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?

Uh-oh.

This.

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…

THE ALLMAN BROTHERS.

-Clint Curtis

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