“Whooooo, sorry. I’m probably going to do that a few times tonight. Thanks for bearing with me,” I say, getting a little laughter from the crowd. “So are we all ready for some music?”
This time, there’s thunderous applause, and I hear Claire’s whistle in the back again, too, which helps me to smile.
“All right, well, my dad—Ray Abbot—ran this open mic night for thirty years, and he always kept it simple. You get up here, do your thing, and if we like you, we’ll have you back. So, how about we all give a big welcome to…” I look down at the clipboard Barb handed me for the first name. “Sam…I am?”
I’m starting to think Barb maybe wrote the name down wrong, and I’m squinting, trying to decipher her handwriting, hoping like hell I didn’t completely just butcher some poor guy’s name. When I look back up, a guy in a cowboy hat is making his way through the crowd. “Sam? Come on up, you’ll have to tell us the story about your na—”
Mason pulls the hat off as soon as he clears the crowd, and shoots me the most playful and proud smile. I haven’t seen it since the days before he left for his tour, and I know he’s up to something because the closer he gets to me, the tighter his lips have to fight not to break out into laughter. Once he reaches me, he puts the hat on my head and holds his hand out for the mic.
“May I?” he whispers, and I just shake my head at him and hand it over.
“You…are up to no good, aren’t you?” I say, crossing my arms.
“Hey folks, let’s hear it for Avery Abbot. I think she’s doing a great job, don’t you?” he says, walking the length of the stage and raising his hands encouraging people to get up from their seats and cheer for me. My face is on fire, I’m so embarrassed, and when he passes me again, I grab his arms and force them down, begging him to stop shedding the spotlight on me.
“All right, well…I’m not Sam. Sorry to disappoint everyone. I know a lot of you here tonight, and for those of you I don’t know, my name’s Mason Street…” and as soon as he says his name, the sound of screaming women takes over everything else. “Thank you…thanks.”
He actually has to wait for the screaming to stop, shaking his head a few times and tossing his arms up to me, honestly a little embarrassed by the amount of attention he’s getting.
“A’right, A’right…I’ve got more to say, so just hang on a bit, and then we’ll start entertaining you all,” he says, finally getting the crowd to break. “So here’s the deal—it’s not really an open mic night. This list you’ve got Avery? It’s bogus.”
He tosses the clipboard down to his mom and she gives him a wink and then smiles at me with a shrug. Holy damn! Barb Street pulled one over on me!
“We’ve got a few people here who are going to play for you tonight though. I’m going to kick things off, and then I’m going to pass the mic on over to an old friend—Stanley Richards,” Mason says, and I pretty much fall on my ass. Stan played with my dad when I was a newborn—I’ve seen pictures of the two of them together, and my dad would tell me stories about watching Stan’s career take off. He’s become one of the best blues guitarists in the country—like multi-Grammy big.
I’m starting to realize that the room is filled with old friends of my father’s, and the people who stumbled in here tonight just hoping for some drinks and a good show have no clue what a treat they are in for. Mason says a few more names, each one more amazing than the last, and some are people out on tour now, selling out to hundreds of thousands around the country.
“You see why we sort of had to keep this thing under wraps, huh? We’re already turning people away,” he laughs, waving his hands to the people lining the walls in the back. “Hope y’all can see back there!”
I’m absolutely floored by this tribute to my dad, and I make my way to the edge of the stage and slide off to take my seat by the bar so I can enjoy it for a while. “So what do you say we get this party started?” Mason says, raising his guitar in one hand and a beer in the other; the place erupts in applause again. I realize finally that Matt and Josh have joined him on stage along with Mike Calloway, another longtime friend of dad’s, on the drums. Mason plays two familiar chords—he’s starting things off with Johnny Cash. Everyone. Goes. Nuts!
Mason mixes in two or three other songs, throwing in a new one he wrote, but keeping everything upbeat, really getting the crowd up and moving. I lean back to check the bar, and Cole and Derrick seem to have things handled, but the flow is constant. Dusty’s is going to have a good night, and I feel a heavy blanket of stress leave my shoulders.