Wednesday night, August 8
To say I was frustrated with myself is to indulge in grandiose understatement. I painted the wind shield of the van with a palette of colors that would make Jackson Pollock weep with envy. By leaving my backpack, ‘I would have to spend another fourteen hours (the library opens at 9 a.m.) in Beaumont, when I could be enjoying a Cajun breakfast in Lafayette, Louisiana. So I did what any self-respecting Southern man would do in such a situation. Find a bar.
Preferably one with internet access. I found such a place in the Logon Cafe. This was indeed a great place. There was an eclectic mix of musical instruments, art, pictures, and other odds and ends on the walls. The floors were checker board linoleum, and there was a long, curved bar sticking out into the middle of the room. I set up camp with my laptop and ordered a beer.
The place was quiet, and I was being eyed by more than one of the locals. Beaumont didn’t strike me as the type of town where everyone knew everyone, but it definitely seemed like the place where everyone knew enough. I kept to myself and did some writing while a guy began stringing wires for microphones. Tonight happened to be open-mic night. I couldn’t decide right away if I was happy or angry by this fact. I thought it might help my mood, but it could also really tip me over the edge.
In the end, it was great. One guy started it off on piano and was not too bad. He did a Journey, Foreigner, Billy Joel, and Elton John medley that was pretty good to listen to. A comedian got up and delivered a slew of domestic violence, drunk driving, and sex jokes that gained a couple of laughs. A group of eight or nine younger, high-schoolish kids filed in and camped out in the chairs right in front of the mics. Two of the guys got up and played. One covered Caedmon’s Call; the other did originals. Their posse of girls sat and ate it up. Then a girl hopped up with the two guys and they did a rousing set of worship songs and hymns. Now I enjoy a good hymnal. I saw the Avett Brothers do “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” once during a concert, and it was phenomenal. Something about a call to worship in a bar, though, just didn’t feel right.
Later on an older black guy hopped up on the stool with a guitar. This guy made my night.
“Back in the 1970s,” he started off, “I wrote this song and played it for a good friend of mine: Johnny Cash. He told me I oughtta go on up to Nashville and record it. I saw naw, naw, and never did end up goin. But he liked it, so I’m gonna play it for y’all.”
He started playing a song about going to the moon. Not going to lie, it had a good sound and a solid bluesy-funk to it. The words were pretty bizarre though, and he started making noises like the final fight in space during Return of the Jedi. That kind of lost me, but then again, I love Star Wars.
A few other people got up there, including a rapper who was actually pretty good on a couple of songs, and a guy with a taste for Hinder, Seether, and Theory of a Deadman who played sad songs on guitar. My opinions will remain my own on that one. All in all, it boosted my mood and gave me a laugh.
I went outside before it got too late and called my aunt. She said wanted my opinion of Beaumont.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “There’s no ‘beau’ here. There’s not even a ‘mont’! The whole thing looks like false advertising to me. I’m going to write a letter.”
“I told you,” she said laughing. It was good to hear her laugh. She hadn’t been doing it much since she found out about the cancer. “You would’ve been better to pass it by. Now you know.”
“Yeah I do. Anytime I feel bad about my home town, I’ll think of Beaumont.”
I drove out on the outskirts to a nicer strip mall, parked it for the night and went to bed. Tomorrow I would go grab my backpack, print off the things I didn’t get, and get on to Lafayette.
Limb of the Nation 