fourth year evan lasseter

It was a dirty dive bar Saturday night. Locals only. And a pair of worn Chuck Taylors, colored by unswept floors, popped the floor to the beat of the live music in the background. His jeans were a wash of white and dark blue, tired from countless weeks of work on the tracks. The Pike Line railroad crossed through town a couple blocks from the Vessel, making the bar a handy post-work hang. But nothing stuck out more than the plaid, chromatic blue flannel that made its appearance every Saturday.

Sturgill Wall was a simple man.

“What place do I remember the most?” Wall asked back to another local. “It was probably this buzztown in Japan. Roppongi. You could run through that sucker till dawn. Find places like this wall hole, and a bunch of jackheads like me. Just a lot younger.”

“Places like this huh? Must not be all you make it out to be,” replied the local.

“Yeah. Well I’ve seen a jackhammer looking motherfucker do a round-off back handspring in the middle of the main road after about a quart of tequila. Joker coulda won the NCAA title in gymnastics with that shit. And believe it or not that’s what got him kicked out of the Navy.”

“I guess that’s what happens when you live on a boat for months at a time.”

“Gotta find something to keep you sane. Can’t drink on the ship either. Guess that’s why they make them boxing leagues you folks see in movies. Dudes so bored they just beat the shit out of each other.”

“What about you? You don’t look like you got no scars from a hardcore boxing match or anything,”

“Yeah cause I didn’t lose…” Wall joked. “Nah. That’s where I really learned guitar. That’s how I kept sane. Everyday, just before sunset, I’d take a lil’ lawn chair to the edge of the dock. Stare off into nothing. Can’t see a damn thing but the water and the sky.”

“But you must’ve had a sense of pride about being there. Off on foreign land, preserving freedom for us normal folk back home.”

“Meh. Just another enlisted egg in the bowl for Uncle Sam’s beater. Fighting some politician’s war. And it ain’t no damn fun, so the respect back here don’t hurt.”

“Working on the railroad must not be so bad then huh.”

“Don’t get it twisted. Plus the 401k don’t match a military retirement worth a shit.”

“Then why’d you come back so early? Coulda stuck it out and been golden.”

“Gotta do what you love, Jimbo,” Wall said.

Wall then smacked the table one good time, and hopped out of his chair. He strolled up to the stage while taking a final swig from a Bud Light bottle. Wall sat in the chair behind the microphone and stared into the dimly lit room in front of him. Four of the eleven late night loungers in the room stared back. And just before the first strum of his tattered LGO--

“My name’s Sturgill Wall. I’ve got sea stories. They’re all true.”

Sea Stories