The Allman Brothers

Guy shuffles into the bar, army jacket that’s seen better days, matted hair, weathered skin. He says, HEY. You got Bud on tap?  I say, sorry. We don’t. But we have it in a bottle! He says, yeah. Gimme one of those.

I get it for him. $3.50, please. He gets out his worn wallet, flips through papers, receipts, who knows what. Whatever. I’ll stand here. I got some time.

He finds a 20, hands it to me, says, HEY. I want my change back. I say, of course. I ring it in, give him his change.

He says, can you play some music for me?



Um…I can’t really…um…you know, this is actually my boss’s playlist playing right now. He doesn’t let us play anything else. I mean, I’d love to play my OWN music, but he doesn’t let me.

(This is not true).

He looks at me, with a furrowed brow.

Hrumph, he says. Give me a glass for that Bud.

I get him the glass, place it in from of him, say, if I could play your music, what would you want to hear?

He thinks for a second, another furrowed brow, then says, I don’t know…


-Clint Curtis


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