Open mic night at Mudflaps was the busiest night of the week both in terms of the crowds and drink sales.  One of many such bars in Nashville, thousands of hopeful musicians had sat on the wobbly stool on the stage in hopes of being discovered.

Charlie Tate was one of the most recent hopefuls to ride into town with barely enough money to cover a motel room.  Everything about the young man was battered, from his crusty boots to the denim jeans that looked beige in places from years of dirt grinding into the threads.  The Broncos baseball cap could’ve been picked up off the highway after being run over by eighteen-wheelers for a few weeks.  Maybe it had.

Several regulars climbed the stage before the bar manager pointed at him and jerked a thumb.  Charlie was up.  He drained the beer he’d been nursing and walked towards the stage, ignoring the feeling of his boots sticking to years of grime on the floor and the jeers of the hardened regulars.

The single spotlight made him blink and the sweat already beading on his forehead doubled.  The white light made the people crowded into the bar a black, faceless sea of shapes, which calmed his nerves.

In stark contrast to his clothes and appearance, the acoustic guitar on his shoulder was pristine.  The only signs of age were wear on the edges of the neck from years of playing, the rest was carefully polished and cared for.

Charlie adjusted the microphone on its stand and he frowned as it stuck half-way.  Out in the audience a harsh male voice yelled, “Go home farm boy!”

He ignored the words and grinned sheepishly at the crowd.  “Sorry ‘bout that.  Alright, this is a new song.  This is the first time I’ve played it, I hope y’all like it.”

The crowd wasn’t listening anymore, most were beginning to talk amongst themselves again.  A new talent from the sticks wouldn’t last two weeks in the heart of Nashville.

Thirty seconds later, everyone was listening to the young man whose voice had a sexy rasp to it, whose music caught the attention of the listeners and whose words tugged at the hearts of the most bitter.  When the last chord of his music faded, the room was silent.  It was the quiet that makes every performer’s heart race, that pause before a roaring ovation.

Charlie descended the stage with his head ducked in embarrassment.  The applause shook the building and hands reached out to thump his shoulders.  Everyone wanted to shake his hand or thrust a beer into his hands.  A girl with bottle-blonde hair wearing a short denim skirt and a halter top wobbled over in cowboy boots with three inch heels to throw her arms around his neck.

With one song, everyone wanted a piece of Charlie Tate.  Overnight he went from the scorned farm boy to a songwriting sensation.

Two months later he was dead.