Sydney Rod Romanovich wrapped up his sold-out international tour at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee of all places. This left his longtime manager Saul baffled by the decision. It neither moved his career nor his personal growth forward. Two things Saul Linsky had centered his life around for the last thirty-three years.

Yet Saul didn't know Sydney had long dreamed of playing the Ryman. Sydney was a prodigy born into old money. A proper blue blood enjoying the best of everything. He was fond of quipping he inherited his fortune the old-fashioned way. Despite all that privilege, he truly was special. A genuine prodigy. Whose generations of wealth in no way substituted for the relentless pursuit and discipline, with which he had mastered the violin since he could walk. Sometimes the person born to do something arrives in the perfect circumstances to do it. That was Sydney.

For all the awards and adulation showered upon him his entire life, Sydney felt insecure as a musician. He was celebrated for his precision and slavish devotion to interpreting what masters had created long before him. But Sydney had brought nothing new into the world over his four decades consumed entirely by the pursuit of music. His cousin Sonny Ray Romanovich was just turning twenty-three. A Boston blue blood to his core. Though you would never know it, Sonny had reinvented himself as a southern good old boy. He put together a small band, recorded a few sides at a little studio in Memphis on spring break, and had three original singles starting to turn heads on the radio. Nothing famous or celebrated. A bar band with a borrowed sound. But they were his. Every note original and his own. In a way that Sydney could never say about himself. Sonny Ray had already come further in his journey than Sydney Rod Romanovich. The greatest violinist in the world, who was still doing at forty what he had done at seven.

Before him, a few steps led up to the artist entrance of the Ryman Auditorium. Behind him, across the narrow alley only a few strides away, he could hear the sounds of the exotic life he longed to join. The clink of bottles. The sweet wail of a broken singer-songwriter blowing out hard lessons from a dangerous life. The kind Sydney had only read and dreamed about. And here it was, close enough to smell, calling to him. He glanced over his right shoulder at the little doorway to the tiny upstairs bar at Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. A place where the owner and namesake had been giving away hot soup and cold beer, to the last troubadours and skid-row poets and saints who have yet to find their flock for years. And long before that, it was the watering hole of choice for the artists waiting their spot on the Grand Ole Opry. Hank Williams had stood exactly where Sydney was standing now. Hearing the same sounds, smelling the same scents, and feeling the same sultry night air hydrating his skin. It was November in New England. But it was still summer in Nashville. In the light rain, the alley glistened more than Times Square on opening night.

Sydney had been chomping at the bit to get here. But the plane had been late from New York, due to the fear of rough weather which had never fully manifested. So some light pleasant showers did nothing more than cool the night to a balmy seventy-two. Leaving him no time to meander around Lower Broadway, Printer's Alley, or up to Music Row. Which was the entire reason Sydney had sought the Ryman show out in the first place. Sydney was far too obligated and far too professional to take personal vacations. He had to get his sightseeing in on the fly. He had long had the silly dream that he would walk into Barbara's in Printer's Alley. The after-hours picker's paradise written about in industry publications, and whispered about in and out of every venue professional musicians gathered. Anyone could get famous. But only the best made it to an after-hours jam at Barbara's. And no doubt there would be the greatest of the great. Buck Williams, leaned up at the bar drinking a proper Jim Beam. That was the first thing Sydney wanted to do if time allowed after his performance. Run over to Barbara’s, and order himself a proper Jim Beam at the bar before the doors shut to mere mortals.

Of course, Sydney's parents and management would be beyond consoling at the thought of their Sydney and his million-dollar violin in some ruffian honky tonk. However, his young, handsome, and supremely talented cousin Sonny would rejoice at the thought. Sydney giggled at the thought of Sonny celebrating, then laughed out loud at Saul's imagined reaction.

