Epilogue

This was it! And Buckley felt just like turning around and going home without playing the song he wanted her to hear. The one he’d written for her on the subject of a potential “them.” His mouth couldn’t have gotten any drier than if it were stuffed full of super-absorbent, super-jumbo Berkley Jensen organic cotton balls. Right now he felt like an out-of-place idiot standing in the middle of a busy bar/restaurant with his guitar strapped uncomfortably to his right shoulder. Instead, he decided to stay and just give it his best shot.

An entertainer The Madd Hatter Bar & Restaurant had hired to perform for the night just announced he’d be taking a short break. So, the house DJ filled the momentary silence with songs that only a younger crowd probably knew a line or two of the lyrics well enough to sing along with, here and there. Halfway between the make-shift stage and the men’s restroom, Buckley was able to intercept the exiting performer and offer his deal.

“Hey!”

“Hey!”

“First off, solid set, man. Well played! Now second, let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of fucking deal are we fucking talking about here?”

“You clear it with the manager here, and if you guys let me play just one song, I’ll give you $100 in cash.”

Buckley knew talk was cheap, so he held out the C-note as a testimonial to his sincerity and integrity. This offering, an act accepted without delay by the other party in the transaction, was a small price to pay if he could only get her to hear what he had poured his heart into and composed. He’d come prepared; so, if the performer had wanted more than the original offer tendered, Buckley had some wiggle room stashed in the wallet nestled in the back pocket of his blue jeans. But now, the deal was done—and at a bargain-basement price to boot!

“Remember, you have to clear it with the manager here. I don’t want to get shut down less than a minute into it after giving you $100. Deal?”

“Deal—but I don’t need to clear it with no fucking manager. That’s my fucking equipment. This is my fucking show. If the fucking manager here has any fucking problem with it, he can fucking take it up with fucking me. I’ll punch his fucking lights out like I fucking did last week. Now I’ve got to drop a few fucking kids off for a fucking swimming lesson, so you just go and play for as fucking long as you fucking like.”

Catching the house DJ’s eye, then making a slashing motion at his throat to give him the “fucking cut-it!” sign, the bowel movement challenged performer then disappeared into the men’s room to keep the aforementioned swim class appointment. Following the orders of the only one who appeared to be in fucking charge here, the house music abruptly cut out, and a terrifying shock of silence fell upon the establishment.

Buckley marched with resolution in the direction of the make-shift stage. Upon it were; two microphones on stands, a speaker case with an amp head resting on top where the mic-cables were attached, and a single, solitary barstool. Buckley froze—did he really want to do this—take the risk of looking like a fool in front of not only strangers but the one for whom he’d written the song, and at the restaurant where she worked waiting tables? Partially, by the forfeiting of a Benjamin, but mainly by how much he needed her to hear his song, he mustered the courage to set foot upon the small stage.

While he hadn’t spotted Alice on his way into The Madd Hatter Bar & Restaurant, or even en route to the stage, he knew she must be around somewhere. Not only could Buckley sense her presence somewhere within the restaurant, but he’d also stopped by the place last night before her shift had ended, and they had spoken briefly. In all honesty, he hadn’t innocently just dropped in for a drink last night; Naida, not only another Madd Hatter server but Alice’s friend, had tipped him off during a prior visit that the object of his affection would be celebrating her twenty-sixth birthday yesterday. So, Buckley had come bearing gifts.

A while ago, Alice, who was born in Croatia, had shared with him who her favorite recording artists were. One was a female rapper from Slovenia called Senidah (aka The Balkan Trap Diva). The other, a Bosnian singer-songwriter, was Dino Merlin (aka The Wizard). So, doing his due diligence Buckley logged into his Amazon Prime account to find and purchase a CD by each of them. From a bit of research on Wikipedia, he discovered that the Slovenian’s most notable hit record was “Slađana” and that Merlin’s was “Ruža.” Buckley made sure he’d bought an album from each on which they were included.

