HE FOUND THE ARMADILLO, A CORNER BAR ON THE BOTTOM FLOOR of a three-story building. He parked and went inside and sat down at the bar. Brick walls and a sticky wooden floor and a yellowstained ceiling. A dozen or so people sat at the tables and along the back wall was a small stage. Stacks of speakers were on each end of the stage and a drum kit set up in the middle. The chairs and tables were pushed back away from the stage, leaving room for dancing. A young man appeared from a door behind the bar. He carried a case of beer and he slid open the top of a cooler and stacked the bottles inside. His arms were covered with tattoos and his hair messed up in the right places. Russell sat alone at the bar and when he finished stacking the beers he gave Russell a nod and Russell asked for one of them. For the next hour or so this was the game. The bartender came and went in preparation for the night ahead and Russell sat quietly, smoking and watching, trying to decipher where one tattoo ended and another began. He occasionally asked for a beer and the bartender gave it to him.
In the next hour the door to the Armadillo opened and closed more frequently as the tables began to fill up. Russell moved to the end of the bar where he could watch the door. Most everyone who came in looked either too young to be in there or too old. A burly, bearded man came in the door and stepped into the middle of the floor. He looked around. Stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Another bearded man wearing a black bandanna around his neck pushed open the door and then guitar cases and amps were walked in and through the maze of tables. Once the equipment was in place the band plugged in cords and tapped microphones and tuned guitars. It was the ugliest band Russell had ever seen.
Another bartender showed up to help with the crowd. A young woman, equally tattooed. Her shirt bared her belly and a sun flared around her belly button and Russell happily watched it move behind the bar. Jesus or Elvis could have walked in the door and he wouldn’t have known or cared as he was magnetized by the black sun and the way its rays bent and twisted as she reached for bottles and poured strong drinks.
The bar stools filled up next with those who had come without friends and after the burly band drank a few beers and smoked a few cigarettes the lights went down and a row of moody, yellowish bulbs illuminated the stage and dance area. A guitarist struck a wiry chord and then on the count of four the night jumped to a new level as the burly band played Skynyrd as tight and crisp as Skynyrd themselves. Heads began bouncing and shoulders began swaying and there was no more talking, only yelling, and the band never slowed between the first three or four songs and a couple made its way to the space in front of the stage. Clutching and clinging more than dancing but damn sure not caring what anyone thought about it. Russell’s knee bounced in rhythm and he noticed the tattooed bartenders pouring the drinks heavier than they had been pouring them before the music began. People kept coming in and it wasn’t long before it was hot inside and in another handful of songs there were more sweaty faces than dry faces. Russell had to go to the bathroom but knew if he left his bar stool he wouldn’t get it back so he tried to ignore it by watching the sun that was now glistening with sweat in the neon light of the beer signs hanging behind the bar.