The young lanky man with a military look and blue blood vibe. Though obviously playing the part of a shy bumpkin. Who had picked Sydney up from his hotel, reminded Sydney of his young charismatic cousin. Money knew money. And the young man holding the door was no local bumpkin, just as Sonny was no Southern good ole boy. But had come close to perfecting the accent and mannerisms. He had gushed over Sydney since picking him up, and had said he was a janitor at a local bar and had offered to fill in for another friend to drive Sydney. His education and etiquette had given his game away. But Sydney did not say anything about it. He had been kind and generous with his compliments. There was no reason to embarrass the polite young man. Kris, he had called himself. He did not look like a Kris to Sydney. The boy was movie-star handsome. He looked more like a Johnny.

Kris opened the artist entrance. Sydney held his breath as he ascended the few steps. "Give 'em hell, Mr. Romanovich.

Sydney invited the handsome imposter to watch the concert.

“Ah, thank you, sir, but I’m a mite undressed,” he drawled, tugging at his white tee shirt. He popped his head through the door and quipped, “Looks like the penguins are getting anxious. I'll be listening intently across the alley," he said, pointing at the back door of Tootsie’s. “Thanks again. It was an honor to drive you.” He crossed the alley and through the back door of Tootsie’s in a few strides and faded into the smoke and neon haze.

Sydney made his entrance and the penguins fluttered. There were no Nudie suits, cowboy hats, or colorful language at the Ryman backstage tonight. It was a black-tie formal affair. And much to Sydney's disappointment, as stuffy as all the shows before and no doubt all the ones to follow. They were here to witness his precision, not to hear him riff.

The novelty of the old church was choked out by heat and manic backstage energy. There was one small dressing room for everyone. It was overflowing with the cream of the Nashville high cultural crop. Composers and arrangers rather than label heads and managers. All waiting impatiently for their turn to see the prodigy they had measured their abilities and career by.

Sydney kept his violin case tightly under his arm with a chain and cuff locked to his right wrist. There was only one key. Only Sydney touched that key. In all the years of touring, Sydney had never had to look for it. He had a little zip pouch added into every pair of trousers he'd owned. Sydney Rod Romanovich had never had to search for his key.

After a few standard pleasantries, he was shown to center stage. All of Nashville's social elite stood up, giving Sydney an ovation before his first note. Sydney unlocked the cuff and set the violin case down. He opened it slowly. You could hear the room gasp as a bronze light bathed his round face when he retrieved the gilded LaRoche. Just being a Henri LaRoche original would have made the instrument one-of-a-kind and priceless. But what made every audience gasp, and made Sydney swoon every time he held it, was the unique gold finish. Unique, even more one of a kind. Henri had called her Loretta. Named after his prize truffle pig, and the name had come with the violin.

They called it the LaRoche gold, a play on Picasso's blue period. No one knew LaRoche had a gold period. Until about a decade after he made a batch of instruments, over two years using a new lacquer he had put together. Something in that lacquer. Henri could never figure it out again and was never able to reproduce it. Oxidized over a decade, changing the color of the finish to a deep gold. Much like a gold-top Les Paul. There were only a handful of the golden LaRoche originals in existence. Truly one of a kind.

Sydney had done this countless times since the age of seven, to the point where all audiences looked the same. Tonight the Ryman was no different, except it was bare hardwood pews the penguins nestled themselves into. Rather than high-backed Connolly leather chairs trimmed in velvet.

Sydney had hoped to get a closer look at the old church on arrival. But the pleasant showers had cost him nearly that entirely. Now the lights, as he was getting his first real look at the inside were blinding him. He read the audience as mostly black and white spots. With shimmery hints of what appeared to be more fishing lure than fine jewelry. Paying the audience no mind, Sydney tapped his bow on the back of his heel. A customary habit by now. Raised it up and drew it across the top string, and then the third. The sound was warm. It vibrated so full, so honest, and tickled the rear ends of the penguins. Vibrating through their hardwood pews the penguins filled, causing delicious tingles. The vibrato through his short thick fingers made them want more. It was like butterflies, wasp stings, and a true love's kiss dancing on the breath of God.