In addition, he’d also picked up a simple birthday card for her and written a message that said, “Alice—happy b’day! Hope you still have a CD player at your place, and if not, I’ll be happy to rip the tracks and send them to you. Best b’day wishes—Buckley.” He’d toyed with the thought of signing it, “Love, Buckley’” but was worried it might be slightly overplaying his hand. After all, the lovelorn lad was still not quite sure where he stood with the desired red-haired woman of his dreams. 

When he’d been there last night to drop off his gift he stayed long enough for a beer before giving her the CDs and card. When paying for the drink, Buckley casually asked, “You working here tomorrow?”

“Yeah, got to pay the rent, right?”

“Right.”

“Buckley, I’m pregnant.”

To say this took him by surprise was an understatement. Regaining composure, he replied, “Then we should talk.”

“Not now. It’s my birthday and I just found out the staff is throwing a little party to celebrate after we close. Besides, I’m slammed with tables tonight. And yes, we should talk. Can you come by tomorrow, Buckley?”

“Okay.”

Standing to leave, and while fishing the gifts from his shoulder bag, the bashful boy hurriedly told her, “Happy birthday. I gotta go, but I promise I’ll be back tomorrow,” before rushing out of The Hatter. Feeling like he’d made a fool of himself again, Buckley went home, having not spoken the words he’d wished he’d had the courage to share with her. Once inside the tiny Hobohemian one-bedroom apartment, he picked up his steel string guitar to write her a song. The words that poured from his heart as he sang were the exact words he’d wanted to tell her from almost the first day they’d met. In about an hour, the song was written.

When the negative charge

Meets the positive charge

And they come together

The air’s electrified

Ah, ah, ah Alice

Come on out tonight

Oh, oh, oh Alice

Come out to play

Let down your long red hair

Someday somewhere somebody will care

Love your beauty love all your flaws

Love pick you up every time you fall

Ah, ah, ah Alice

Come on out tonight

Oh, oh, oh Alice

Come out to play

Someone, who’ll never get tired of you,

Someone, so inspired by you

Who loves everything you do

Got’em forever desiring you

Ah, ah, ah Alice

Come on out tonight

Oh, oh, oh Alice

Come out to play

Aphrodite, she envies you

Jealous of all that you do

Dance like the sea in naked moonlight

Alice, you gotta come out tonight

Ah, ah, ah Alice

Come on out tonight

Oh, oh, oh Alice

Come out to play

Alice, hold on to your life

You got to put up a fight

Live for today, play in the sun

Some tomorrows just never come

Ah, ah, ah Alice

Come on out tonight

Oh, oh, oh Alice

Come out and play

(Take a listen if you like: https://youtu.be/5YRsfZEOcqU)

After composing it, he knew what his next steps had to be; return to The Madd Hatter Bar & Restaurant tomorrow night; let Alice hear his song; discuss what they needed to talk about.

Buckley set about unpacking and tuning his guitar and then checking to be sure that both microphones were live. He climbed atop the barstool on stage and launched into the tune aptly titled “Alice.” Wherever she was tonight, he was sure after hearing her own name repeated while he performed, she would emerge to listen more closely. But the woman never appeared. Instead, and en route to repeating the ending chorus, he was cut off by a girl’s scream.

Stopping the performance and turning around, he discovered it was Naida. With a cell phone still held to the side of her face, she began crying as she repeated a single word over and over and over again, “No! No! No! No! No! No! No! Noooooooo...”

The other waitresses from the MHB&R, all except Alice, that is, rushed to her side. Seeing that Naida had begun to swoon, one of the girls grabbed the phone while another two helped to gently ease her into a prone position on the barroom floor where she was now sobbing uncontrollably. The one with Naida’s phone spoke into it, listened, and then she too began to cry. The waitress with the phone said something to the others that Buckley could not hear, like chain lightning, and in rapid succession, each turned on the waterworks. 

“I can’t believe it! She’s…” one wailed.

Another one, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my …”

In confusion, along with an unexplainable sense of dread, Buckley hopped off the barstool with the guitar still in hand and moved toward them to investigate…