As always, even though it was midafternoon, there is something deceitful about their entrance that brings smartass smiles to their faces. Vaquero and Pirata had outfoxed the Man again.

“Ya’ see, that’s the thing,” Ian remarks, keeping his voice low. “It’s all about presentation—how you show the God damned thing.”

“Yep.”

“We should give lessons in confidence when we give these things to people.” Ian lowers his voice and lets it drop as the bartender approaches them.

“What can I get you fella’s?” he asks.

“A Guiness.”

“Make that two,” adds Travis.

Looking back to the door for a second, Ian looks back to the bartender and says, “Three actually.”

“Right,” the bartender replies, taking off to get them.

Turning their backs to the bar, Ian and Travis sit down and examine the emptiness of the room. There was no one but the pair and the bouncer—a pair of king’s and a joker… or a pair of joker’s and a king. Taking in a deep breath, Ian says, “I love these… calm little moments before the storm.” Looking around he thinks out loud, “I should really do some shoots in the afternoon here. The light’s almost tangible.”

John approaches from outside, a silhouette against the wide glass windows at the front of the bar. “The parking meter witch tried to bite me.”

Ian and Travis nod in knowing agreement. “I hate it when that happens,” Ian replies, shaking his head.

“She caught me putting more coins in the meter.”

“Did she make you move the car?” Travis asked.

“No. She gave me a ticket.”

“What’d you do with the car,” Ian asks.

“I told that if she didn’t ticket me, I’d move the car. But if she did ticket me then I was just going to leave it there.”

Ian laughs. He could already figure the result. “What’d she say?”

Imitating the woman with a high-pitched whine, “Suit yourself.”

“And she didn’t even tell you to move the car?” Travis asks.

“No.”

“See, I would have ticketed you and then told you to move the car,” Travis explains.

“Would you really?” John asks, sounding upset.

“Yes.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Travis weighs the insult in his head. “Yeah. But I’m not a ticket bitch.”

“True.”

Ian asks, “That’s what, a step above primordial goo?”

“And John,” Travis adds, jerking his head toward his companion who just grins in reply.

The bartender comes back with the first two beers and looks to John for his order. Ian interrupts though, “I’ve got him.” Nodding, the bartender moves to go get the third Guiness.

“You don’t have to do that, man. I was just kidding about not coming.”

“No, don’t worry about it. You’re playin’ this weekend, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Consider it a celebratory drink then.”

John smiles.

“Who’re you guys opening for?” Travis asks.

“Homespun Noose.”

“I think I saw them play at the Shoebox a while back,” Travis says.

“Yeah, you did. I was there too,” Ian adds.

“I was at that show too, dummy,” John adds.

Travis shrugs.

“They’re not bad,” Ian says.

John keeps his opinion to himself. He was a musician, not a critic.

The bartender returns with the third beer, Ian and Travis pay him, and all three of the boys stroll out onto the patio, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. “Do you think you’ll get a good crowd?” Ian asks.

“First weekend of summerI’d expect a few people.”

“Forty or fifty,” Travis offers.

They all sit down around a black wrought-iron table near the sidewalk. John lights a cigarette and thinks about it out loud. “Homespun has a pretty good following. Some of their people’ll show up halfway through our set… and we’re starting to get a bit of a regular crowd. Forty’s about right.”

“That’s good for summer.”

Peering down Clayton street, John makes a dismissive face. The numbers weren’t what really mattered to him, but it mattered if the band wanted to keep playing big venues.

“I can’t wait,” says Ian, sitting back, putting his feet up on another chair. “I missed your last two showscouldn’t make the one in Atlanta.”

“That was a blast,” Travis notes.

“Yeah?” John asks.

“Dude, that whole thing with the cape and” he turns to Ian, “They sang the theme song to The Greatest American Hero acapella, while John here ran around with a cape.”

“What, the old TV show?”

“Yeah, remember?”

“That’d be pretty funny.”

John laughs, not sure how he’d been talked into that.

“It was hilarious,” Travis says.

John smiles. “That was great of all you guys to come down and see us. It was a Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Travis replies. “Besides now I got dibs on that old ‘I remember when’ phrase for when you guys are famous.”

John just smiles modestly. “I was fucking nervous at that show.”

“Oh, you could tell,” Travis agrees, “but the energy was just that much better for it. You guys were solid.”

Ian asks, “Are guys gonna’ start playing Atlanta more?”

“Lee and Eric really want to. I think we should wait until we’ve headlined at the 40 Watt.”

“That’d make sense.”

“You’re gonna’ have some fun with that,” Travis says enviously, though he knows John will let him use it.

John nods enthusiastically as they make their way down the street where Ian is coming at them at his usual cheetah’s pace.

“Can I play?” asks Travis.

Hugging the box to his chest, John just yells, “Mine!”

“Le’me see! Le’me see!” Travis yells in reply, dancing around John.

They get to Ian and stop. “What’d'ya get?” Ian asks John.

Travis jumps in first though, “He got a new toy and he won’t let me play!”

“You always break all my stuff!”

Suddenly twenty again, Travis replies, “I do not.”

“I know.”

Ian stretches and takes a deep breath and says, “Let’s go get a couple of beers and soak up some of this sun.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Travis agrees.

John, however, still clutching the mixer box just looks down at it and whines, “I wanna’ play with my new toy.”

“Ah c’mon,” Ian says, waving his hand in dismissal. “I’ll buy you yours.”

John smiles brightly, but Travis just says, “What about me?”

“You can buy me a beer if you want,” Ian replies.

“Where do you wanna’ go?” asks Travis.

Pointing down the street, “Flanngan’s? They got a patio.”

“Sounds good to me,” offers Travis.

Flanagan’s Irish Pub, an old Athen’s fire station, doesn’t look like it sounds. Outside, green wood paneling and old clay brick drape the front, the name of the pub running along the top in carved gold letters. The inside resembles a church more closely than an Irish pub, square and long, the altar of the bar running along the length of the east side of the room, opposite draped windows facing Jackson Street. There are hardwood floors, hardwood walls and polished Mahoganey tables that sit placidly around the room and on the balcony in the back. In one corner, towards the front of the bar, a video blackjack game sits and blinks yellow and orange.

Travis met the owner of Flannagan’s once, a man named Kelly Flynn curious to find out why a man of at least sixty years was hanging out at a well-established frat crashpad. To his suprise, Flannagan’s Irish Pub was actually an Irish pub, in so much as it was owned by an Irishman. Kelly was from east Ireland, near a town called Cork. Why he’d built a bar in Athens, Georgia, Travis never managed to get out of Kelly. The old man just talked about how he loved to see the young people come out and have funthat it was never like that in his day, that he wished it had been.

Walking down to the pub, Travis remarks, “And if we accidentally get plastered, it’ll be that much easier to walk to the car since its right in front!”

“Actually,” John announces, still clutching his precious mixing board, “let me put this in the trunk.”

“We’ll meet you inside,” Ian calls, opening the door to the bar for Travis.