Sydney started to play. The room fell deathly quiet. People came for the bravado and his fingers. They came to hear greatness. And Sydney Romanovich never let them down.

His one-hour show went like every one before, perfect. Sydney rarely uttered a word on stage. He had never played a note that wasn't rehearsed and perfected, until now.

Out of Sydney's periphery, in the right corner of the balcony closest to the stage. A flash of purple caught his attention — black and white like a purple explosion. Then a face started forming through the spots. And this time the sparkle was neither jewelry nor fishing lure. It was the familiar warm smile Sydney had seen a thousand times, on the record cover of his favorite album. An album he had carried with him for two years. Kept secret from everyone, including his longtime manager Saul. From whom he kept almost no secrets — rather than reveal his love of American roots music. Sydney blinked, not trusting his eyes. He stopped playing and walked to the right end of the stage as if in a trance.

Saul, always in the wings, felt a wave of terror grip him. Sydney was a machine. He never deviated nor improvised. Something must be terribly wrong. He was about to dash to whatever rescue would be needed when Sydney stopped. His hands slowly lowering, fully extending, a moment that said he was going to drop the LaRoche.

Sydney appeared transfixed on something in the balcony. He stood there motionless. Saul had never been so terrified in his life.

Sydney felt a thrill run down his spine and felt as if his knees might buckle. He lowered the LaRoche to his side in case he dropped it — it wouldn't fall far.

His breath slowed. The purple figure in the balcony came fully into focus and he realized who it was. Sitting there, grinning ear to ear as if watching a magic trick. Was the one and only great, Buck Williams. And with him were the Bakersfield Bad Boys. Sydney hopped once. A little rabbit hop. As he tended to do anytime excitement was able to pierce through his air of stoic calm, trying to contain his excitement. Buck was wearing a purple shag jacket and a black felt Stetson. He looked just as Sydney had envisioned. Just like the record covers.

Shocking everyone, no one more than himself. Except perhaps Saul. Who so filled with anxiety that his stiff upper lip was trembling. And, without noticing, started to run across the stage. Sydney composed himself, stood on his tiptoes, clicked his heels together, and spoke as clearly as his playing. The most words he had ever spoken on stage: "Ladies and gentlemen, the great Buck Williams and the Bakersfield Bad Boys!” With that Saul came to an abrupt stop. And to his horror found himself in sight of the bewildered audience.

Sydney, unaware of the world. With a grand gesture… his arm snapping out straight and fully extended, palm up, fingers tightly together, like a Prussian general presenting his battalion of heroes on a parade field. He held the stance motionless. Chin up. Eyes closed.

Buck in the balcony, taken aback. Shocked and moved, fully comprehending Sydney's grand gesture. Stood up alongside his Bakersfield Bad Boys, taking their customary formal bow. Buck holding his hat to his heart, smiled easy and slow. The Bakersfield Bad Boys stayed in military lockstep with Buck. So close behind him that it was whispered far and wide that there was a telepathic link between the men and Buck. The symmetry of their movement, even now, astonished Sydney. Whose entire life was defined by precision. Everything Buck Williams did, appeared to come easy to him.

In spite of being a legend to Sydney and millions of hardscrabble, hard-working, hard-living, hard-loving, good old boys and gals. Buck was virtually unknown among Tennessee's white-collar blue bloods. Gracing the humble Ryman this night.

The audience was polite, but Buck knew it wasn't his crowd. And that didn't bother Buck. Nothing seemed to bother Buck much. Buck was there as a true fan and had been for years. Like everyone else in that hallowed room, Buck was there to witness greatness. And by God, Sydney Rod Romanovich had not let him down.

After an awkward silence, Sydney realized he was still pointing at Buck and that Buck had already taken his bow. Everyone was looking at him. He had no idea how long he had been standing there. He had never deviated. He had never been adventurous on stage. Now he was stuck, coming out discombobulated. Immediately, Buck understood and came to the rescue.

