With the late afternoon sun came a cool breeze which dried my brow and made me aware that my hair was a group of individual strands, not a thick black mop as it had felt earlier when I had been at work. The ice tea was soothing to my throat and the moisture on the glass rubbed off on my hands, filling in the dry cracks real or imagined. Yesterday had been an anniversary of sorts.

I had cut twenty-three lawns and coming home to an empty house was a good thing. My brother was still at work at the post office, would be until seven, and my mom, I assumed, was out shopping. Tall leafy trees secluded the backyard; it was better than sitting in the heat of a house full of stagnant air. I sat and played.

The acoustic guitar was without a doubt the best companion I could ask for on a July day. What stood in my way from enjoying it completely was the fact that the muscles in my hands, having been wrapped tightly around the thin metal tube handle of a lawn mower most of the day, were not just sore, but plagued by tenseness and ongoing throbbing pain that reached up into my wrists. I felt the tightness all the way up in my left bicep as it flexed to hold the neck.

I wasn't an extraordinary guitarist, but I was a good rhythm player and I knew a lot of tunes. I was singer more than anything else, and had, in fact, been the frontman for three cover bands in Atlantic City. That had been summers ago, in my early twenties, before the grays had started to mar my dirty blond hair and my tattoo, a heart beneath a night sky with the inscription of love to Nancy, had become faded to the point of becoming more a scar than a lasting testament to love.

Songs were the reason I played and lyrics were the heart as far as I could tell. I found pop lyrics to range from dumb to outright poetry. I even took a poetry class at night in an attempt to learn how to write good lyrics. It was exciting to see Dylan’s "All Along the Watchtower" present among Lowell’s catalog of work. Nowadays I took the words said by the "stars" as they came, found some of them inaudible, and found others to be nonsensical. Lately, I had begun to believe that what the writer meant wasn’t necessarily too important, it was what the listener got out of it. Between those two stood me, the intermediary.

I strummed some chords and stopped, massaging the sharp darting pains in my hands. They were clean and tan colored, barely a few shades lighter than the rosewood fingerboard on my instrument. The ice tea rushed down my throat and into my body creating a cold puddle in my stomach drawing my attention away from the aches in my hands.

An open E chord allowed me to check my tuning, and I jumped right into a lazy blues to which I just sort of hummed a melody line. I didn’t want to speak today and I didn’t want to think of words. Lyric writing was not a specialty of mine. Original bands were something that didn’t interest me, playing good music and impressing a crowd did. The line I had been humming had turned into Sam Cooke’s "Mean Old World." I sang a verse and the chorus and then ended with a turnaround.

I found myself reverting into a familiar groove that led me to start playing "She Talks to Angels" by the Black Crows. I just sort of hummed the melody while I played. There was no audience here so I saw no point to singing. It was a popular slow tune everyone knew the words to and I had performed it with all the bands I had been in, with the exception of the oldies cover band. I finished with a smooth turnaround lick and refreshed myself with the last of the ice tea.

I surveyed the tall grass in my backyard and I winked at the wooden swing that swayed gently in the cool breeze. It was hand-built by me two years ago and had never received a coat of finish. Slowly, with the passage of time and the seasons, it had been rotting away, but the chain and plastic seat with the extra safety braces refused to die with the rotting wood for obvious reasons.

I could hear my mom’s car pulling into the driveway. I got up, carefully laying the guitar on its back across the red picnic table, and went in to the kitchen. I needed a refill and I grabbed a second glass for her.

"Want some ice tea?"

"No," she said.

Her hands were empty and her face was drawn, and it appeared she had not slept well, had been crying. I put the glass back in the cabinet.

"Work hard today?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "over twenty lawns."

"Reach your age?"

I turned my back toward her and looked at the backyard through the window that was positioned over the kitchen sink. I was twenty-six and there was a time I would say I cut my age…when I was seventeen. The ice tea lost something when the cool breeze did not accompany it. My own lawn would have been number twenty-four. My lazy, fat brother could do it, all he ever did was shuffle mail.

