It was three years ago, last time I saw Bullfrog Mullins play live. I had to drive an hour and a half to Atlantic City. Tonight, he\u2019s here in my town, playing at my local spot. The taproom at Lucky Lanes has a long bar with a string of lights shaped like jalapenos over it. Near the pool tables there\u2019s a little plywood platform that passes for a stage. Nights when they bring in some crummy cover band, I usually find somewhere else to drink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first legitimate artist they booked in years turned out to be one of my top five of all time. My father has roots near Tallahassee, so he put Bullfrog up there with Willie and Waylon. When we moved to Jersey from Pittsburgh, he let the cassette flip five times and turned it up when I complained. I listened to Bullfrog a lot when I lived in LA, where everyone pretended not to know who he was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I get a little lit in the bar waiting for him to show. There\u2019s a couple next to me, halfway facing each other where the bar makes a right. The guy has a Hawaiian shirt on, and he keeps looking at his watch. He doesn\u2019t want to keep the sitter waiting. They\u2019re arguing, as if I\u2019m not sitting right here. I\u2019m used to it. Most people\u2019s eyes just slide off a girl like me. Most of the time I like it that way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At eleven o\u2019clock they turn the lights off at the concession stand. He comes in through a door with a red exit sign over it and walks to the stage leaning right to offset the amp in his left hand. His leather vest shines in worn out patches and a band of sweat circles his felt cattleman. He bought his jeans stiff and dark blue and faded them himself. If he ever walked into a supermarket, he would look exactly the same. Bullfrog is five foot eight inches held together by tobacco resin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The industrial smell of his cologne, like some kind of machine oil, hits me as he walks to the bar. There are heavy rings, steel, maybe pewter, on the two fingers he holds up like a peace sign. He walks away with two beer bottles and sets them up under a tall black pub stool on the stage. When he grabs a bottle between songs he knows where it is without looking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The voice that earned him his name wasn\u2019t built to last, but his fingers move alright on an old Gibson. He wears a brass slide on his pinky and opens with a Carl Perkins tune. In the short set Bullfrog plays, he manages to repeat a verse in \u201cBarn Owl\u201d and forget the words to \u201cGuess I Got Lucky That Day.\u201d I can\u2019t tell if anyone else notices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Most of the crowd waits to hear him play \u201cFlorida,\u201d which he does after he makes a half-assed show of leaving the stage. When he hits the first chords people in rented shoes wander in from the lanes. \u201cI love this song. This is him? He\u2019s the Florida guy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I never cared for \u201cFlorida.\u201d I know, every fan hates the hits because the hits don\u2019t belong to them. \u201cFlorida\u201d doesn\u2019t even belong to Bullfrog anymore. It\u2019s a beer commercial, a spring break anthem that sold tourism and orange juice. It charted in the late eighties and became a radio staple on rock and country stations. The song fell in the sweet spot between cowboy boots and boat shoes with enough electric guitar and Southern fuck you to last. It\u2019s the reason Bullfrog Mullins can still make a living as a musician and the reason I get to see him play at the bowling alley thirty years later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Bullfrog carries his gear out the way he came in, I shuffle out the front door with the crowd. I stand away from the smokers that gather around the doorway and listen to a voicemail from the pharmacy telling me my prescription is ready. A pickup pulls out of the parking lot with the radio playing. I put my phone away and inhale, catching the smell of weed mixed with tobacco smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A cab pulls to the curb and four people squeeze into the back. I bum a cigarette from a young guy talking to his girlfriend and puff on it a few feet away from them. I can\u2019t think of anything to say to them and when they walk away I flick it into the street. I don\u2019t know what I expect from these nights. Whatever it is never happens. Almost everyone\u2019s gone when I walk back inside to my seat. The bartender hasn\u2019t cleared my empties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m surprised when Bullfrog comes back into the bar and throws a leg over the stool next to me like he\u2019s mounting a horse. Ten years ago, Bullfrog signed my CD at a record store. I met him again before a show in Philly. Even still, I feel a tingle in my pits. I count the bottles on the bar, lined up with wet, wrinkled labels while a fresh one sweats in my hand. Not that I think Bullfrog will disapprove.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy daddy is from Leon County.\u201d Just like that, it comes out of my mouth. He makes a slow turn on the barstool to face me. For a second I think he might stare until I slink away and leave him alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere\u2019bouts?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNear Lake Jackson. He took me to see you when you opened for Merle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHuh,\u201d he says. He looks at his beer like he wants its opinion. When he turns back to me, he\u2019s back on stage, performing. \u201cThing about Merle is, he\u2019s full of shit. Every night of that tour we hit a bong the size of a grain silo before he went out to bash the hippies for getting high. What year was that? \u201998?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c\u201992.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow \u2018bout that. What\u2019s your name, sister?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I never get to answer. We both turn when a woman comes into the bar and shouts, \u201cOh my gosh, you\u2019re still here!