Devon Ramirez's sneakers squeaked against the sticky floor as he dragged another chair into position. He stepped back, squinting at the arrangement—fourteen chairs now facing the northeast corner of The Rusty Tap. Fourteen empty chairs that would remain empty if history had anything to say about it.
"Perfect," he muttered, wiping his palms on thrift-store jeans. "Intimate but not desperate."
He bounded to the makeshift stage—really just a milk crate beneath a spotlight fashioned from a desk lamp duct-taped to the ceiling. Devon tapped the microphone, unleashing an ear-splitting screech that sent Marty diving for cover behind the bar.
"Sorry!" Devon winced. "Just testing the levels."
Marty emerged, neck brace askew. "Test it quieter or I'll test how well you fly through the front window."
"Touchy." Devon adjusted the mic stand, raising it to accommodate his lanky frame. "The acoustics in here are actually amazing. Like Carnegie Hall with more cigarette burns and mysterious stains."
The bar looked different today. Devon had managed to transform The Rusty Tap's usual disarray into a purposeful disarray. A bedsheet banner hung lopsided from the dartboard to the jukebox, proudly announcing "OPEN MIC NIGHT - Express Yourself (Please?)" in uneven Sharpie letters. Extension cords snaked across the floor like tethered pythons. Mismatched candles—borrowed from the dollar store's "romantic/emergency" section—cluttered the tables, waiting to be lit.
Devon cleared his throat into the microphone again, this time at a volume that merely rattled the beer glasses instead of shattering them.
"Welcome to the first-ever Rusty Tap Open Mic Night," he practiced, voice booming across the empty room. "Where Cleveland's undiscovered talent comes to... uh... be discovered."
He frowned, checking his notes. "Too generic."
"Welcome to Open Mic Night, where we turn liquid courage into audible art..." He shook his head. "Too pretentious."
"Welcome to rock bottom—I mean, Open Mic Night!" He groaned. "Definitely not that one."
From behind the bar, Marty watched Devon's rehearsal with a mixture of second-hand embarrassment and reluctant admiration. The kid had guts, if not sense. He methodically lined up extra whiskey bottles—liquid courage indeed—knowing they'd likely remain unopened. The Rusty Tap hadn't hosted an event since 2019's ill-fated "Margarita Monday," which ended with the health department and three arrests.
Devon checked his phone for the seventeenth time in ten minutes. "Still zero RSVPs," he said, refreshing the screen as if persistence might summon attendees. "But that's fine. Totally fine. People love spontaneity."
"People love Netflix and not leaving their apartments," Marty countered, adjusting his neck brace. "I warned you."
"It'll work." Devon straightened his shoulders with forced confidence. "If we build it, they will come."
"This isn't a cornfield in Iowa, kid."
"No, it's better." Devon gestured grandly around the bar. "It's an authentic urban experience."
Marty snorted but said nothing, disappearing into the storage room. He returned with a dusty bottle of tequila, setting it prominently on the bar.
"For when it all goes south," he explained. "Trust me, you'll need it."
Devon's phone pinged, and he lunged for it, nearly toppling the microphone stand. His face fell as he read the message.
"Mom says break a leg. Followed by three question marks and a confused emoji." He sighed. "Even she knows this is a disaster waiting to happen."
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, its hands reaching and then passing the scheduled start time. Devon paced, adjusting and readjusting the microphone stand to increasingly ridiculous heights, then back again. He straightened chairs that were already straight. He tested his emergency jokes, muttering them under his breath like incantations.
"Maybe we should reschedule?" he finally asked, vulnerability creeping into his voice.
Marty paused, recognition flickering across his face. The kid reminded him of himself twenty years ago—before the world proved his worst suspicions right.
"Look," Marty said, the gruffness in his voice softening just enough to be noticeable. "First attempts always suck. That's how you know they're worth doing."
Devon blinked in surprise at the unexpected encouragement. He opened his mouth to respond when the front door creaked open, fifteen minutes after the advertised start time. Hope exploded across his face like sunrise.
"Welcome to—" Devon began, enthusiasm cranked to eleven.
An elderly couple peered cautiously inside. The woman clutched her purse against her chest while her husband squinted at the banner.
"This isn't bingo," the man announced, disappointment evident.
"Bingo's at the church basement," his wife added helpfully. "This is that bar Harold keeps warning us about."
They retreated hastily, the door swinging shut behind them with a sound like punctuation.
Devon's shoulders slumped. "At least they got to experience my excellent sign-making skills."
Silence descended again, broken only by the hum of the beer cooler and Devon's increasingly desperate glances at the door. When it finally opened again, he didn't immediately jump to attention, having learned his lesson about premature enthusiasm.
