I Know Where the Old Men Sing
by Aaron Jungjohann

First impressions are grim, and it seems to me in that moment that the Charcoal House is a perfect name. Everyone inside is burned out, used up. A few frat boys prodding, stick in hand, at the wreckage. The bar is sad and suburban, and I'm not surprised that karaoke reenactment stands in for live entertainment. An old man's face surrounds me: lined, red leather stretched taut over hollows that must smell like mahogany. Sunken into most of these depressions are bolo-tied men and scoop-necked women. They huddle in private council or sway to songs I do not know. That I still mean to intrude on their ritual can only be the result of rude dementia, the inevitable fallout of hanging around with the two animals slouching on either side of me.

One of these, my friend Jackson, folds himself into an open booth, the bare-breasted slave girls that languish on his T-shirt doubling over with the effort. Where the sole of one shoe fails him a wire-haired toe peaks out at me from under the table. It’s a more fitting accessory than my laptop, a fact that I’m reminded of as I pull it from my bag. The reaction is immediate.

"Look at this fucking guy," Jackson gestures, incredulous. "We can't be friends anymore. You've sold out. You've sold out friendship."

My mouth twists, but I don't argue; we're already drawing attention from a woman in the booth beside us, the long claws of stretch marks grasping out from under her hot-pink tank top. She turns around and fixes us with a hungry grin. Too late I reflect that outside, where the smoke was pouring from the locals' mouths and nostrils, one could take warning: Here be dragons.

I knew my second man Lenny would be heedless of all such signs and portents, or perhaps might embrace them, already a kindred spirit at 25. The uniform may be different, but his subscription to a similar brand of nostalgia is as clear as the skinny jeans that extend below his budding gut. The swell of it rocks the table beneath Jackson's trammeling fingers as I crane my neck, scanning the crowd for a barmaid, hoping to keep my head above the nervous wave of anticipation. When I submerge with our drinks I know what is waiting, and Jackson does not disappoint.

"You got your song, sugar tits? You've got to get on your horse and ride, or it'll be too late."

“Yes," I shoot back, "thank you. I'm fucking thinking.”

“Maybe some Tull? Do a Tull shot?” He tilts his bottle up, eyes wide and fixed on me, “Ohhh ohhh ohhh... Aqualuuuung!”

Despite his tone, the suggestion is not without earnestness, tailored as it is to both my musical sensibilities and to the congregation's spirit, if not their denomination. Yet, their's is the cult of America – the freedom to rose-tint unifying the biker leather and cowboy hats and big hair silhouettes – my attempts to blend in should probably avoid the use of British pop. I'm working through this, drinking and thinking, Jackson all the while stroking his long tuft of chin beard like a scheming vizier, when I notice that Pink Tank Top is opening her mouth at me, wordlessly. I lean closer.

“I said, has anyone ever told you that you look like one of the Jonas Brothers?”

I'm baffled. Shaking my head apologetically, I ask, “Is that good?”

“My daughter loves them,” she laughs.

I blink, then settle on an expression that I hope is both appreciative and ignorant of any and all implications. Hours later, a morbid Wikipedia search of the exuberantly mechanized brothers Jonas will render me full of tired chagrin, and, exhausted and hung over, I will stumble to a mirror and look older than I can remember before stripping off a sodden blazer and demussing my premussed hair.

For now, this sentiment expresses itself in a brief coda: "Ah, fuck it."

I push off, nodding amiably to those around me, familiar or not, the drinks hitting me all at once as I stand up. I fail to suppress a stumble as I cooly hang an arm around Jackson's shoulder and, before I can confide in him that I'm going up to include my song on that list, like, now, I spill his High Life across the table. His response is so pedestrian that I'm legitimately taken aback, but now that I've got my impetus, I only throw cash and apologies at him while lurching toward the stage.

Line-dancing navy men prove to be the most formidable hurdle, the 10-gallon hats on their shaved heads seemingly held up by force of ear alone. As I skirt around them, I brush past a leather-clad woman sitting astride her bandana man's knee; her red-laquered fingers give my shoulder a quick squeeze as her perch looks on, inscrutable behind wraparound shades.

I've almost cleared them all when a performance ends and I must clap, though I don't remember hearing the song ... and it’s then that the intermission music kicks in. The nostalgic appeal is immediate, undeniable - strident Casio keyboard from the height of the Reagan era. It’s electronics with wooden veneers and the clickety-clack of Atari controllers. It’s high-top sneakers and my dad's old comb-shaped mustache. Its 20-some-odd years of hard-grown cynicism demolished in an instant. Ten or 15 minutes later my friends find me sitting on a stool, watching the show.

"You get your song in?" they ask.

"I did. ‘Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto.’ What did you just put in?"

"Meatloaf," Jackson says, having pushed Lenny toward the podium.

"Meatloaf?" I imagine him briefly, arched back and near falling as he delivers his operatic impersonation. I've heard stories. I smile.

"Meat-motherfucking-Loaf," he sighs contentedly, sitting on the bench beside me. Every so often, he directs a "Yeah-Yeah!" toward the stage and we applaud. Sure enough, I'm beginning to recognize some of the songs: “Sweet Caroline” (bah, bah, BAH), the works of a young Bon Jovi and an old Steven Tyler. And sure enough, as soon as I've fully relaxed I hear my name...

The rest is vague and almost incidental in the aftermath. There was calm, punctuated by periods of bright panic. At times I'd feel like an ass, standing up there with my smart casual clothing – the ultimate poseur. At others I was elated and as proud as I've ever been.

I didn't get my audience, no, not really, and in turn I did it to please them as much as to spite them. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we're all going up there to say “Damn the man.”