The County Line — Friday Night

 

When people talk about Seattle on television, they always seem to talk about it as an ideal place to visit or escape to, or they make a joke about the rain. It’s considered a city many hold in their mind to be safe, interesting, maybe a little exotic and just out of reach of the world a television writer creates.

Do you have a character that isn’t in the episode because the actor is shooting a movie? “Oh, they are in Seattle for a conference,” or “She’s visiting her sister in Seattle,” or if the show is Grey’s Anatomy, “They’re in Ballard.” People have the idea in their head that it is a city of television limbo. Neither good nor bad will happen there, it’s just where character’s go when they are off screen.

One of the nice things about Seattle is that people view it as a decent place to go or live but usually choose to go someplace else with their vacation dollar. Seattleites are fine with that. But what most people either forget, or do not realize is that Seattle has a seedy underbelly too.

For many years that seedy underbelly made its headquarters at a bar called The County Line. The County Line was located in South West Seattle in the more industrial area of The Emerald City. When I say that the bar was a “seedy underbelly,” understand that I don’t mean that it was where all Seattle crime came from or that it was pure evil. I don’t know if there is such a place. The bar was simply a place that could be counted on, night after night, to have bad things happen. It resembled a social club where the only requirement for membership was that all of your hopes and dreams have been ripped away from you, OR, you had to be dangling from the end of your rope.

I had been playing steadily with my cover band for over a year when we got the call to play The County Line for a rare two-night engagement. The rest of the band had played there on a Thursday night several months earlier when I was booked out of town at another rough bar. That Thursday night I remember that we were trying to one-up each other with who was playing the creepier place. For my part, I sent a picture of a stuffed pheasant next to a skunk pelt. They replied with a simple message, “we still win,” was all it said.

I will be fair and say that when we arrived Friday, the load-in was very easy. There was a back door by the stage, and as I set up, the place didn’t seem so bad. Sure, it was a little run-down, and yes, the place looked as updated as it did right after the re-model in 1981, but many, many bars and clubs are like this. Some are even worse.

It was only going to be Nabil and Martin other than myself playing that night, Jeff being absent for some vague reason. Nabil and Martin were good enough for us to make it happen as a three-piece so we figured we’d take the gigs and the money that came along with it. We figured it would be one of those gigs where there wouldn’t be much going on and we could just relax and play what we wanted to play; this as opposed to the gigs where there is plenty going on and we would just relax and play what we wanted to play.

After setting up, it is proper band etiquette to approach the bar, order something and tip. Maybe you chit-chat with the bartender or a regular and generally give the impression that you respect them and they can look forward to music, good or bad, from a band that is at least friendly. It smoothes the surface and lays the groundwork for getting hired again, as long as both parties agree that the gig was pleasant.

I wouldn’t say that I have a “winning” smile, but on good days I can take third or possibly tie for second place. I wore that smile up to the bar, hoping to catch the bartender, make a joke, order a Coke and then find out what kind of a night we were in for.

One of my better talents is reading people. I can usually put together a fairly accurate story on a person quickly and gauge what kind of joke I should tell, whether I should look them directly in the eye or if they are possibly wanted in six different states. When the bartender turned to face me, I wasn’t prepared for the story I was reading on her face.

She wasn’t disfigured or visually unpleasant in any way, instead, I could see a crippling weight of depression sitting on her shoulders. It was as if she had been instructed to carry a camel around the back of her neck; a camel that was loaded up with all the wares for display at the weekend bazaar. It was all she could do to lift the corners of her mouth into a smile.

“What can I git’ ya, darlin’,” came out of her mouth, like the pre-recorded message on an ancient answering machine tape. Judging from the well worn carpet bags under her eyes, I guessed it had been at least thirty hours since those eyes had been closed for more than twenty minutes. I wondered how many times that phrase had passed through her lips in that thirty-hour stretch, how many people had she called “darlin’?”

“One Coke please,” I managed.