A thin man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped inside, clutching a clipboard and a measuring tape. He wore a button-up shirt tucked into khakis with military precision, glasses perched on a nose that seemed permanently upturned. His gaze swept the room with the clinical detachment of someone inspecting a crime scene.
"Norman Pike," Marty muttered to Devon. "Local busybody and professional pain in my ass."
Norman approached the makeshift stage area, extending his measuring tape along the floor where the extension cords created a spaghetti-like hazard. He made a show of writing something on his clipboard, lips pursed in disapproval.
"Fire hazard," he announced to no one in particular. "Extension cords must be secured with proper fasteners, not—" he squinted with theatrical disgust, "—chewing gum and hope."
Devon bounced forward, hand extended. "Welcome to Open Mic Night! Are you performing? We've got slots available. Actually, all slots are available. You could headline!"
Norman recoiled as if Devon had offered him a dead fish instead of a handshake. "I am here in an official capacity," he said, making another note on his clipboard. "This establishment has filed no permits for performance events."
"Permits?" Devon's smile faltered. "For an open mic in a bar?"
"Section 42.3 of the Cleveland Municipal Code clearly states that any public gathering featuring amplified sound requires a Class C entertainment permit." Norman's eyes gleamed with the special joy of those who lived to enforce obscure regulations. "Not to mention your obvious violations of fire code 117.8 regarding improvised electrical setups."
Marty emerged from behind the bar, neck brace suddenly straighter. "You here to perform or just harass my customers, Norman?"
"I'm documenting violations," Norman replied, measuring the distance between a candle and the bedsheet banner. "Someone has to maintain standards while this part of town circles the drain."
Devon glanced between them, then at the clock showing it was now twenty minutes past start time. His expression cycled through disappointment, determination, and a decision.
"The show must go on," he declared, climbing onto the milk crate. "Even for an audience of one. Especially for an audience of one."
Norman looked up from his clipboard, momentarily confused at being addressed as an audience member rather than an inspector. "I am not here to be entertained."
"Too bad," Devon replied, tapping the microphone. "Because I am here to entertain. Ladies and gentleman—" he paused, looking at Norman, "—gentleman. Welcome to the first-ever Rusty Tap Open Mic Night, where raw talent meets raw emotions on the journey to raw self-discovery!"
Marty winced at the intro but found himself watching with unexpected interest. The kid had backbone, if nothing else.
Without warning, Stacy the jukebox hummed to life, the opening strains of "The Show Must Go On" filling the awkward silence.
"I didn't press anything," Marty muttered, eyeing the jukebox suspiciously.
Devon launched into a clearly over-rehearsed monologue about artistic expression in the digital age, punctuated by jokes that died silent deaths in the nearly empty room. Norman's pen scratched loudly against paper, documenting infractions rather than applauding punchlines.
"And that's why I started this journey into spoken word," Devon continued, undeterred by the deafening silence. "I call this piece 'Digital Connection in an Analog World.'"
He cleared his throat dramatically, striking a pose that seemed borrowed from a YouTube tutorial on performance art. "'The screens between us glow like barriers, pixels replacing pupils, thumbs replacing tongues...'"
As Devon launched into increasingly earnest verses about technology's impact on human connection, Norman's pen scratching grew louder. The sound cut through Devon's performance like a metronome of disapproval.
Mid-stanza, the door swung open.
Devon faltered, his rhythm broken by hope. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, dramatically pausing before stepping into the light.
Frankie "The Astonisher" Marlowe swept into the room like a man entering his own surprise party. His tattered tuxedo jacket hung from bony shoulders, and his silver hair was slicked back with something that gave it an unnatural shine. He surveyed the nearly empty room with the confident gaze of a headliner unfazed by small crowds.
"The Astonisher has arrived!" he announced, breaking into exaggerated applause for Devon. "Don't stop on my account, young maestro! The verse was just getting interesting!"
Devon's face lit up at the sudden appearance of an actual, enthusiastic audience member. "Welcome! You're just in time for the—uh—the crescendo!"
Norman scowled at the interruption, making another note on his clipboard. "The noise ordinance specifically states—"
"That art shall prevail!" Frankie interrupted, sliding into a chair directly in front of the milk crate stage. He turned to Norman with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I believe we've met before. Didn't I make your parking ticket disappear last month?"
Norman's scowl deepened. "Vandalism of municipal documents is a misdemeanor."
"Magic, my good man. Not vandalism." Frankie turned back to Devon, waving an encouraging hand. "Please, continue! I sense greatness brewing!"
Devon's performance transformed with the addition of an appreciative audience, however small. His gestures grew more confident, his voice steadier as he wrapped up his spoken word piece to Frankie's enthusiastic finger-snapping approval.
"Brilliant!" Frankie declared when Devon finished. "Simply astonishing—though that's my adjective, feel free to find your own."