"There’s always tomorrow." I said.

"Tomorrow you’ll be older," she said.

I knew where she was going with this and I didn’t want to hear about it. I had done enough thinking for one month. I rinsed out the empty pitcher that we used for tea and got the mix out of the cabinet.

"Did you see the stuff that came in the mail?"

"Yes," I said and poured the directed amount of mix into the pitcher.

"I know now is probably not the best time, but did you think about it?"

I sipped some more iced tea. I felt myself shaking my head as I thought about a classroom situation.

"I’d look so stupid," I said. "Everybody would by five years younger than me. They’d probably make me take a bunch of remedial courses and then I’d feel even more stupid."

I finished filling the pitcher, shook it, and placed in the refrigerator. I turned and looked at her, my lips tightly sealed.

"Then go at night with the adults," she said her voice rising. "You said you were tired of landscaping and were going to do something different, but all you do is complain. Go learn to do something else and quit complaining."

I turned away from her and tossed the glass in the sink. The ice ricocheted out of the glass and slid around the metallic tub to a corner where it would melt its way to the drain. I heard her take a deep breath.

"I just want you to do something that will make you happy." I heard her say in a softer tone.

"Well, we both know that won’t happen," I said regarding the swing through the small square kitchen window.

She let out a sigh and I turned to see her wiping her eyes.

"Look," she said. "The music career never came to be and then that business you and Ricky had planned just fell through–"

"Ricky quit so he could work for Uncle Sam. You need three years to get a business off the ground."

"I don’t want to argue with you, Chris." She said in a stern voice which made me silent instantly. "All I’m saying is I want you to think about the future and to move on, okay. It’s been tough, but you can’t cut lawns forever."

I slowly nodded and looked at the clock it was almost six.

"Don’t you have a date with Nelson tonight?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Better get ready," I said. "You don’t want to lose that track. He’s a nice guy."

She smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

"And what are you doing tonight?"

"Karaoke over at Dave’s place," I said. "The usual."

"Have fun."

She ascended the stairs to her room where she would shower and change for her date. I liked Nelson. He was the first quality man I had met. My dad left in his early twenties.

I got to Dave’s at six-thirty. It was a small bar/restaurant that was popular in town. The small parking lot was always filled up by nine and the building--which resembled a red barn more than anything else--was adorned by a sign which said: dave’s bar and grill. The v and the n bulbs had blown and no one had bothered to the replace them. They were known for good wings, fair ribs, excellent burgers and reasonably priced beer.

When I stepped in the bar tender smiled at me. Her name was Karen and she was a petite blond-headed girl I knew from high school. She had been a freshman when I had been a senior. She was good friends with Nancy and had gone out on a date with my brother once, but didn’t like him. I didn’t blame her; I chalked it up to good taste; Ricky was moody.

"Hey, Chris," she said. "What can I get you?"

"Just some dinner."

"Need a menu?"

I smiled for a reply.

"Take your pick," she gestured toward the dining area.

I took a booth that was near the bar and surveyed the vacant place. The stage was all set for the evening. The speakers and a TV that would play a video and scroll through the lyrics for the participants stood silent, waiting to be switched on. The stereo was on, playing the local rock radio station, just waiting for the DJ/master of ceremonies to arrive at seven-thirty.

"What can I get you, Chris?" Karen said pulling out her pad from her shorts which were covered by a brown apron with Dave’s name on it; her T-shirt was an advertisement for Dave’s Karaoke night.

"Just some wings."

"Sauce on the side?"

"Please."

"And what to drink?"

"What do you got that I haven’t had that you like?"

She looked back at the bar a moment, but I knew she had something in mind.

"New Castle," she said and wrote it on her pad. "Pitcher or pint?"

"IV," I said cracking a smile.

"I’ll call Dr. Dave," she said.

