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The Chief
It's hot. "Cambodia-hot." And sticky... "I just hate it when it's sticky."
We're sitting on the balcony of "The Fiddler" eating seafood overlooking the Savannah River Sunday evening. We're on the balcony flop-sweating because BH wants to smoke cigars while we dine. I've always thought cigars to be as pretentious as tiaras, but anyway. We're outside eating, sweating, smoking, and talking when BH mentions that he wants to "find some live music".
This is a bad idea.
Inside my head red-flags are waving and warning bells are going off. I could have counted seventy-five reasons on one hand why we should've finished our meal and headed back to the hotel. One of the biggest reasons being it's Sunday evening and we have to have our "game-on" the next day for the show.
I think about it for a minute, then decide to do the right thing. In my most sane and responsible voice I say "Wha' hell yeah!"
Screw responsibility.
So as we're finishing our meal, BH asks our server if he knows of any bands playing tonight? He mentions that he thinks there's somebody playing at The Bayou, but he's not real sure-- "it's Sunday night, not gonna be much goin' on" he says. That little voice in my head is saying "Mark, don't be a dick. go to the hotel. don't be a dick. go to..." As we're walking down River Street trying to find The Bayou, I'm ignoring that little voice.
There's the sign, the door is up a flight of stairs. We make our way up, then inside to the bar. Saying it is a bar is a bit of an overstatement. Yes there was a bar there and a stage as well as a few tables but the place was tiny. Closet tiny. No big deal though, cause "it's Sunday night, not gonna be much goin' on" right? We order up a round of drinks, BH lights up a cigar and we settle in.
A half hour passes.
Then, as if on cue, the bar goes quiet. You know like one of those pregnant pauses in a conversation when it's so quiet you can hear a rabbit fart. But it happens across the bar at the same time. Silent.
In hind-sight I guess it was the quiet before the storm...
WHAMMM!!!
This huge guy* in a football jersey slams through the door carrying an guitar case and a speaker-- on a mission, steamrolls his way over to the stage. He cussing like he has tourettes and he's amped up on meth. "You." he says as he points at me, "move that table and those chairs back!" That big son-of-a-bitch got my attention... I wasn't going to argue. So I moved what he told me to move. Then he turns around and heads back outside to grab more of his gear. Before he walks out he points to another guy in the bar. "You! Help me bring in my shit!". Needless to say the guy jumps up and helps out.
I've just had my first encounter with...
The Chief.
---To be continued---
*seemed to be around 6'5" maybe 340 lbs.
7/16/2004 09:22:51 PM
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