“Pepsi,” she said. It wasn’t a question, like: “Oh, the owner wanted to save eight dollars a month on soda delivery so he went with the crappier choice, so is Pepsi okay?” It was a statement, as in: “You’re getting a Pepsi. You’re not going to say ‘no’ to the sugar and caffeine because look around you, we’re all chemically dependent so you’re going to drink what I give you and that’s Pepsi.”

As she was filling the glass with Pepsi, which had probably only been used to mix drinks since 1992 when the last soft drink in that bar was ordered, I looked to the gentleman hunched over the bar to the left of me. He slowly turned his gaze from the television on the wall behind the bar to meet mine. He was showing me eyes that had seen too much.

My nod and smile was met with no reaction whatsoever, and his head turned back to the unyielding images of the television as slowly as he had turned to look at me. The thought had immediately hit me that this place would be a great metaphor for Purgatory, but then I wondered if perhaps this might actually be a waiting room for someone awaiting judgment on their soul.

What if the gentleman next to me had died and had some kind of legal lien or easement placed on his soul from a deal he had made early on in his life with the devil. Maybe he hadn’t sold his soul, but perhaps pawned it for a carton of filter-less cigarettes in his youth and then couldn’t find his claim ticket, so he was sent to one of these satellite offices of purgatory.

That’s how dark the scene became in the bar in a very short amount of time. The place conjured up images of netherworld damnation that seemed only too possible. It took me a few minutes to attempt walking out the loading door before I finally tried. I worried that if I walked out the door, I would somehow be walking back IN to the The County Line, and further attempts to leave would just put me back inside the building.

Nabil and Martin were chatty as usual, but kept their voices down. The longer we stayed in the bar, the darker the mood became. We all were realizing that we weren’t just playing a dive bar, but an Acapulco-cliff-dive-bar.

Aside from the ample stage, the room was large enough to accommodate a hundred or so people, with a dance floor big enough for at least a dozen couples to shake their butts at the same time without the dangers of accidentally doin’ the Bump. Beyond the dance floor were tippy tables surrounded by uneven, padded, metal framed chairs. There was a bank of old flashing, colored lights above the dance-floor with a genuine disco ball that looked new. Later, I would wonder if the old disco ball was tucked away in some evidence locker with the dried blood still stained upon the mirrors from some horrible dance-floor bludgeoning.

However, when the band began playing, it was just another gig and we worked through several songs, finishing each to the grateful sounds of crickets in the empty audience. Anyone who came in, stuck close to the bar. But we did have one visitor who was over-the-top. I’ll call her Maggie, though I’m sure that isn’t her name.

She had entered the bar and waved at Nabil as she sat down in the closest table to the stage with a beer. I could tell she was watching Nabil closely but I couldn’t figure out if it was a relative or perhaps a co-worker that happened to live nearby, finally fulfilling the unspoken duty to patronize a colleague’s show.

Maggie had quit her job up in Canada and was pulling a camp-trailer around the upper-half of North America on an extended soul searching. Although she hadn’t found that soul yet, she had stayed in Seattle a bit longer after discovering the music styling of the brothers Kausal-Hayes, of whom Nabil is one of. She had been showing up to the brother’s shows for the last few weeks to take in note after intoxicating note of the Kausal-Hayes musical mojo.

Nabil and his brother Justin are both gifted guitar players and singers. Every single time I play with them I am impressed with some aspect of their musicianship. When Nabil isn’t playing with our band, he’s often playing solo acoustic gigs or with Justin, who also plays solo and in no fewer than sixteen bands at a time. On top of being talented minstrels with showmanship and charm, Nabil is tall and ruggedly handsome, while Justin could be described as a “dashing derelict” or “hobo-handsome.” Both types of man proved to be irresistible to a wandering Canadian woman looking for adventure and purpose.

At the break, Nabil tuned his guitar on stage and Maggie approached and waited for him to notice her. It was a little uncomfortable to watch her wait for him to look up for so long, but when he did, she smiled at him and put her arms out for a hug.