She squeezed my shoulder and walked to the back, passing through the double doors into the kitchen to drop off the order she had co-written. She reappeared and quickly delivered this beer called New Castle, or was it an ale? It was a thick dark liquid that seemed to have more in common with coffee than beer; it reminded me of Guinness Stout, though it wasn’t as heavy. Its flavor was rich and dark. I could feel its unique flowing quality as I took my first draught of it and let my nerves track its progress inside of me. It wasn’t bad, but a little heavier than I had expected, especially after drinking ice tea all afternoon. Why was Karen drinking this stuff?

She brought my wings and took a seat opposite me.

"Want some?" I offered taking my first wing.

"Nah," she said. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I’m doing okay," I said. "Got finished work and relaxed."

"How’s work."

"Good, very tiresome," I said. "I think I’m going back to school."

"Really, where?"

"Community," I said since it was a safe bet. "Just going to get reacquainted with the books and consider my options."

She nodded and looked over my shoulder, no doubt at the door to see if any new customers were arriving.

"That’s good," she said signaling to me that she was back in our conversation.

Karen never missed a step. She could serve at one end of the bar, talk sports at another end, play matchmaker at another, and mend broken hearts at yet another. She did all this while still managing to find a date for each weekend and bring home the most money in tips.

"These are good wings," I said. "Sure you don’t want any?"

"Positive," she smiled.

I ate another, dipping it generously in the sauce beforehand. There was nothing quite like fried food.

"How’s Nancy?"

She looked at me, her brows furrowing. "You mean you haven’t talked to her?"

I shook my head.

"I saw her early yesterday," she said. "She was okay. She took the day off from the coffee shop and I took her out to lunch. We shopped a little. She was a little reserved, but what can you expect."

"Mention anything? Mention me?"

"Just in passing," she said. "She got a raise and is now the head short order cook. She likes her raise."

"I bet."

"I figured you guys would be going to see each other."

"Well, there was kind of an agreement that we go our separate ways so I don’t–" I stopped speaking feeling some minor heartburn coming on. I washed down the feeling with the New Castle. "I mean, what are we going to do? Get together and cry?"

"That’s not a bad thing sometimes." Karen said and looking over my shoulder said, "I got another customer, hang on."

I watched her lean figure parade itself up to the bar and begin serving drinks. She had a nice spine, her walk full of confidence. People began coming in now; it was past seven. I kept busy with my food and beer, ordering a second helping of wings and as much New Castle as I felt I could stomach.

I was finished when karaoke started. My belly felt like lead as I approached the sign-up sheet that Jason kept handy on his mixing console. An acoustic guitar was sitting beside his chair.

"Nice guitar, Jay," I said. "What is it?"

"My new Martin," he said. "I just got it last week."

"Look’s great."

"Sounds even better," he said. "What are you singing tonight, Chris?"

I smiled at him and signed the sheet.

"Which one do you want first?"

"‘Are You Gonna Go My Way’ and then I’ll do the Crow’s tune."

"Okay," he said.

I went back to the booth and ordered more of the dark rich lead-like liquid I was sure was not good for my singing voice. But I didn’t care, there were no prizes up for grabs tonight except for T-shirts, and I already had enough of those, was, in fact, wearing one.

The first kid to step up to the mike was not very familiar with the words of the tune he was trying to sing. He kept looking at the TV set, which played an unrelated video and ran the lyrics in the form of subtitles. He was trying to sing a Pearl Jam tune, but it wasn’t happening and he quit in the middle of it.

I went second and did my "Are You Gonna Go My Way." It was easy. I knew the lyrics like I knew my tattoo, and the crowd gave me a big hand which would undoubtedly lead to another T-shirt.

I returned to my table where Nancy was waiting for me. Her look was despondent, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, one I had won a long time ago. Her eyes were a watery black, and I could see the beginning of crow’s feet; her hair was tied back in a bun. Karen came by with more New Castle, one for me and one for Nancy.

"Great singing Chris," she said and continued on.

I thanked her and took some of the New Castle. By the door of the establishment stood my brother Ricky, watching us, chewing his nails. He acknowledged my glance with a slight smile that, more than anything else, resembled a grimace.

"Hi Nancy," I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked and my hands started to shake.