"Thank you, sir," Buck said. "I never dreamed the great Sydney Romanovich would know my name." Buck turned on his best Southern Baptist preacher charm. He snapped a crisp salute and came to attention. And as always the Bakersfield Bad Boys echoed so close behind him that they came together in unison. Causing a swish of air through the silent church, void of sound other than the anxious shuffle of the penguins in the pews.

"How about it, ladies and gents? I do believe we have just witnessed the best that there fiddle has ever been played. I don't reckon it can be played any better than that." With that, Buck gave one quick hard stomp of the heel of his right boot into the hardwood floors. And again, the Bakersfield Bad Boys so synchronized with him their heels landed precisely with his. Again and again, in perfect four-four timing they stomped with military precision. The crack of the stomps reverberated across the pews. Down into the floor, through the stage, until it shook the walls. Saul, so discombobulated, felt for a moment the ceiling may come down on them all. With each stomp the waves of energy rose louder than the wave before. It was awesome to hear, exhilarating to feel, and terrifying to watch.

Sydney was pushed back a half step by the power of the air being displaced through the old church. Then with no sign of communication between them, Buck and the Boys stopped in unison. The dying echo faded into Sydney's bones, down into his toes, where it stayed and tickled him for just a moment.

And then one by one the confused bougie elites of Nashville followed. The rest of the Ryman made it sound more akin to a kick drum falling down a narrow staircase. For five minutes Sydney basked in the cheers and roaring stomps, including maybe the loudest one in the auditorium that night, Buck Williams.

Sydney maintained his posture like his playing. As close to perfect as humanly possible. Sydney's entire life was defined by applause. But never like this. He felt as if he might levitate off the floor. And in the hearts of the crowd, he already had. Hearing his own voice again, he said, "Buck, would you honor me and come down and play one of yours with me?" Sydney's manager was aghast, unable to properly comprehend what his prodigy was doing.

Buck looked surprised and a little embarrassed. He hollered back, "Hell, Hoss, I ain't got no guitar with me. I sure do appreciate the offer. I'll return it shortly.”

Sydney's eyes frantically scanned the stage. There was nothing but the stool and sheet music. "Buck, hold on one minute." Sydney had never felt so exposed. The audience, still standing and unsure what to do next, began to reclaim their seats. Sydney disappeared from view of the stage. He ran off into the narrow hall. The wings, they call it. Looking desperately for a guitar. "Excuse me,” he said. Befuddled and taken aback by the sudden interaction with the great Sydney Rod Romanovich. The penguins milling around in the back in lock altogether took a half step back, and nervously fumbling through their pockets. Exchanging anxious glances with one another as if their hero had just asked them for a light.

"Yes, sir, I got one." He turned around. There was a young boy, as starstruck by Sydney as Sydney was by Buck. The boy handed him a beautiful classical acoustic guitar. Sydney felt such an overwhelming rush of gratitude, that he leaned over and hugged him and tousled his curly blond hair.

Something Sydney had never done before. "Thank you, buddy," he said with his best country-and-western accent. He ran back on stage holding the guitar, held it up, and pointed it at Buck. "Well, Buck, here you go.”

Buck Williams stood up. He made his way through the pews and down the stairs and up onto the stage with the elegance of Fred Astaire. Buck moved like a dancer, Sydney thought to himself. A two-fisted, badass outlaw dancer. Beyond all probabilities, there he was. In the flesh. Looking at him with that same easy smile Sydney had admired a million times poring over Buck's record covers. "OK, you got me down here, pard. What do you want me to do?" Buck said, his drawl as smooth as silk and sweet as syrup. Or was it molasses down here? Sydney couldn't remember which.

Sydney's professional formal composure was gone. It left a starstruck, shy, excited little boy being offered a ride on Trigger with Roy Rogers. With a quick hop he leaned in and whispered, “Yo' Mama Don't Like You.”

