I was betting on the chicken again. Saw a little chicken turd sitting on the winning number. I took out my ticket. I checked my number. My number was not the winning number. I picked another number out from the program and headed for the cashier, two dollar bills in my hand. When it was my turn to place my bet, I didn’t say a word, just waved the two dollar bills around at the cashier’s desk, around at their face, at the cage, a gesture that seemed to say, “Take the money. Take the fucking money. Someone take the fucking money. Take the money before I burn it.” I wasn’t going to burn it, obviously.
Nobody would take my fucking money. I was told I had picked a “bad number or two.” I made a fuss. The supervisor pointed their finger at the exit and mouthed “go” at me. I slipped the money back into my pocket. I turned towards the stage. Maybe the band would take my fucking money. Maybe they’d take my fucking money and stuff into their little fucking tiny tin money pail and use the two dollar bills to buy a fucking coke and a smile when they stopped to fill up their tiny little gas tank on their way out of this fucking town onto the next little fucking town.
They had just kicked up their second set. And they looked a little off in the face. There was a new frontman, in patched blue jeans and tattered t-shirt. He was growling. The microphone was sensitive; it picked up saliva levels. The band kept on, although they looked a little put off, unaccustomed to this sort of situation, too sheepish to handle this sort of thing, a crazed lumbering sort of man bum-rushing the stage and breathing in and out all sorts of nasty things. He kept on going. The band did not intervene. The crowd was loving it.
• Blue Daisy: http://bluedaisypresents.com
• R&S: http://www.rsrecords.com
More about: Blue Daisy, BlueDaisy
