I’d been playing clubs and bars around the Finger Lakes that summer. Me, two guitars, and my pup Combo, whose mother was purebred English Springer Spaniel and father an unknown vagabond night visitor of indistinguishable and undistinguished DNA mélange. There we were—a pair of mongrel madrigal makers—Combo howled his mezzo-soprano in the moonlight while I crooned the baritone parts.

The Finger Lakes—nature’s miracle, clear waters, primeval forests, homeland of the Iroquoian Five Nations, and 400 wineries seemed like heaven. Still, it had been a long, hot summer and I’d played a gig almost every night for weeks, so I felt beat when I set up to play in that tidy tiny club in that quaint lakeside town.

The club-goers, upscale vacationers, mixed in with locals, mostly couples, all pleasantly more mature than the college crowds I’d played for all spring. A nearly full house. Unfortunately, few single women. Combo had been a good travel companion—a gracious listener, an interesting harmonist, and a comedic delight with his floppy ears and feet he’d not yet grown into. Still—I’d been single a long while and sometimes longed to fall asleep with a woman in my arms instead of a puppy on my lap.  

My first set, mostly rock, playing my Gibson ES-335, went well. The bartender and waitresses kept busy; the audience sang along and some danced. I played a couple requests then took my break. A guy who’d asked me to play “Cathy’s Clown” handed me a pint of Guinness as I left the stage.

When I stepped up to the mic for the second set, you were sitting at the table smack-dab in front, close enough, if I’d had guts, I could’ve stroked your cheek. You looked up and in your table’s candlelight, your amber hair glistened, your green eyes sparkled. You smiled. I nodded. The guy with you shot me a look.

I went acoustic, figuring I’d keep things upbeat with some offbeat Steve Goodman and John Prine, a few bawdy Irish tunes. Being faithful to my own heritage, I tossed in the ribald “Che la Luna,” in English. As I closed out the set I sang, in Italian, “Santa Lucia” and finished with the Spanish lament, “Por Un Amor.” All the while, I looked at you. And you looked back. The guy, well, if looks could kill.

You asked, “Will you play ‘Fields of Gold?’”

And I did, slowing the tempo so I’d have more time to lose myself in your amber hair, green eyes and rosy lips. I imagined kissing you, our bodies coming together—tall grass and barley swaying in the breeze.

As I left the stage, the bartender handed me another pint. “Thanks,” I said and walked out to the parking lot. I stepped into the RV to have a chat with Combo. The pup, as always, an attentive listener, spun in circles and wagged his tail when I said I thought I could fall in love with you. But when I mentioned you’d come with another guy, Combo sighed, whimpered, and let out a low moan. I told him I thought the guy seemed like a jerk, and Combo growled, snarled, and barked in agreement. “Hey, buddy,” I said, “when will I be loved?” Combo hopped onto my lap and licked my face.

“Sorry, pal. Gotta go.” I gave Combo an extra cookie and I went back into the club.

The crowd had thinned, but you and your guy still occupied the table in front row center. I checked the crowd, grabbed the electric again, stepped up to the mic, and asked, “Anybody in the mood for some old standards? A little Sinatra, Dino, Ella Fitzgerald?” Folks applauded, and some moved up to tables closer to the stage.

I began with up-tempo “Let’s Fall in Love” and “From this Moment On,” then mellowed out with “Someone to Watch Over Me,” and from then on mixed the upbeat with ballads.

You leaned a bit more toward me, your eyes like magnets drawing my gaze inexorably to you.

I developed a bit of tunnel vision. Hardly noticed your friend’s glares.

Nearly time to wrap up, I played “One for My Baby.”

As the last note died out and I started to say thanks and goodnight, you asked, “Please, play ‘Wild Mountain Thyme.’”

How you guessed I knew the song, who knows. I put aside the Gibson and picked up my 000-28 and caressed the strings as sweetly as I could. And I sang to you. I feared that I might choke up. Once my voice quavered. I hoped no one would notice me being soft in the heart, soft in my head. But almost everyone knew the chorus and sang along, and at the end we sang the chorus three times, the last time slow and soft. I played the melody once more and when I finished, I let the final chord linger and slowly die out.

“Good night, folks,” I said, “and thank you very much.”

I turned and packed my guitars into their cases, and when I looked back to face the room, your friend was gone. So were you.

Later, as Combo and I took our walk in the moonlight, I said, “Well, here we are again, buddy. Asking again, ‘what was I thinking?’” Combo moaned mournfully. He stopped next to a tree. Did some business.

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. Not thinking but wanting. Wanting her to want me. And then what? Long before that, I’d wanted to hit the road and sing songs. Songs about what? Love. Loss. Falling in love or suffering with a broken heart. One’s better than the other, but both will make you feel, give you something to sing about. It’s good to feel. Tonight, I fell head-over-heels then tumbled into heartbreak’s abyss. There’s a romance to that. A romance to the road. A fickle road—hopeful then lonesome. Romance that’s bound to fade. Are we getting to that point? Am I there?”

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Nick Di Carlo, erstwhile poet and inveterate story writer, has been knocking about this planet for seven decades and a bit. He’s taught writing and literature in universities on east and west coasts, in prisons and wilderness areas. Novelist Eugene Mirabelli has written: “Di Carlo’s stories are severe and uncompromising. They aren’t pretty, but they are real. His scenes are gritty and hard edged, his characters are lost, marginal and indomitable.” These days, Di Carlo views life through that rearview mirror that says, “Objects in Mirror are Closer than They Appear,” while listening to Anita O’Day’s “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” and Ella Fitzgerald’s “But Not for Me.” Read his work in Muleskinner Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Guilty Crime Story, 50 Word Stories and Friday Flash Fiction.