Buck offered up his patented slow, easy grin. He tuned the guitar by ear. For the first time in his life, in front of a sold-out audience and his hero, Sydney did the same. Saul, watching from the wings and a few heartbeats away from a full heart attack, could not properly comprehend what his prodigy was doing. This was beyond irregular. This was all-out chaos. Sydney was a thoroughbred, trained by the best musicians to walk the face of the earth. Bred to be the pinnacle of classical music. Not some bandstand picker. Buck started playing a funky rhythm using what Jerry Reed would call the claw. Sydney, for the first time in his life and on stage to boot at the Ryman Auditorium, was picking. Not playing, picking. It felt wonderful.

Buck's voice was in fine shape. So strong Sydney could feel the vibrations through his wingtips. Even with the extra inch sole his Italian cobbler Santino always added for him, without being asked. The two accomplished men, giddy as schoolboys, finished the song somewhat together. Neither wanting to be the first to bring the moment to its conclusion. Then Buck stepped aside and pointed to Sydney. "The boy gave it hell, didn't he?"

Sydney smiled, faced the audience, and bowed. Again the audience stood up and applauded, unsure what was happening. But the hillbilly sounded nice. So they were generous.

Sydney was hovering a foot off the stage when Buck asked him to come down to the Alley and have a drink. It was at that moment, Saul came rushing in from the wings. Still gaunt from the bout of food poisoning in France, that had forced them to cancel a show. And had taken thirteen pounds off a frame that could not afford to lose them. He fought the urge to grab Sydney, and hold him for just a moment to make sure he was all right. The idea of Sydney in pain or discomfort was more than Saul could bear. He had fought Sydney's own parents tooth and nail when they wanted his tonsils removed at twelve. He had never raised his voice to Sydney or his parents before or since; until now. "Son, what the hell was that? What is happening? What are you doing?”

Sydney looked at him and said, "I'm going to Printer's Alley, and I'm having a drink."

Saul looked like a man being stoned while he was being shocked. "But we got Dallas the day after tomorrow. You're playing for the President of the United States. You're opening a brand-new theater. You can't go to some..." Saul stopped. He cleared his throat, fixing Buck with a cold hard stare. The likes of which Sydney had never seen on his longtime manager's thin face. "...bar and have a drink. We have a flight in eight hours.”

In a moment, all of Sydney's excited plans and hopes crashed against the rocks. He had forgotten about Dallas and his flight. He forgot about everything.

Sydney's head went down. He looked at Buck and said, "I really wish, but…"

Buck said, "I'll get you to Dallas. When you gonna be there by?"

Saul was horrified. He just heard and hoped he'd heard wrong. Sydney looked at Saul. "When would we be there by?"

Saul looked at him. "The show is at 3 PM. Our flight is at midnight."

Buck said, "Hell, Texas ain't that far. But I'll get him there — or I'll have him there — by 2:59. No later." Buck was trying to win them over with his patented country-down charm. But Saul, a shrewd New Yorker, was impervious to bumpkin charm.

Sydney was like a child on Christmas morning. "Well, that sounds great to me, Buck. Do you mind if I call you Buck?"

Buck smiled again. "Of course, that's my name. Can I call you Sid?" Sydney liked the sound of that. Sid. No one had ever called him Sid before. And now it was his proper first nickname. Sydney, still with his case under his arm locked to his wrist, was like a little boy with his bags packed to go to Disneyland for the weekend. Saul could see a menace had come over Sydney. It was pointless to try and reason with him. Sid had always been disciplined. Sydney had always done whatever needed to be done. He would surely do it again. He'd be there.

Saul firmly shook Buck's hand, “Tomorrow."

Buck said, "Yes, sir."

With that, Buck Williams and Sydney Romanovich with his million-dollar one-of-a-kind gilded LaRoche, sallied off into the Nashville night.

