I show up just in time to catch the last few seconds of a song. The regular Wednesday band is missing, and in their place stands a lone man. He wears a straw cowboy hat that is dirty from constant wear, and plays the guitar like he’s been doing it forever. He sings seemingly to himself, as though the audience doesn’t exist. It’s almost true.
The place is nearly deserted. Tonight’s turnout consists a few of the die-hard regulars who sit and chat with one another. The bartender yawns as he watches a baseball game on the small television behind the bar. I order, and he manages to get it wrong. Oranges instead of lemons. His mind is in a different place, and I don’t care enough to correct him.
"I’m going to take a short break, and when I come back my friend Dallas will be playing with me.”
It’s eight o’clock, and I sit and chat with a few of the regulars. I talk to a man who’s new in town. A doctor whom was born and raised in Iran, and will soon be opening his own practice in town. He says Prescott felt like home the first time he drove through. It’s his first night out, and he is loving life.
It’s forty five minutes before the Dave and Dallas duo take the stage. If that’s a short break, I’d hate to see a long one.
Dallas, playing the mandolin, adds depth to the guitar. They play songs that seem familiar, like I should know the words even though I don’t. I’ve never seen somebody play the mandolin and the sight leaves me mildly awestruck. He plays a different song entirely, and yet it picks up the guitar, fills the voids between notes. Maybe it’s just the fuzziness from the beer, but I am enraptured by the sounds. Ten o’clock rolls around entirely too quickly, and the music stops.
Time to go. My alarm clock will be going off in six short hours, and I still have some chores to do at home.