Free Calloustown by George Singleton Page A

room of wooden finials. I said, “How come you and I have never run into each other? Calloustown ain’t exactly a metropolis. How long have you lived here? I’ve been here my whole life, except for a couple years.”
    â€œThe ukuleles ain’t in this bus, I know. Let’s go on to the next one.” He said, “Hold on right here,” and ran back to his trailer, opened the door, reached in, and retrieved an entire pitcher of his Old Fashioneds. “Here you go,” he said on return, filling my glass. He pulled out an orange slice from the pitcher and floated it atop my drink.
    â€œI might be interested in a finial or two. I don’t have a staircase in my house, but I got a thing for finials. Maybe I could make a ukulele with a finial at neck’s end.”
    â€œMost people insist on a couple dashes of bitters per glass. Me, I use muddled unripe raspberries. Most people insist on a maraschino cherry. I use a blackberry. See, I muddle blackberries, a lemon rind, a cube of brown sugar, the unripe raspberries, and I use rye whiskey instead of regular bourbon. I use a half and half mix of spring water and club soda. And then I put a taste of good moonshine in there—it’s not more than a thimbleful per glass, you know. That’s all I can tell you. There are two other secret ingredients I won’t tell.”
    I finished my second glass. Ruben and I passed the fourth outbuilding, and then five through eight. We went by the first again and kept circling. I kind of forgot that we meant to find a vintage stringed instrument formed of pure mahogany.
    â€œWe’ve seen each other,” Ruben said. “I guess you weren’t paying attention.”
    He and I rounded his place another half dozen times, high-stepping over broken glass, weeds, pottery shards, old vaccination tags, deteriorating tennis balls, broken bottles, doll limbs, and what appeared to be the sun-bleached skulls of songbirds. I tried to pace myself. I tried to convince myself that it was okay for one of America’s premiere ukulele luthiers to partake of something other than straight bourbon or rum or vodka. As a matter of fact, I rationalized, a premiere ukulele maker might want to drink nothing but cocktails that required an intense, precise, and specific muddling process, garnished with paper umbrellas. I said, “I’m not the first person to say that I’m self-absorbed. I’m the second. Rachel used to say it all the time. I think that’s what she kept saying. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention to her, either.”
    â€œI knew Rachel. She bought some Fire-King from me. As a matter of fact, I believe Rachel met my father one time. My one daughter. I believe you met her one time, too, son. At least one time.”
    I picked up on all the repetitive words. It didn’t take a master’s degree in psychology to understand that he wanted to make some kind of point. I looked into Ruben Orr’s face and, sure enough, recognized the resemblance in his eyes of a woman named Mayley I’d once known. Fuck, I thought. The one local ukulele-lesson-needy woman who required private lessons that I’d ever fallen for and—in my inability to lie—told Rachel, “Um, I met a woman I’m attracted to.” She wasn’t even local, officially—just someone taking care of a sick relative for the summer months, as I recalled. Mayley’d signed up for the ukulele class over at the Calloustown Community Center, where I taught a six-class course. To Ruben I said, “Mayley Orr’s your daughter?”
    I guessed at the last name—our affair didn’t last long enough for us to know family names. Well, I guess she knew mine, seeing as she strummed a Finley Kay ukulele.
    â€œSo, what do you think about buying a little something I got taxidermied now? Mayley’s little boy ain’t interested in animals at the time, but I bet he will be one