onstage, Peter would watch with grudging admiration as the old…

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Nick Kolakowski

Writer, editor, author of 'Maxine Unleashes Doomsday' and 'Boise Longpig Hunting Club.'