Aunt maybe? She pulled Nabil in tight. Favorite aunt, perhaps? Her fingers curled around his body and her eyes rolled back in her head before the lids closed in hungry satisfaction. Definitely not his aunt, I decided as she held the hug just a little too long. It was clear Nabil wasn’t thrilled at the touch of this woman and although he was polite, he immediately began transmitting the vibe that he was unavailable.

Maggie was probably ten to fifteen years Nabil’s senior and not un-attractive. She was clearly a strong hearted woman who was comfortable traveling from town to town, exploring possibilities along the way. I admired her independent spirit and was a tiny-bit jealous of her interesting adventure. She was a woman that knew what she wanted and for the couple of weeks she was in town, she knew she wanted Nabil… or Justin… or both.

“So what is the story on her?” I asked.

“Oh, uh, Maggie is travelling around the region with her camper, seeing shows and site-seeing,” Nabil said, dreading but expecting further questions.

“So did she randomly select this most excellent venue for show seeing, or is she an old friend…?” I hinted that I had no idea what she was there for.

“Yeah, Maggie has been following Justin around town, seeing all his shows in the last week or so, she really has the hots for him,” said Nabil.

“Isn’t Justin playing up at the Celtic Swell tonight?” I asked, knowing full well that Justin was indeed beginning his set at the Celtic Swell pub at that very moment.

“Uh, yeah, he is,” he looked about as uncomfortable as I was trying to make him.

“Well, either she is misinformed on the address or she is here to learn from you the secret to Justin’s heart, but she sure doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to get to HIS show,” I said. I held his gaze for a moment, adding, “She wants to be as close to you as possible…naked.”

Nabil blushed before Martin walked over with his knowing, Argentinian laugh. He was less subtle, “Nabilly! Do you think she’s going to let you finish the show before she carries you off to have her way with you? Because it would be nice to get paid for this gig,” Martin and I laughed a bit before Martin looked at Nabil with his big finish, “I don’t think Steve and I can protect you this time.”

That was a lie. Although I didn’t think Martin or I was a match for Maggie on our own, I would have put even money on us as a team. Maggie had determination on her side.

Nabil was a good sport but clearly didn’t want anything to do with Maggie other than for her to enjoy the music and to have safe travels as she left Seattle. For at least another hour, Maggie sat transfixed on the part of the stage where Nabil stood, singing only to her, because she was simply the only other person in the room. It was a little creepy, but more of the sad variety than the scary kind.

After Maggie gave up and left the bar, towing her lonely camp trailer with her, the bar picked up a little. I could see the silhouettes of around six patrons in the glow of the bar’s big-screen TV. A large man and a tiny woman, dressed for a night on the town, shuffled across the dance floor as we played. They stopped and stared at us for a moment. The large, intimidating man cocked his head to the side and soured his face at us a little. Then he took it upon himself to step up on the stage and approached me at the drum set.

Although I’m usually busy back there, moving all my limbs in different rhythmic patterns while both guiding and improvising inside a specific song structure, I welcome people to come to me on stage whenever they wish and shout things at me over the loudest noise in the venue. People, feel free to address drummers wherever you go and ask for things that we could not possibly hear, even if we cared to know what it is you’re saying—we don’t.

However, when a man of this size has a request, no matter how inappropriate a manner in which he requests it, I tend to listen. I value not only my life, but also the way my skin doesn’t naturally open up and bleed or how my teeth have a tendency to stay rooted firmly in my mouth. If I feel that granting a musical request will specifically keep all those things the same then I’m all ears, giant, scary man.

Martin and Nabil continued to play while glancing over to see what was going on with me. I was drumming and concentrating on the words coming out of the man’s mouth, trying to string together a meaning over the din of the music.

“DOHW DJOOO AAAHmm ADDEE EHHP AOHP?” bellowed the man. But decoding the sound was like trying to understand someone under water. The man did not want to have to repeat himself, and I wasn’t about to disappoint him. I smiled and nodded, indicating to the man to wait for a moment for us to wrap up the song.

