Excerpt: Green Grass and High Tides

These were the sorts of things that Dustin often found himself thinking about on a Sunday night at The Troubadour. At his back, the giant wooden bar of the Troub stretched from wall to wall, bracketed by doorways leading off to the owner’s office – where countless stories of The Eagles and Elton John could be heard – or to the wood-paneled restrooms – where equally countless stories could be told of a different sort. Not far away, the stairway to the VIP room made its way up from the stage in a grandiose diagonal. It was on that dimly lit second floor that execs waited for the headlining band to arrive while avoiding lesser opening bands or the even more ignominious closing bands whose audience comprised mostly girlfriends and drunk college kids and who were willing to take on the crummy 1am time slot, playing for only beers.

“What can I get ya?”

“Four Stellas”, Dustin said, holding up a set of little, pink drink tickets. “They’re for the band.”

The bartender scowled.

“Those’ll get you Budweisers or Miller Lites. No imports.”