The previous December, he had been working at the Sundowner Bar in Laughlin – it was a grubby little bar, on the edge of town. It had been in a slow decline for years, until Mark and another barman organised regular live music evenings. Initially, it had been a relatively slow burn, but by the third month, and having slashed beer prices during any performance, the bar began to gain a reputation as a credible little venue.
Jo had shown up for a Sunday night open mic session. With her rebel prom queen looks, she seemed like out of place, as she dragged her battered guitar case through the door. She approached the counter and confidently parked herself on a stool facing the tiny raised stage. She ordered a bottle of European beer, and, as she drank it, she tucked her hair behind one ear. This action revealed a neatly scripted tattoo beneath her ear which read: Sorry is so easy to tell, yet so hard to express.
Mark, who had been working behind the bar on the night she came in, had been down in the cramped cellar changing a barrel of Anchor Steam. He had volunteered to go down to escape the earnest teenager, who was murdering a selection of Simon and Garfunkel songs. When he climbed back up through the hatch in the floor, and saw Jo at the bar, he forgot all about the terrible music. She looked like she had been transported from a time when beauty was natural, and fashion was simple. He straightened his faded Ramones t-shirt, and, picking up a bar towel, moved over to where she sat.
‘Hey, is this your first time in here?’ he said, trying to sound casual, as he wiped the counter.
‘Yep,’ she said, as she kept her eyes on the singer.
'So, what do you think?' he persisted.
‘Seems an okay place.’ Jo said, and drank her beer.
‘Just okay?’ He assumed an expression of mock indignation.
‘Yep,’
‘Ah well, hey, listen, the entertainment is usually better than this.’
‘He’s not so bad,’ she said, without turning around.
‘Really?’
Mark waggled his eyebrows, causing Jo to giggle.
‘Well, I’ve heard worse.’ She glanced at Mark. ‘… but only rarely.’
‘You play and sing?’ Mark nodded towards the guitar case.
‘Yep, when I unpack this bad baby,’ she patted the guitar case, ‘I’ll knock your socks off.’
Jo had not been lying, either. That night she had patiently waited until the local singers had performed their tired sets, before she unpacked her guitar, and stepped up on to the stage.
‘Hi,’ she said, into the grubby microphone, ‘this is a lovely Marianne Faithful song for the lovely barman.’
While Mark watched in appreciative silence, Jo played a powerful version of “Ruby Tuesday.” She strummed and picked the strings with skill and style, her head tilted to the single spotlight, as she sang her heart out. The first song was followed by a couple of Cat Stevens and Lou Reed numbers. For the first time in months, the entire audience of the small venue were wholly engrossed in the performance of a stunningly good musician.
Once Jo had finished her set, she sat at the bar with Mark until closing time. She had explained she was originally from Boulder City, and after quitting her job in a dead-end shoe shop, had decided to gig her way down to the West Coast. The idea of hopping from bus to bus, and busking down to San Diego, appealed to her sense of connection with the romantic past.
Mark, who shared her fascination with the music of the past, felt he had found a kindred spirit, especially when Jo’s face lit up in discovering he spent daylight hours working in a retro record store over on the east side of the city.
After the bar closed that night, Mark walked Jo back to her motel. He had carried her guitar, and she had held on to his arm - like Suze Rotolo - as they made their way through the deserted town. After raiding the mini bar of its only two drinks, they had sat on the balcony, and raised two miniature bottles of Jim Beam bourbon in a toast to the bright stars above them. Then, they had slept together on the soft bed, where their lips and hands had moved over each other in the warm darkness.
That had been the start of three and a half blissful months. During the day, Mark worked in RPM Records, and Jo wrote new songs on her battered guitar. At lunchtime, she would show up at the shop with paper bags of home-made sandwiches and clinking bottles of root beer. They would have a daily picnic on the floor of the stock room, surrounded by stacks of vinyl albums, where they would debate Dylan’s move from acoustic to electric guitar, or the decline in modern lyrics.
In the evening, they would spend their time in the bar, gradually building up the quality and reputation of the music nights.
Eventually, inevitably, Jo grew restless to continue her journey. She would talk about the West Coast more often - usually in terms of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’ she would get there. She had been digging around on the internet, and wanted to play in a popular music venue called The Black Cat bar.
It had been tough for Mark, who had found everything he ever wanted in Jo, to know she was still looking for something more. But, he was wise enough to know she was like a wild bird - stuck in a cage, and dreaming of wide blue skies. She talked as if getting down to the Coast would be a visit, but they both suspected otherwise.
As the lay together in bed one night, with Jo facing the bedroom window, Mark asked the difficult question.
‘Do you want me to drive you down, just from a safety point of view, I mean? I have some time off coming up. No strings.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said softly.
‘I don’t mean in a stalker “take me with you” way. I just meant to save you taking the bus.’
‘It’s okay.’ Jo half turned and smiled. ‘I kind of like the old bone shaker buses, plus I got a really cheap ticket - all the way to San Diego for fifty bucks. Leaves tomorrow night’
‘Oh.’ Mark took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think you’d booked already. Are things here that bad?’
He sat up in bed, took a cigarette from the night stand, and lit it.
‘Mark, I’m not trying to get away from you,’ Jo said, as she turned fully around, and placed a hand on his arm, touching the edge of a spiralling tattoo. ‘I’m just trying to find my place.’
‘I know,’ he said, blowing out a cone of smoke. He knew this was true. ‘Look, Jo, I’m not trying to be some ball and chain. Whatever you need to do is cool. But, I’m not naïve - you have the heart of a poet, the voice of an angel, so I’m guessing you might not be showing up here again too soon.'
‘Never say never.’ She shrugged. ‘Plus, you could always come down, too.’
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to be your baggage.’
‘Then, how about a weekend trip?’
‘Maybe once you’re settled, eh?’
‘Yeah, that would be nice.’
She turned away and Mark switched of the night light. The sound of The Blue Oyster Cult was drifting through from the living room. Somehow, the darkness made it seem louder.
As he pressed against her back, Mark slipped a hand on to Jo's warm stomach, and closed his eyes.
‘I do love you,’ he said, his mouth against her warm soft, shoulder, but she was already away.