I moved my head to Nabil as to indicate that we should end the song soon, but he believed I wanted us to take the chord progression around again, which we did. That didn’t make the man terribly happy with us. Finally we made it to the end of the song, and I invited the man to speak.

“I just got out of prison and I need to hear some hip-hop or R&B RIGHT NOW!” he said loudly. But I am paraphrasing. To express that the request was urgent and to be granted to his liking, he added in some fairly graphic language. It wasn’t polite language and it had the desired effect. I did, in fact feel intimidated.

The man left the stage, took his girlfriend by the arm and stepped to the middle of the dance floor in preparation for a song that was to his liking; a song we couldn’t easily play without a sampler, drum machine, turntable or an up-and-coming rap artist to feature during the bridge. We had none of those things.

Nabil asked what it was the guy wanted. I explained that we needed to play a rhythm and blues or hip-hop song immediately or the man may have to go BACK to prison tonight.

“Oh, okay,” Nabil said and launched into a VERY NOT hip-hop version of The Joker, by the Steve Miller band; a tune I think we can all agree is decidedly not either of the desired genres.

The man on the dance floor looked at me like I had betrayed him, made a fool out of him and purposefully disrespected him on the day after he got out of prison—not jail—PRISON. Before we made it to the signature guitar wolf-whistle in the first verse of the song, the man was standing to the side of the stage staring at me like I was wasting his time. He stood there looking at me the whole time.

There was a moment that I looked to the man for validation when Mr. Miller mentions that he is a “midnight toker,” hoping that marijuana would bridge the culture gap between classic rock and hip-hop.

It did not.

When that song finally came to an end, I pleaded with Nabil, “I know you don’t know any of that rap or hip-hop stuff. Don’t you know that I know that? But you see Nabil, that giant man that looks like he has nothing to lose, he came here to listen to some rhythm and blues.” I began to nervously beg, “He JUST got out of Prison, Nabil, and all he wants is for us to play one little hip-hop and/or R&B song. Look at his hands Nabil—prison hands.”

“We don’t really know any as a three-piece,” Nabil began, “maybe if Jeff were here…”

“JEFF ISN’T HERE!” I yelled, “Now use that fancy-ass phone of yours and pull a hip-hop dance track down for us to fake it through, or that man will hurt me and perhaps US.”

As Nabil and Martin put their heads together to find a hip-hop tune, I turned and smiled back at the gentleman impatiently waiting to hear what we couldn’t play. I decided to take matters into my own hands with the only song I could think of. I started up a dance groove and pulled my microphone in closer to sing the lead.

“Whatcha goin’ do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk,” I sang from the Black Eyed Peas before switching to Fergie’s part in the same song, “Imo get get get get you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump.” I stole a peak to see if it was working. The man and woman were dancing, but the man was looking at me strangely, possibly because the poor imitation of the song was barely passable—barely recognizable as a hip-hop song.

Nabil and Martin had given up looking for a hip hop song and now were standing to the side of the stage looking at me with confused disgust.

“I met a girl down at the disco, she said hey, hey…” I continued. This was less like a performance and more like watching a bad-guy from an old cowboy movie make some poor goat-herder dance by shooting at his feet. And just like the goat-herder, my performance was built more on desperation and fear than on the technique and craft.

When I had run out of words to sing, I kept the beat going for a minute until the man on the dance floor just shook his head at us and waved us off as he walked away with his lady-friend into the shrouded bar area toward the front door.

By that time, we only had a few more songs to do before we called it a night. As we were packing up, I asked Nabil if it was like this on the Thursday he had played there months before.

“Tonight was dead,” he said, “tomorrow night should be busier.”

“Should I be afraid,” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Will I be in more danger?” I asked.

This time he paused, the kind of pause that would give you the sense that he might not think it would be that bad.

“Definitely,” he said.

He was correct.

 

To be Continued in:

The County Line – Saturday Night