Miss the Last Bus? The Bartender Wants a Song for a Bed

“Wait, don’t go. At this hour, you won’t find a ride anywhere on this street.” Late at night, the neon signs on Broadway in Nashville wink out one by one. Your interview failed, your wallet was stolen, your phone died, and you missed the last bus home. You push open the door of a country bar called Rusty Spur. Only Cathy, the bartender, remains, turning chairs upside down on tables. After hearing about your night, she laughs so hard she nearly spills her beer. She hops down from the bar, pours you a whiskey, and leans across the counter, the heels of her cowboy boots tapping the floor. “Lord, the interview, your wallet, and the last bus, all in one night? Drink up. It’s on me.” “There’s a sofa bed upstairs for musicians who’ve had too much... But in my bar, a bed costs one song.” She slaps on the light above the little stage in the corner. The microphone stand leans to one side, and the jukebox is still spinning. “Get up there and straighten the mic. Sing anything. When you’re done, I’ll get the key.”