I leaned against the end of the bar and surveyed the scene. Jeez, the joint was jumping tonight! BR and the boys were rockin'. Must be some good drugs going around backstage.

Must be some pretty good drugs out front, too, because that one chick looked like she was just about to come out of her skivvies. She was fixed on BR. Had that glazed look in her eye like they get just before they really make a ass of themselves.

Yep, there she goes! Up on the stage.

Would BR be up for it? Sometimes he was game for the nonsense, and sometimes he wasn't. I waited. My muscles tensed slightly in anticipation. When she didn't come skidding back out into the audience on her ass, I assumed he was game.

You see the damndest things in beer joints, I decided. Even upscale joints, like this one. Oh, it was okay for the band, of course. They were up there being worshipped and adored. They were the reason some chick was coming out of her bra right now, as a matter of fact.

Not so glamorous the life of the lowly roadie.

At best, the roadie is famous only by association. There are some folks who try to take advantage of this. They figure if they suck up to you, you can get them "in" with the band. Which you can. But you know a suck-up when you see 'em.

Uh-oh, she's comin' out of her panties up there! I looked around. Where the hell was the bouncer?

"Glen!", I shouted over the din. "GLEN!"

The slender young man behind the bar ran his fingers through his Breck hair and smiled.

"What's up, doll?"

"That's up," I said, pointing to the stage. "er ... that's OFF, rather," I corrected myself. "Where's Chuck?"

He shrugged.

By now the young lady was exhibiting all her natural charms. The band was loving it. Every one of 'em sported a grin from ear to ear. The crowd went wild with enthusiasm. Lightnin pounded out the beat. BR's Firebird wailed. The horns screamed. And 250 people jumped around on the dance floor in wild, gyrating unison as BR sang "Land Of a Thousand Dances" and Chickypoo came out of her clothes.

Where are the real Sam and Dave when you need 'em?

Oh, well, this wasn't a bad night, considerin'. Considering that the TABC (Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission) had already made their run-through earlier in the evening, before the heavy partying started, so they probably wouldn't be back in time to arrest us for the strip show.

And considering that no enterprising soul had thought about giving head in the men's room this time, so there weren't any long lines to the bathrooms.

And considering that no one had gotten drunk the night before and left their equipment at a club across town. That was always fun. You try to be their eyes and ears. You try to be responsible. But you just can't keep up with everything. Then you go to set up for the next gig and find out the god damn floor toms were left behind at Fitzgerald's because Lightnin was drunk out of his mind and drove off, leaving them in the wings waiting to be loaded.

Fuck!

Drive to Houston in the pouring rain. Talk your way into Fitzgerald's without paying the cover.

"I'm the equipment manager for BR & The Shames."

"Sure you are, honey. That'll be ten bucks."

"No, really, I'm here to retrieve some drums that were left behind last night. Is Brian here? Brian knows me." She looks at you suspiciously, but you get lucky. The sound man comes to your rescue.

Work your way through the standing-room-only crowd to the stairs behind the stage. Up the stairs and into the equipment room, squeezing past the drug dealers and the wannabes. Dig through stacks of big, black cases, looking for two Slingerland hardbacks with lightning bolts stenciled on the side. Pray a lot. Find the fuckers and drive like a bat out of hell to get back to the gig.

Yep, it was a pretty good night, considerin' all the shit that *wasn't* happening.

The crowd is now in a frenzy. On stage, Chickypoo is writhing and gesturing, her bare breasts flopping around like two mushmelons caught in a hay baler. She's putting on a real show for BR, shaking her tits right under his nose. He's kinda backed off by this time, trying to get out of her way. Every now and then the tits come close to knocking over his microphone. WHOMP! I look up to see him catch the mic just before it can slam into his precious Firebird.

If that bitch fucks up that Firebird, she's dead meat.

The mic crisis averted, Chickypoo turns her back to the audience, flashing her tits at Lightnin. I wondered if she realized she had a length of toilet paper caught in the crack of her ass? A dollop of squeezable Charmin bobbed behind her to the music, flipping and flopping like a little white tail. A smile spread wide across my face.

The music builds to a crescendo. Chickypoo dances faster. The faster she dances, the more excited the Charmin becomes. Soon it is downright frantic. I lean up against the wall, my hands jammed into my pockets, laughing my ass off.

Damn, I'm hungry.

Probably should have eaten before I left home, but there wasn't time. You just get home from the day job in time to change clothes and drive to the club to set up. Then there are all the equipment and sound checks. The band is busy fogging down the alcohol; hell, they ain't hungry. First thing you know, the gig has started and it's too late.

I take another pull off my Johnny Walker Black.

If they can survive on alcohol, I can survive on alcohol. Looking at the clock over the bar, I see that it's only another fifteen minutes until the last note is played, another hour after that to break down and load up, and an hour's drive home. My stomach is growling. Loudly.

