Northside Tavern, Atlanta, GA

It’s 6.30 on a Wednesday night when I stumble into the Northside Tavern. From outside it looks just like my kind of place. There’s paint chipping off the door and bars on the windows. Inside it’s dark and smoky, and there’s a group of middle aged men at the end of the bar arguing about trickle down economics.

“I’ll have a High Life,” I tell the bartender. He’s a bigger guy with a big smile, and I know he’ll make sure there’s alway a drink in front of me. He reminds me of my favorite bartender back home in Des Moines.

Posters of blues and roots musicians line the walls, and behind the bar I see a psychedelic sign that reads “Mudcat.”

“What’s Mudcat?” I ask the bartender, noticing his Flint, Michigan, t-shirt with a gun for the L.

“A guy playing tonight.”

“What time?”

“10 o’clock.”

I order another beer and move down the bar to join the regulars. An guy in a black t-shirt and jeans is sitting at the end of the bar, adding a smartass comment to the economics debate every once in awhile as he chain smokes. He has tattoos all over his arms and ear piercings, and has a weird has been rockstar vibe to him.

A new bartender takes over, the economics guys leave and a blonde girl wearing scrubs comes to sit down next to me.

“Hey scrubs,” the bartender says as he hands her a water and kisses her fingers.

I get a text from the guy I’ve been dating. I get a text from the guy I’ve liked for far too long. I groan and flip my phone over.

“I know that sound,” the bartender says. “What’s up?”

“I’m defining relationships.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ash.”

“I’m Cory. You wanna do a shot?”

“Yes, please.” Cory goes to the Jaeger faucet and grabs a couple shots. We clink, hit the bar and let them go down. I haven’t had a shot of Jaeger in too long. The bitterness lingers on my tongue. It tastes like anise candies.

Black Joe Lewis comes on the radio and I lean back on my stool. Scrubs asks me what I’m in town for and I tell her I’m here for a work conference. I tell her that I’m a writer for a conservation organization, and this is my first time in Atlanta.

“This bar looks like my favorite bar back home,” I say. “But there isn’t live music at the bar back home.”

“Most of the regulars trickle out when the music starts.”

Around 9:30 p.m. the crowd shifts towards a younger crowd. I feel uncomfortable around them even though I’m drunk and a young 24. The rockstar guy is still sitting at the bar, and I think he’s probably been there for about five hours. An old hippie comes and sits next to me. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and looks like he’s probably 6' 5". Once Mudcat starts I turn to him and say I think they’re pretty good. He seems unimpressed.

I notice a guy at the bar smoking who keeps looking at me. I’ve never smoked a cigarette inside a bar before, so I ask if I can bum one from him. He lights it for me, an American Spirit, and I straddle my stool as I watch the band.

Mudcat, or Danny “Mudcat” Dudeck, is an amazing guitarist. I watch with envy has his fingers slide up and down the fretboard and he sings soulfully into the microphone. I think he can see me watching him because I feel like he keeps looking at me. I can’t take my eyes off of it, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have stumbled upon this on a random night out in Atlanta.

The old hippie asks if I want to join him for a smoke outside. His name is Durr, and he likes Meadowlarks. I tell him how I’ve spent every morning birding at Piedmont Park, but he seems unaware of how amazing it is to have a four acre park filled with Great Blue Herons right in the middle of your city. He seems equally disinterested in the amazing blues happening inside. He gets stoned, goes and sits with his friend and Scrubs asks me how I’m doing.

“Real good,”I say.

“Bless your heart.”

About fifteen minutes later the band says they’re going to take a four minute twenty second break. The guy at the bar asks if I want another cigarette, babe, and I take one and head outside. I see Mudcat walking out the door and tap him on the shoulder to awkwardly say I think he’s really good. He just smiles a sweet, southern smile and thanks me (honey).

I face away from the bar and look at Atlanta. I wasn’t expecting much of the city when I came here. Actually, that’s an understatement. I was dreading coming here. But it’s quickly won me over.

“Hey tall girl!” The harmonica player says as he walks up to me. “You wanna hang out with us?”

I go stand with them. I am indeed much taller than all of them, by a good six inches. The cab I called earlier pulls up to the curb and I say I have to go.

“There will always be other cabs. You’ve gotta stay and hang out with us.”

I tell the cab I don’t need him anymore, and I don’t. I’ve found exactly where I need to be.

“We won!” the percussionist hollars.

“So where are you from?” the harmonica player asks me.

“Iowa.”

“Iowa!” they simulatenously exclaim. “Well, you look very cornfed.”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to, but I take it as a compliment.

They ask why I’m in Atlanta, and I deliver the same spiel I gave Scrubs two hours earlier.

“Thank you for doing that,” Mudcat says, when I tell him my job is basically translating science into layman’s terms. “That’s such important work.”

Time feels like it’s going on forever and ever. The humid Georgia air has chilled now, and I just want to sit outside this bar and never go back to reality. I could just be a roadie or something. For this little blues group in Atlanta, Georgia. That seems like an okay life.

“We better get back in there,” Mudcat says, “but I hope you’ll stay Ash. Will you stay?”

I sit down at the table in front of the stage and start falling asleep. Scrubs comes and grabs me. “You’ve gotta get up early tomorrow, Ash. You want a cab sweetie?”

“Yes, please.”

And just like that, the adventure was over. But I felt high for days.