Saul stood motionless at the artist entrance in the alley of the Ryman. Twenty feet from the entrance to Tootsie's Orchid Lounge upstairs bar. The limo was waiting, for him and Sydney both. But for the first time in all his years, Sydney Rod Romanovich was leaving a performance without him. Alone in a town they'd never been in. That he knew nothing about. And on top of it he was walking off with a man who wore a black hat, had a beard for God's sake, and a purple shag jacket. Saul was gobsmacked.

The music coming up from Tootsie's could hardly be called music. It sounded like a luau with a pig being slaughtered. He could not for the life of him understand what had come over Sydney. Then he remembered the gilded LaRoche. Sydney still had the gilded LaRoche. A priceless, one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable instrument. What the hell was Printer's Alley?

Sid and Buck together walked in the sultry southern air. The five Bakersfield Bad Boys a block behind. With the cloak of the blue bloods now blocks behind him and the sound of the barflies at Tootsie's fading, Buck naturally took the lead. This was his domain. Sydney followed in lockstep. Sydney was fascinated by the way Buck moved. He didn't rush. Not even making his way from the pew to the stage. In front of a packed house of strangers to him and his music had he rushed. He glided. He never rushed. And now, three blocks from the Ryman, Sydney was starting to sweat and breathe a little heavy. He felt like he had to jog to keep up with Buck. But Buck was strolling. Sydney wanted to move like that. He wanted to stroll, to saunter. For a moment he thought about it. It felt like the right time and place. But his iron will and discipline pulled him back. Instead he found his own stride and locked it in. The Bakersfield Bad Boys were farther behind now. Even they couldn't keep up with the swift grace of Buck Williams.

As they came up to Printer's Alley, a neon glow beckoned them forward. The alley was dimly lit and the wet pavement looked like black ice. Sydney's heart raced as they crossed Third Avenue and into the alley. It had been the printing center since the 1800s, and had morphed into the closest thing to a red light district that Nashville could claim. The music was loud, the ladies painted, and happy drunks bouncing off one another making their way from bar to bar and tavern to tavern. The bell of the ball was Barbara's. Sydney had read countless accounts of debauchery and hedonism that he had no practical reference for. But now that he was actually walking through it, it was so much better than he had dreamed. The sound of steel guitar and fiddles pouring out of a basement bar just ahead made Sydney hop. Then like a mountain that had appeared miles away, there it was up close. Close enough to choke on the glorious smoke pouring out of every glowing orange doorway. He was there. Barbara's in Printer's Alley. Sydney could not believe this was happening, though it was. He had a heart rate and sweat pouring from his bald head to prove it.

There was a large beefy man guarding the door. He was as wide as a washing machine and tall as a lamppost, and looked as hard as granite covered in spongy flesh — like a giant cherub. His eyes lit up the way everyone's did when he saw Buck coming down the steps. The big man stepped aside, giving way. While a string of Nashville's most accomplished pickers stood in line waiting their turn to enter. "How do, Buck," said the giant.

Buck, with his slow easy grin, nodded and gracefully reached out, gently cupping the mountain's tricep. Easily the size of a watermelon. "You look a little peaked there, Billy."

Billy laughed. "Who's your buddy?"

Buck turned around and with that same easy gesture reached out to Sydney, gripping his arm. "This mass of greatness is the mighty and powerful Sydney Romanovich." Again a wave of surreal disbelief washed over Sydney as he heard the words flow from Buck's smiling mouth.

The big man looked at Sydney and reached out a catcher's mitt of a hand. "Any friend of Buck's is a friend of mine."

A friend of Buck’s… Is that what he was? Sydney thought. And again to his great embarrassment, the rabbit hop. Buck and the big man pretended not to notice. And they were both inside at that moment.

He was fascinated watching Buck effortlessly weave through the crowd. It was almost as if they parted for him, stepped aside. His presence so strong they could feel him coming from behind without even seeing him. And just like that, Sid found himself inside Barbara’s. The place he had read about. Heard about. And dreamt about.