I took a tight grasp of my beer and looked down at the table. I could hear her breathing, a steady insufferable wheezing. I sucked in some air and held it. A large smooth growing silver ball of emotion was in my throat, trapped and pushing at the sides, threatening to rupture my vocal chords.

I looked up at her and all I could hear was the breathing. She said nothing; the black look remained etched in her eyes. I studied it with my eyes while some young girl sang "Locomotion" along with the backing tracks. Tears were filling the corners of her eyes and soon the baby crow’s feet would serve as pathways, eroding the smooth skin, making the marks of time deeper with pain.

Instinctively my hand reached across the table and clasped her hand. I felt a cool smoothness glide down my left cheek. Her hand was warm. I could feel the life still in her. My hands danced over her ringless hands.

"I missed you this year," I said.

She nodded.

"I thought you’d call," I said. "I didn’t really know what would happen, but I thought something would happen."

I stopped talking because I wanted her to speak. She had always been so talkative when we had first met. I had a well of feelings, but no words to describe them. I looked across the table and waited. The girl finished her song and a male voice began singing "Pride and Joy" with Stevie Ray Vaughn’s guitar wailing in the background. I stood up and picked her up out of the seat. She was on her feet and I led her out onto the back patio. It was empty; the action was inside.

Nancy embraced me and crushed her face into my chest. I put my arms around her and ran my hands through her hair. I kissed her on her forehead and thoughts of the past danced before me. We sat down at one of the picnic tables.

"I think about her all the time too," I said. "I hate July."

"She’s not coming back," she said. "It’s like she was never here."

I closed my eyes and reminded myself that Jennifer was here. Here for the month of July, sent home apparently with jaundice, back in the hospital before the car trip home ended. She was a fighter, but the odds were stacked against her.

Nancy moved out in the winter after staying with me through the pregnancy. The music store failed because I couldn’t keep my mind on things and you couldn’t really do the band thing when you sat home watching sitcoms seven nights a week.

"Don’t say that," I said. "She was here. She’s here now."

Nancy sat down and wiped her eyes.

"I wish it never happened," she said bitterly. "I wish you never talked me out of my decision."

I slapped my hand down on the table.

"Nancy," I said harshly, but had nothing to follow it up. All I could see in my mind was the swing with the unfinished frame. I sucked in some air and spoke quietly. "I loved you too much to let you do that. I loved you afterwards, and I love you now."

"I didn’t and I don’t–"she began, but I cut off her stupidity.

"Then why are you here?" I asked. "I made the attempts. Even after you left. I was with you all the time; I was trying to be there for you. I was trying."

I was trying, I thought. I was trying to continue with our plan, even after Jennifer, and after she moved back in with her father who was now suffering from Alzheimer’s. I tried, until I presented her with a ring whereupon she asked, "What’s the point?" I withdrew it and she said it was time for us to draw the curtain, change our makeup, and return to a new stage to begin another show, separately. There was a time when Nancy was a dancer. But July was ten months away then and how could we know that this show would always be back in town, no matter how much we didn’t want to be part of it. I still couldn’t remember the day without sugar coating it with a little fantasy. To remember it in its raw form was too much, a stone time couldn’t erode.

"I just want it all back," she said. "Sometimes I catch myself not thinking about her and I hate myself. ‘How dare you forget,’ I think, and I just start crying and hurting."

She held up her right arm, her forearm displayed burns she given herself no doubt at the Olympic Coffee Shop. I put my arm around her and stroked the welts, conscious of my own tight muscles.

"You’re the only one who understands," she said. "Everybody will just yes me to death or get depressed and not want to talk to me. You somehow deal."

"Why did you push--" I stopped myself and continued holding her. "I’m glad you’re here with me now."

Back inside the karaoke was finishing up and I had missed my chance in the lineup to sing. Nancy and I took two seats at the bar since the table we had vacated earlier had been taken. Karen brought us over two beers and two shots.

"On the house," she said and squeezed Nancy’s hand. "He’s a good man, Nance."

Nancy stared expressionless at the liquor. I picked up the shot glass and sniffed the liquid, Old Granddad. Nancy picked her glass up.