\u201d For a second I think she knows him. There are two of them, mid-forties and pretty. The one who spoke has blond curls. The other is shorter and has a stud through her nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just wanted to say that you were amazing,\u201d she goes on, stretching out the second a. \u201cIf it\u2019s not too much trouble, I would just love to get a picture with you.\u201d Bullfrog gives me a shrug and slings an arm around the blonde. The other woman holds up a phone and frowns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot here,\u201d she says. \u201cIt won\u2019t come out.\u201d She motions them to a table in the corner. Bullfrog hops down and follows. She snaps a few pictures, and then they switch places. Then they squeeze Bullfrog\u2019s face between theirs and take a selfie. Then they order a round of shooters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I almost have to admire them. They hunt in a pack, like hyenas. After awhile the short one peels off. Alone in the bar with Bullfrog and the blonde, I start to squirm on the stool. It isn\u2019t jealousy. I didn\u2019t come to screw Bullfrog Mullins. Neither did she, but it looks like she\u2019s thinking about it now. I pull the wallet out of my back pocket by the chain on my belt. It\u2019s time to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hear them as I\u2019m counting out a tip. They sing it together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe drink it in the sunshine, made it by the light of the moon<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Shootin\u2019 bottles, singin\u2019 loud, sleepin\u2019 in the afternoon\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n She mumbles through the rest of the verse and comes back big for the chorus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf I\u2019m down and out in Florida, at least it ain\u2019t New York or D.C.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Play my guitar all day long underneath the Cypress tree<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n If I\u2019m doin\u2019 time in Florida, Florida\u2019s where I gotta be<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Long as I can see the Florida sun, it\u2019s good enough for me\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n When I hit the air again I know I have no business driving. I drop my keys in the parking lot swinging them around on my finger. It\u2019s almost empty now and it\u2019s not hard to guess that Bullfrog got here in the brown and tan conversion van with Florida plates. I remember reading that he lives in Vegas now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I get into my car and the CD starts where it left off when I turn the key in the ignition. The song is \u201cGhost Man.\u201d It was playing when the truck overheated and my father popped the hood, and I could barely see him through the steam. He wouldn\u2019t let me help and he swore at me when I got too close, and then he said he was sorry and he didn\u2019t want me to get hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The trash in the glove box rattles when I open it. I have a flashlight in there, and my registration, and an insurance card I got before I let the insurance lapse. I have lip balm and tampons and napkins from drive-thrus. I have a short, green-handled Phillips head screwdriver. It rolls over my palm and I wrap my fingers around it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I leave the door open and the engine running when I get out of the car. Even with half the lights out in the parking lot I can see the rust around the wheel wells of Bullfrog\u2019s van. If anyone sees me with my hand on the side of the van to hold me up, they probably think I\u2019m puking. The thought has crossed my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I reach down and stab the sidewall with the screwdriver. When it doesn\u2019t work, I dig it in, twisting as I put my weight on it until I hear the air hissing out. I do the next one on my knees. That one goes quicker and I jump up when the van rocks toward me. I take a few backwards steps before I turn and walk back to my car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the way I home I think about the van. It\u2019s a big box on wheels and the curtains in the windows make me wonder how often Bullfrog sleeps in it. I can still hear the music over the wind from the open window that keeps me awake and focused on the road. I pop out the CD.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With my left ring finger wedged through the hole I hold it out the window, angling it up and down against the current of air. I consider letting it go but I pull the CD back in and toss it on the passenger seat. I wonder what will happen when Bullfrog finds out what I did. Maybe he\u2019ll miss a show in Wilmington or Baltimore. Maybe the blonde will feel bad and take him home with her. Maybe he\u2019ll write a song about it. I wonder if he\u2019ll know it was me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was three years ago, last time I saw Bullfrog Mullins play live. I had to drive an hour and a half to Atlantic City. Tonight, he\u2019s here in my town, playing at my local spot. The taproom at Lucky Lanes has a long bar with a string of lights shaped like jalapenos over it. … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":859,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-857","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/john-matychuk-gUK3lA3K7Yo-unsplash.jpg?fit=640%2C427&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/857","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=857"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/857\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":858,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/857\/revisions\/858"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/859"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=857"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=857"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=857"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
James Hertler lives in Red Bank, New Jersey with his wife and two children and works at the lumberyard. He studied creative writing at the University of Rochester and writes fiction, short and long.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"