"What's the matter up there? Has your fuckin' throat been cut?", it demands to know.

Oh, god, yes, this is what I *love* about the bars. The glamor. The excitement. The adventure. I'd trade it all for a cheeseburger with mustard.

"Land of a Thousand Dances" finally comes to a close with a prolonged, dramatic ending, drums pounding and cymbals clanging. Mass hysteria erupts from the crowd. Chickypoo is the center of attention. Every biker in the audience rushes the stage. She is swallowed in the wave and disappears beneath a sea of glistening black leather.

Chuck, the bouncer, now mysteriously appears out of nowhere and is trying to bully his way through 3,000 pounds of the ugliest, meanest, and drunkest human flesh ever assembled under one roof. Looks like the situation is well in hand.

From the back of the room, a movement catches my eye. It's Lightnin, waving his drumstick at me. I look again. Hmmm. That looks more like about a *half* of a drumstick. I get the message and retrieve extras from his stick bag. Utilizing the secret passage, I bypass the teeming crowd by entering the stage via the dressing room.

"Exciting stuff," I say, as I hand him the sticks. He laughs.

Back at the bar, I pick up my JWB and take a sip. Think I'll mosey to the other side of the room. There's a nice place to hang back there by the telephone alcove. Good view of the stage, good view of the door. Things are gettin' wild. You never know when the heat might drop in. That's all Lightnin needs, to get picked up on some stupid charge or other. One arrest and it's bye-bye, Lightnin Lewie, straight back to State School he goes.

We Texans take our parole violations seriously.

BR calls the next tune. He's slowin' it down now with an old Gatemouth blues number. Yeah, jesus, don't work 'em into any more of a frenzy, BR. We want the walls to be standing when we leave here.

Chickypoo has reacquainted herself with her clothing by this time and is being severely admonished by her boyfriend. I know this because they are using the telephone alcove to play out their scene, and I'm right there, leaning up against the door frame. Sippin' on my JWB and willing my stomach to shut the fuck up.

The voices behind me are becoming louder and more profane. Chickypoo is in some deep shit with her man.

I try to block them out. I like this tune BR's singing. It's called, "I Wonder."

"I wundah, my little darlin',
where can you be again tonight?
while the moon is shinin' bright,
oh yes, I wundah.

My heart is achin', and my eyes,
my eyes are so full of tears;
do you want me, do you need me, darlin'?
oh yes, I wundah."

I'm singin' along, like always. I know all the harmony parts. Sometimes I really wail. That's why I like it when they play real loud. Drowns me out, so I can jam to my heart's content.

"Do you like that song?", a voice asks, interrupting my reverie.

I stop singing and look around. Yes, the voice was talking to me. And it belongs to a fine Southern gentleman. He's dressed in the most gorgeous white suit I've ever seen. Just the sight of him takes me back to another era when folks sat out on their verandas and fanned themselves on steamy summer evenings, sipping their mint juleps. His skin is the color of creamy milk chocolate, as smooth as sheer silk and as seamless. His hands look as young as his face, yet his eyes tell another story.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he says, extending his hand. "My name is Clary. I own Clary's Restaurant here in town." He gives me a business card.

"I've been watching you," he said. "Are you with the band?"

"I'm their roadie. My name is Youngblood."

We shake hands.

"I really like this band," he said. "They're great. Tell you what ... after you finish here, why don't you stop by the restaurant for a little late supper and a few drinks? We'd love to have you."

"You mean, like *all* of us?", I asked.

"Yeah, the whole group. You, the band, anybody else who's with the band, some of your friends, maybe. It's all on me. I'll cook for you myself, and the bar will be open."

Far out. I looked at the card. "Clary's Seafood Restaurant," it said. Visions of fried shrimp swam in my head. Visions of sauteed shrimp, boiled shrimp, freshly fried catfish, broiled flounder, maybe a little lobster, some crab, tons of red sauce loaded down with horseradish ...

My stomach roared its appreciation.

"Mr. Clary, as soon as they finish their last number, I'll introduce you to BR and the boys. Maybe you can talk 'em into it, huh?" I gave him a wink.

"I'd be right happy to, ma'am," Mr. Clary said, winking back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Postscript:

This was not the only time that Mr. Clary would come to our rescue. It became a ritual for him to appear at our gigs when we played in Galveston and invite us back to the restaurant for a private supper. He seemed to think it was his responsibility to see that we had a good meal. It was certainly his pleasure. Until the day I die I shall remember that gentle and good man with his sleeves rolled up, his apron on, battering shrimp in his big gleaming kitchen at three o'clock in the morning.

If you're ever tooling down Galveston way, look for Clary's Restaurant just after you cross the causeway going south on I-45. Exit at Teichmann Road, hang a right and follow your stomach.

Tell Mr. Clary you were referred by a starving roadie he used to feed.