The Three Fingered Guitarist

Wade sat on a barstool in Crocket, Stills, and Nash, the finest bar in the whole space station. At least in Wade’s opinion, which was heavily colored by the fact, no one bothered him here, and it was the last place in this station that served traditional whiskey.

Crocket wasn’t around anymore as he’d got a hole in him and was found one morning in a hallway where the security camera was, fortunately for the perpetrator, off. Stills also got a hole in them, forcing Nash to settle for the synth stuff or buy off-world whiskey to keep the traditional liquor in stock, but that incurred a hefty tariff. Customers like Wade wanted the genuine stuff despite others insisting it all worked the same. Nash was only interested in the art Stills offered, and with that gone, he soon sold the enterprise to Bing.

Bing still stocked off-world whiskey, although he had less selection every time Wade found himself laid over at the station. Because of the tariff, Bing didn’t have the money to change the bar sign. So the place remained Crocket, Stills, and Nash in name only.

Wade sat at the end of the bar away from the door, lights, and any threatening company. The only things near him were his empty glass and the musician plucking some sad tune on a synth guitar. Wade was close enough to the stage to see the cauterization marks on the guitarist’s pinky and thumb. A hooked bracelet helped him hold the neck, but Wade suspected the synth portion of the guitar was doing most of the musical work.

“He’s good, eh?” Bing asked while pouring a corn and barley whiskey into Wade’s glass.

“He could have picked an instrument easier for him to play,” Wade suggested. “Like a trumpet.”

“I didn’t need a trumpet. Wrong ambiance,” and Bing seemed to add one more syllable than the last word needed.

“Well, it’s pretty good,” Wade said, “for a synth.” Some things like pilots, chefs, and musicians shouldn’t be automated, in Wade’s opinion.

Bing sucked his teeth as the song ended. “You play guitar any better?” a voice over the microphone asked.

Wade looked up, unintentionally meeting the musician’s gaze. He tried to find Bing for a tether cable, but the bartender was serving the bar’s only other patrons with an uncharacteristic vigor.

“No,” Wade replied, “I just-“

“Just what? Would rather be shot by a six-shooter than a plasma gun? Because at least it’s the real thing,” he spat the last two words out as he began unlatching a large black case.

Wade handled the utility knife in his pocket since this was the side of the station where things could get nasty. “Didn’t mean to offend,” Wade said, trying to look past the black shadow that covered the man’s case. He firmly planted his leg on something stable, preparing to bolt for cover depending on what emerged.

The contents reached the light soon enough, and the performer rested a double-necked acoustic guitar onto his knee. It had no ports for wires, and it didn’t seem to have any electronics implanted in it either. Leaning into the microphone, the musician addressed the other group of patrons and said, “this one’s for the ugly fella who’d swallow the fly in his cup to keep it from gettin’ away with his rye.”

Wade turned red. Luckily the lights were too dim to expose his embarrassment.

The musician strummed some chords switching between the necks that were tuned differently but in a melodic fashion. The man cut in with some words about fighting for a lover on another moon as the song picked up its pace. It wasn’t bad, Wade thought, and he wondered how much he’d have to tip to make the musician forget Wade’s condescension.

Soon the chorus ended, and instead of singing another verse, the guitarist plucked the strings faster and faster, switching between the necks with large strums to connect the phrases. His fingers danced up and down the necks like rock and rollers of centuries past while the other patrons hollered and cheered. The tune was good, and Wade would have enjoyed it if it hadn’t cost him his dignity.

From across the counter, Bing leaned in and said, “if you like this, come back tomorrow. His grand piano will be in by then.”