"Thank you for not being ugly," she said.

"I still have hope," I said.

"Nothing’s changed," she said.

"You’re here," I said and drank.

She drank with me and together we felt the hot numbing liquid burn through our chests. It was refreshing, a shock to the heart. My brother put his arm around me and kissed me on the cheek. We hugged. He was a good little brother and my best friend.

"I’m going home," he said. "Do you need a ride, Nancy?"

"Yes, Ricky’s got to get up early to shuffle the mail," I said in throaty voice imitating a TV Cowboy.

He gave me a love tap and I smiled at him.

"Okay--" Nancy began but I cut her off.

"Did he force you to come here?" I asked Nancy half-jokingly.

"No," she said twisting her lip into a pout.

"Well, I’ll be taking her home," I said.

Ricky nodded and said goodbye.

"This doesn’t--"

"Will, you shutup," I said.

Karen came up to us and refilled our glasses with beer. She put the shot glasses in a large sink under the bar.

"Jason said a few people dropped out," she said. "If you want to sing he says he’d be more than happy to have you."

I turned to Nancy.

"Can I trust you to be here when I get back?"

"No," she said and tried to smile, but I could see it was hard for her.

"That’s what I thought," I said. "You might want to listen closely to this though."

I went over to Jason’s record collection, but he didn’t have a copy. So I asked permission to use his new Martin. He allowed it, so I took the acoustic guitar on stage, lowered the microphone and took a seat. No one noticed what I was doing until I strummed the guitar and a few chords sounded over the PA.

"Freebird," was a cry I heard from the bar.

I played the intro chords and said, "Not," into the mike.

"This is an old tune by a guy named Sam," I said. "It was written back in the day when they really knew how to play intros and singers really put their heart into it. It’s called ‘Mean Old World.’"

I began with a turnaround and eased into the progression, setting a solid tempo that was, unfortunately, a little faster than what I wanted. I was nervous as I closed my eyes and began singing a tune that had been written by one of the greatest rhythm and blues singers of all time. The magic of this song was not the words themselves but the way in which Sam had sang them. The contrast between the high and low registers, the magical inflection in his voice and the deep spirit of longing he had been able to project. I was good, not excellent, not a superstar, but I was okay. I sang it and I meant it. Some patrons knew the song and jumped in with me on the chorus while others just watched, still others, who didn’t know the song and didn’t care for something different, ignored me.

As I ended the tune I could see Nancy sitting by the bar, finishing her beer. I finished to a small section of applause, put the guitar back and went to Nancy.

"That was different," she said and tried to smile once again. "I liked it."

"Are you ready to go?"

She nodded and we walked out to my car. I opened the door for her and then went around to my side and got in. On the short trip home I told her about my plans to go back to school, to start fresh at something new, something I hadn’t even chosen yet. She just tried to smile.

"That’s good."

"Yeah, I’m really going to do well this time," I said. "I’m going to get into something. I’m going to get a career."

As I pulled up to her place I put the car in park, but did not kill the engine. I told her I loved her because I did. She didn’t respond. I leaned over to her side and she allowed me to kiss her on the cheek. She got out and stood at the open car door looking at me.

"Thanks Chris," she said and I thought I could see a tear forming in her eye. "Can I maybe give you a call tomorrow?"

"Yes," I said. "Do you want me to call you?"

"No, no," she said. "I’ve just needed…can I call you?"

"Yes," I said again.

"Okay," she said and looked at the ground. She quickly moved into the car, her knee supporting her on the seat in a lunging motion that rocked the car. Her lips were warm, soft and full just like I remembered them. She pulled up my T-shirt sleeve and looked at the scar and then retreated, slamming the door shut. I watched her until she was inside her house.

It didn’t change anything. Tomorrow I would cut lawns and she would be taking orders at the stove of the coffee shop, and eventually we’d catch up with each other. I rolled down the sleeve of my T-shirt and put the car in drive.

Drew Giorgi can be reached at drew@nyhangover.com