"Strange Friends"

"So what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a cleaner."

"Oh. Like a janitor?" he said, his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

"Yeah," I said. "Like that, I guess."

Behind us, the jukebox blared some horrible Hank Williams Jr. song about the South. As three hulking, misshaped Texans grunted at each other over the pool table, I ordered another beer.

And another for my new friend, while I was at it.

"You lived here long?" he asked.

"Here? You mean, Corsicana? No, I don't live here," I told him, walking circles around the truth. "I'm just in town on business."

I looked at my new friend. His sneakers were too white, his clothes a little too pretty for this East Texas town.

"How 'bout you?"

"Nah, I'm from Florida," he said.

My new friend looked slyly around the bar, then slowly turned his head back to me.

"You wanna hear a secret?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, feigning interest.

"I'm a 24-7," he said, looking at me like he had just made some kind of sense.

"UH-huh," I said. "What does that mean?"

There was a look of hurt in his eyes, then a smile.

"I'm a singer," he said. "You might have heard of me."

I stared at his features. He looked to be mid-twenties, no scars. In fact, upon further examination, he didn't have any distinguishing marks whatsoever. He looked like someone had called Central Casting and had them send over a generic frat-boy.

"You in some kind of boy band?" I asked.

"I thought you'd heard of me," he laughed, going back to his beer. "I'm one of '24/7.' You know our songs. You've heard 'Dancin' On My Heart,' haven't you?"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"How about 'You're So Booyah?'"

"I haven't listened to much music since Solid Gold went off the air."

"That's funny, man," he said. "That was a music show, right?"

"Yeah. "

A burst of profanity behind us signaled someone had sunk the last ball, and it was time to pay up the pool bet. The bartender shot an angry glance to the game room area.

"If you're a rich singer," I asked, looking over my shoulder to make sure the pool game wasn't spilling over, "what are you doing here?"

"Well, friend, that's a long story," he said. His eyes glazed over and he stared off into the distance as he began.

I cursed myself for asking.

"Two years ago, I was just another struggling singer in Orlando. I answered a cattle call for some new musical project." He stopped and finished his beer.

"I got the gig. Me and four other guys. We trained for six months, and then they sent us out on the road."

"Another six months, and I was a millionaire. I could have anything I wanted. I toured the world, bought houses, cars, whatever I wanted. And the women…"

I turned to look at him. He was looking away, so I hit him on the shoulder with the back of my hand.

"What?"

"You were talking about the women, and then you stopped. Don't leave me hanging, man. You just got me interested."

"Well, the women are pretty nice. You've got women of all ages throwing themselves at you. Teenagers, college girls, moms, teachers, police officers…you know, I had a nun once."

"Really," I said.

"Yep. She came up to my room to talk to try and win me over. Needless to say, I was the one who wound up tempting her to the dark side."

"Is that so," I asked.

"Absolutely," he nodded. "What, you don't believe me?"

"Nope. Not even a little bit, Junior."

My new friend got a hurt look on his face, then it receded to a smile.

"It could have happened," he mumbled, calling the bartender for another beer.

"It did happen, only it happened to Gene Simmons back in the eighties. That's where I heard that one first. Just 'cause it's a good story doesn't mean it'll work for you."

"Alright, you got me. I didn't have a nun. The point I was making is…the point is…"

He was staring at his hands like a Shakespeare character. I worried alcohol had cost him his train of thought, and we'd have to start from the beginning.

"What I'm saying is…I just got to get out sometimes, you know?"

"Actually, I do know what you're talking about."

The bartender sat another Rolling Rock in front of him. "When I get time off from the road, I've just got to get out of town, you know? I need to clear my head, get back to the country. Keep it real, you know what I'm saying?"

I turned to face my new friend. "So what you're saying is, all this crap that celebrities always say about getting away from it all and getting away for the weekend," I said, "you're actually doing that?"

-- Continued On Page 2