4472370: A Day in the Life of a Barefoot Drummer Footloose in Music City

it started with a skipped beat and a gut full of lukewarm sweet tea. the kind of heat that melts the bottom off your guitar case but keeps your oxfords crisp under the nashville sun. 17.17c outside, 16.56c inside the walls of that café on bridge street where the barista “remember” your name but never your tab. i swear she’s got a vendetta against waiters. “you again?” yeah. i’m not a regular. i’m a fugitive. someone told me the place is haunted by a former mayor’s guitar amp. didn’t stick around to confirm.

the thermostat said it was a tolerable kind of hot, the sort that makes your fingers stick but doesn’t quit the air. humidity clung like a second skin, the kind that always said “nice to see you” before it choked you on the sidewalk. went to that tucked-away brewery on 2nd-yes, the one with the brick walls made of recycled restaurant scraps-and nearly got into a name fight with a grammy vet over whether post-punks should still wear kilts. local wisdom says never trust a yelp review that starts with “i’m not from here but…” why? because they’ll try to sell you their “culinary weirdness” (read: deviled eggs with edible glitter). “what’s next?” i asked colin, the bartender. he shrugged. “monopoly, I’d guess. tourism’s got more hooks than a carnival clown."

neighbors? the ones who live two blocks down from the gallermart. one’s a retired tarantula breeder. the other sells vintage nashville posters in a dented wagon. bought a “vibe” there. it’s just a 70s-era defeated bus station map. but hey, it’s got ghosts in it. (no, really. checked the obituaries.) if you’re restless, memphis’s neon snakes are a two-hour hum. alternatively, the zoo’s got a sloth that moves slower than my ex’s pacemaker. unconfirmed. someone yelled this at me while i was waiting for the bus: “you ever think about playing philly? the bars there actually tip you."
after miles of wandering, i hit the nashville songwriters hall of fame. paid $9.57 even though i’m basically a licensing threat. the exhibit had this weird interactive display-you answer questions like “what’s your musical spirit animal?” and it plays back a custom twang riff based on your answers. mine sounded like a dying accordion. “good,” the docent said. “soul-crushing but relevant."

attempted to write a song later. the sun hit my forehead just right and turned my brain to sludge. managed to scribble lyrics about blinds that didn’t close all the way and a parking meter that hated me. should’ve known better-this city eats ideas for lunch. maybe tomorrow i’ll try coffeelanders draft pastry. heard it’s cheaper than therapy. relevant detail: they’ve got a pumpkin spice latte that’s just gas station coffee with extra couth.
tripadvisor says the city’s magic? 4.2 stars. yelp drones’ up about “southern hospitality” but who’s checking their mic? a dude in a cowboy hat handed me a business card for his “topless honky tonk” on riverside. i laughed out loud. he cried. don’t get me wrong, his sax solo nailed my ribs in a way only a physically unfit violinist could. but at 2am, when the AC gives up and the bass keeps screaming “hold on,”

i’ll be out here, barefoot and useless, writing better than i play.

You might also be interested in:

• https://votoris.com/post/kyoto-chaos-noodles-ghosts-and-seriously-weird-rain-8
• https://votoris.com/post/santiagos-chaos-and-calm-a-sleepdeprived-musings
• https://votoris.com/post/dust-distortion-lost-in-the-grey-of-providence
• https://votoris.com/post/seasonal-weather-in-washington-what-to-expect-throughout-the-year
• https://votoris.com/post/chongqing-tax-system-a-sleepdeprived-nomads-rant