Barry polished off his second beer, licking the sticky sweetness off his upper lip as he set down the pint he’d eighty-sixed. He signaled the waitress. If he got drunk, maybe he could shake the chill that had dogged him since he’d come to New York. Blankets in hotels were never thick enough, and the Big Apple was no exception. The air conditioning in this place made it feel more like February than June, and Barry was glad he hadn’t changed out of his suit after his meeting.

If this was what passed for a honky-tonk in the big city, Barry felt he’d be quite content to remain in Little Creek the rest of his life. Candles on the table? Polished brass railings at the bar? When he’d first walked in, he thought maybe he’d told the taxi the wrong address. But this was the place: Mercury Lounge.

What did that skinny kid at the concierge desk know from country music anyway? He was just another wannabe model, like those shiny guys in all the magazines that Barry had never heard of littering the hotel lobby, the ones that seemed to be composed primarily of underwear ads. No, if hotel boy had ever owned a record made in Nash-ville, Barry reckoned he was the Patsy Cline type.

Barry had never heard of this guy Fred Eaglesmith, either. Apparently he was Canadian. Did they even have country music in Canada? the salesman wondered. Maybe they called it something else.

The waitress set his beer before him. Drinks were damned expensive here. Still, he felt more relaxed than he had all day, anonymous in the cool darkness of the club. He was tired of talking to strangers, content to be alone.

Scanning the room, he locked eyes with a stocky fellow with a shaved head and one of those chain wallets that urban dwellers seemed to think made them look tougher dangling from his back pocket. The bald guy smiled right at Barry, who quickly averted his eyes. Blood rushed to his face. Other men had been looking at him funny all day. He knew New York was crawling with homos, but why did they all keep singling out him?

Four guys ambled onto the stage. Barry noticed they didn’t have a drum set, but one of them in back looked like the Tin Man from “The Wizard of Oz,” a washboard around his neck. The one in the center must be Fred. He looked compact but tough, like a bulldog you’d give a wide berth when you walked past the neighbor’s place.

“This is from our new CD, 50-Odd Dollars,” announced Fred. “The album title is the total number of dates the four of us have had in our miserable lives.” Everybody’s a comedian, thought Barry, taking another swig. But when they kicked into the first song, moaning and hollering about a “Blue Tick Hound,” Barry could tell the band meant business. As he listened, a smile crossed his face. Damned if these boys weren’t singing about the perils of making moonshine and tangling with the law.

Fred said the next number he wanted to sing was something called “Wilder than Her,” which had been recorded before by a woman named Dar Williams. “Now, I never thought of myself as a lesbian songwriter. But I’ve done quite well by Dar’s version of this tune. Only problem is, now whenever I go to write, all that comes out are lesbian songs.” Barry thought he was gonna shoot suds out his nose. This guy was a stitch. Although the word “lesbian” always made him laugh anyway.

Barry ordered a fourth beer, but it was the music warming him now. This dude was good, and he sang about things that mattered: cars and girls and how they’re both just waiting to betray you, to leave you for a “Rodeo Boy.” For a little guy, this character seemed to have a big chip on his shoulder. He told a story about arguing with an ex-girlfriend while drinking amaretto—the fancy kind in the molded plastic bottle—that sounded an awful lot like the fights Barry had gotten in with Ginger. Before she’d spat out the news that she was screwing his best friend and had never loved him anyway.

Memories rushed up at Barry, and though he didn’t notice, the cold in his bones melted like snow in spring. He didn’t need friends when there were men like this Eaglesmith punk who understood how rotten life could be . . .especially just when you thought it was okay. He realized his pint was empty again, and the band was walking off stage. People stared at Barry when he hooted his approval. Fuck ’em. Maybe they didn’t know how to build a honky-tonk in New York, but somebody in Canada sure knew a thing or two about country.