Just as they reached the bar top, two seats opened up as if waiting for them. And Sydney Rod Romanovich bellied up for the very first time.

There was a beautiful woman with dark hair and large breasts — about forty. Tending the bar. Again with the eyes, they lit up the moment she saw Buck. And the smile she presented took ten years off her, at least. Buck had a way. He definitely had a way. No one could disagree. She came over the bar. Her large breasts became enormous, bulging out the top like a dark-haired Jayne Mansfield. With one hand reaching over Buck's shoulder to pull him close, the other brought up a bottle of Jim Beam with a box and tape across it. As graceful as Buck, she poured two shots, kissed Buck on the cheek, and pushed them forward. "Who's your handsome friend?" she said.

Sydney instinctively looked over his shoulder. She was obviously not talking about him. But she was looking dead at him. It may have been the most direct eye contact Sydney had ever had with a woman. He had never been referred to as handsome before. Not even by his mother. Not even by Saul. And no one gave Sydney more authentic compliments than Saul.

"This here is my good buddy Sid," Buck said. "You can call him Rod. Sid has to be earned."

And again, with that easy smile and a wink, you could tell Barbara had seen it all. But just a wink from Buck Williams caused her to visibly swoon.

Barbara leaned into Sydney, her breasts pressing heavy into his belly. She ran one long thin finger across the short cropped hair above his ear and up. Tracing his brow wiping the sweat from his bald head, along his round cheek, then turning on his flushed earlobe, gently tugging. “Do you mind if I call you Sid, Rod?” she whispered.

"Yes ma'am," Sid said, dropping his eyes to the bar with a slow smile. He enjoyed that very much.

Sid was red as a beet. Buck, for the second time that night, came to his rescue. "Drink up, buddy. That's a proper pour," he said to Sid with a wink. This time it was Sid who swooned. And it was Barbara's turn to laugh. With him, not at him.

A proper pour, Sid thought as he reached for the shot glass. This was a proper Jim Beam. It was his first. And he was going to enjoy it. Instinctively, Sid raised his shot glass, met Buck's with a toast and a nod, and followed his lead. Buck drank it down quickly. And before Sid could stop himself it came right back up. Burning through his nose and into his eyes, causing him to shake his head. He was blind. He was gagging. He could feel the snot and tears flying from his fat red face. And around him rose the friendly laughs of Buck and Barbara. With him, not at him. Then he felt two hands on his shoulders from behind. "Take it easy there, Sid. We got all night.”

Before the shame could set in, a wave of relief rushed over him. His head was slumped over the bar. Jim Beam and snot pouring from his nostrils. Tears streaming from his eyes. But nobody was laughing at Sid. They were all enjoying his first experience right along with him. He looked behind him.

All five Bakersfield Bad Boys were there, shots in hand. It was a surprise party for one.

Barbara handed Sid a clean bar towel. The chain on his wrist hampered his ability to clean his face. He reached into his pants pocket with one elegant motion, pulled out the key, and unlocked the cuff from his wrist. Securing the chain to the case.

His vision was coming back. There was another full shot waiting on the bar. "Drink up. Let's pick," Buck said. And without hesitation Sid took the shot, and this time he took it properly. The burning sensation was overwhelmingly pleasant. He felt electricity shoot through every fiber and cell of his body.

Sydney Rod Romanovich was a different man.

Buck was gently tugging him along. Sydney, not sure what to do, retrieved the gilded LaRoche from the case. He then nervously slid the case, the key, and the chain across the bar to Barbara and asked if she would hold onto it for him. She looked him in the eye, placed her hand over his, and said of course she would. “It will be waiting here for you when you’re done handsome, and so will I.” Sydney was buzzing from the Jim Beam and spinning from Barbara’s almond brown eyes. It was the best night of his life and was just getting started…

- END OF PART ONE -

To be continued in Part Two of Apocalypto Now and the Golden Violin...

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