Camouflage Blues
Living in a small town as an outsider often means finding types of camouflage to hide yourself among the rest of the populace. But what if you found someone you could be honest with? Would you take the chance? Would you dare? In this third episode of Genres Not Included, Eva Newcastle lays the foundation for this fable, after the intro quote by Joe.
It’s that time again, friends.
Friday night means #GenresNotIncluded, with the sublime
@EvaNewcastle . . . bringing you the best typewriter improv on the planet.
What will happen is unplanned but also unbeatable. Two writers. No script. Just immediacy.
Eva, start this party! — Joe Nelson, July 5, 2024
Small towns on the edge of nowhere had rules. There was the rule of law. Sure. Then, there were the unspoken codes nervous outsiders laughed off. Such idiosyncrasies were reactions to fear. Invisible walls. Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. Fear — mostly — of being found out.
For those on the edge of what the code masters deemed acceptable, it was a constant game of hide and seek.
You didn’t play with the wrong people.
You didn’t hold hands with the wrong people.
You didn’t kiss the wrong people.
Role camouflage became a way of life.
That is, until that musician rolled into town. “The best blues north of the Mississippi,” he told a passerby. The young man set up shop in a storefront alcove. An acoustic guitar. A lazy beagle blocked the cardboard “Venmo” sign. A few dollar bills in an open case to start.
It was easy to get lost in the music. It was easier to get lost in his eyes. Those rules meant little in the face of that guitar.
As he worked the strings it was clear he needed a shave. A couple bucks would buy a razor. And weren’t the songs worth that much?
Weren’t his eyes?
“Mind if I watch?” she asked, rules meant to be broken but at a cost. She scrounged for change but changed her mind when a pickup truck she recognized rolled passed.
Green eyes, bright in the sunlight, drew her in. He kept on singing. Mesmerized, she took a seat on the step.
His name was Chris. It wasn’t exotic, even if he was.
After the first day, when her friend Lisa caught her sitting there, she didn’t stop again after work. The rules. Always the rules.
But she left her apartment late, after the sun went down, hoping he might still be there.
And he was.
Convinced the coast was clear, she tossed a strange token into the guitar case. The music stopped.
“What’s this?” He held what looked to be a coin up to the streetlamp to garner a closer look. The insignia was familiar, yet he was stumped.
“Your ticket out.”
This coin was his ticket out of his nowhereville life. It would be accepted to book passage on the train that only came through after midnight.
They spent the night together.
She didn’t cry as the hour drew late. She couldn’t go. It was against the rules. Somehow he knew that.
But small towns north of the Mason Dixon line had other rules. There were no trains.
“Where’s you car?” She peered through the window at a pickup truck rolling passed.
“Near town.”
She scrounged, but the token she gave him was the only ticket left.
“Flip it for life?”
He said yes, but he would call it.
He kissed her before it hit the ground. Neither one of them looked down at it.
Rules could be broken.
Today he still plays the guitar.
And today she still listens and stares into those green eyes.
And the rules don’t apply to them.
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