He wiped his brow with the back of his greasy hand before continuing his
walk up the hill. His feet throbbed inside his dress shoes, but the music coming from behind the wall of trees ahead pulled him. Slow and warped it sounded like melting glass. A redding sunset on the tide. A snake decided against him and slid toward a nearby tree stump.
When he exited the thicket he saw the house, a shack really, complete with rocking chair yokel on the porch. The music which had drawn him here was emanating from beneath a pair of glassy eyes staring ahead. A teen, by the look. There were no instruments he was surprised to discover, just a voice which stretched and shook and trebeled as if it came from an old '78 through bad speakers. The man stopped just to hear him better.
A large woman emerged from behind the slapping screen door.
"And what can I do for you?" She asked, half hospitable and half in warning.
"Afternoon. My car broke down on the road down below. I heard someone singing and headed this way."
"Well, we ain't no garage, but you can use the phone if you like."
Continuing to allow the boy's hypnosis to affect him, he had almost forgotten the reason for his trek.
"I gotta' tell you, ma'am. That boy has got a set of pipes on him. I ain't heard nothin' that sweet in years. You should get him into the city and cut a record or something."
While the boy continued to sing, staring off into the tops of the trees behind the man, the woman replied.
"Bobbie? Lawd, he ain't no musician. He's just singin' th' blues."
*