He bounded onto the milk crate beside Devon, producing a deck of cards from his sleeve with practiced smoothness. "Perhaps the young artist would allow a collaboration? Poetry and prestidigitation—a match made in entertainment heaven!"
Before Devon could respond, Frankie had taken his performance notes and was folding them into increasingly complex origami shapes while reciting Devon's own words back to him. The paper transformed from crane to cube to flower, each shape punctuating a verse about digital disconnection.
"The screens between us glow like barriers," Frankie declared, the paper now somehow floating above his palm. "But magic—" the paper burst into flame, then reconstituted as Devon's intact notes, "—magic reconnects us to wonder!"
Even Norman found himself watching, clipboard temporarily forgotten. When he caught himself leaning forward with interest, he quickly resumed scribbling violations with renewed vigor.
Marty observed from behind the bar, something resembling a smile threatening to crack his perpetual scowl. He'd known Frankie for years—the man could charm birds from trees and drinks from bartenders—but he'd never seen him perform sober before. The old magician had skills beneath the bluster.
The impromptu collaboration concluded with Frankie somehow producing a dove from Devon's hoodie pocket—a dove that turned out to be a handkerchief folded with impossible precision, which then transformed into a business card for "The Astonisher: Making Problems Disappear Since 1987."
Devon and Frankie took exaggerated bows to the empty chairs, Frankie sweeping his arm toward Norman. "And special thanks to our most dedicated audience member, the gentleman with the clipboard and absolutely no sense of joy!"
Norman approached Devon, thrust the clipboard forward. "Seventeen violations. I'll be submitting this to the proper authorities tomorrow morning."
Marty stepped out from behind the bar, adjusting his neck brace to its most intimidating angle. "Let me see that list, Norman."
"Municipal code enforcement is not subject to review by—"
"By the guy who has photos of you sneaking into The Pink Pony Gentleman's Club last month?" Marty raised an eyebrow. "Those pictures would look real interesting on the neighborhood watch page."
Norman's face flushed. "That was research for a noise complaint!"
"Sure it was." Marty plucked the clipboard from Norman's hands. "How about you research your way out my door before I remember where I saved those photos?"
Norman's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. He snatched back his clipboard, clutching it to his chest like armor.
"This isn't over, Grissom," he hissed, backing toward the exit. "This whole block is changing. The city's watching now."
After Norman stormed out, Devon began dismantling his stage setup, carefully coiling extension cords with the dejected precision of someone packing away dreams.
"Hey," Marty called. "Leave the mic. You might need it this weekend."
Devon looked up, confusion evident. "This weekend?"
"You looking for work or not?" Marty asked, suddenly very interested in reorganizing bottles that didn't need reorganizing. "My Saturday guy quit. Figured since you're hanging around anyway, you might as well get paid for it."
Devon froze, extension cord dangling from his hands. "You're offering me a job? As a bartender?"
"Don't make it weird," Marty muttered. "You need money, I need help. Simple transaction."
"But I don't know how to bartend."
"You know how to pour liquid from one container into another, right? You're already overqualified for this place."
Frankie clapped Devon on the shoulder. "Take it, kid. Trust me, being on this side of the bar is better than performing. The audience is captive, and they tip."
Devon's face broke into a genuine smile—not the forced enthusiasm of his performance, but something softer and more surprised. "Thanks, Marty. Seriously."
"Saturday. Five o'clock." Marty turned away, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Don't be late."
As Devon and Frankie discussed the potential for a weekly magic show, Stacy the jukebox unexpectedly switched tracks, Dolly Parton's "Nine to Five" filling the bar with its upbeat rhythm.
"I swear I didn't touch it," Marty muttered, eyeing Stacy suspiciously.
Devon lingered after Frankie left, pulling a beaten notebook from his back pocket. He approached the bar, opening it to reveal pages filled with scribbled ideas, diagrams, and lists.
"I've been thinking about ways to bring in more customers," he said, sliding the notebook toward Marty. "Themed nights, social media campaigns, maybe even a signature cocktail. The Rusty Tap has serious potential."
Marty glanced at the notebook, then at Devon's earnest face. Something uncomfortable stirred in his chest—an emotion that felt suspiciously like hope.
"One step at a time, kid," he said, pushing the notebook back. "First, learn to pour a beer without it being ninety percent foam."
Devon grinned, tucking the notebook away. "Challenge accepted."
As Devon left, whistling along with Stacy's musical selection, Marty found himself alone in the bar that suddenly seemed different—not renovated or even cleaned, but somehow changed. He adjusted his neck brace, a nervous habit when confronting unfamiliar feelings.
"This is going to be trouble," he told the empty room.
From her corner, Stacy switched songs again, the opening notes of "Changes" filling the silence like a response.
"Nobody asked you," Marty snapped, but he didn't turn her off.