Sunshine
Sunshine was usually found at Mem’ry Lane. To begin with, it was by far the most comfortable of the western West Virginian watering holes within the maximum distance she trusted her wheezing Ford Taurus to carry her. Other bars and taverns, the darker and dirtier dives like The Sly Fox or Earl’s, were kept in her pocket, reserved for light-wallet, empty-gastank nights; but generally, she could be found at Mem’ry Lane on as many as four nights a week. It was where she did her best work. It wasn’t a get-rich spot, but it had the advantage of being located in a community college town near the interstate highway, so there was never a shortage of new faces—vital if she wanted to broaden her appeal. She worked hard to sell herself, brazenly boasting about her talents and expanding her network while keeping one eye on her competition and giving ample attention to long-established connections. To Sunshine, every contact was an investment in the future. To the drinkers who humored her unyielding presence and shameless self-promotion, she was just another regular on karaoke nights.
“Every time I come in here, I see that woman.” Dwayne was a surly trucker whose haul route brought him through town twice a month and whose needs were few: a bar seat, a Budweiser, and a bartender who kept them coming.
“That’s Sunshine,” Shannon said, triggering a raspy caw from her customer. “Nice enough girl, I guess, but she can be a little much to take. Thinks she’s gonna be the next Tammy Wynette or somethin’. More power to her.”
To watch Shannon at work was to attend a masterclass in bartending. She was the smartest person in the room on any night, even before her customers’ brain cells surrendered to the alcohol they consumed. More important than the drinks was her ability to keep things moving and efficiently serve not just the ten barstools and the crowds around them, but also the unending stream of table orders. Shannon was a champion multitasker, pouring on muscle memory while constantly scanning the room and anticipating the next ten orders in her mind. For some, she was the reason to drink at the Mem’ry Lane; they knew they’d be taken care of quickly, and she never disappointed.
In less than an hour, the large barroom and its second-story sister would be filled beyond their legal capacity, each blaring music at such a level that the customers could barely hear one another. Sunshine had a ritual when visiting and always arrived early to complete it. She would stake her claim on the table closest to the stage, order a drink, and enjoy a slow Virginia Slim while combing through the song listings in the karaoke catalog. The stage was open to all, but she saw herself as the chanteuse-in-residence. In Sunshine’s mind, Mem’ry Lane was fortunate to host her musical gifts, which brought warmth and nourishment to the souls of so many adoring listeners—a notion that led to her adopted stage name. No one would have adored Enid Elsie Kadin, let alone give her their attention, but Sunshine, no surname, was unforgettable.
“Never saw that kind of woman want so much attention in public.” Dwayne’s sips were measured and slow to fill his night at the bar with no more than four beers, maybe a fifth if Shannon offered a last-call buy-back.
“’Cause she’s a big girl, you mean? Her kind of figure isn’t exactly uncommon ’round here, but you’re right. To look at her, you’d never guess that she likes to stand in front of a crowd and sing. I’m surprised she hasn’t introduced herself to you before. But I’ll bet your next beer she will. Keep an eye out, now,” Shannon cautioned her customer. “Her act don’t stop when she ain’t up there singin’. I can guarantee she’s noticed you.”
“Not interested. Not in a woman I can’t even get my arms around. I know it’s not nice, but I like what I like.”
“Oh, she’s only interested in talkin’ about herself. Sit tight. She’ll be along soon enough.”
Moments later, as the sound system was tested and fresh supplies were dropped off at the bar, Shannon’s prediction was proven true.
“Shan, hon, can I get a big mug of hot water with lemon? And a shota Jack.” She had just enough volume in her voice to steal the attention of anyone nearby. “Yeah, I got to get the throat warmed up and workin’ so I can give y’all some good Sunshine tonight.”
The order was served with a friendly smile in mere seconds. Sunshine sucked down her whiskey before turning her attention to the opposite end of the bar where Dwayne sat, his eyes glued to the television above.
“Hey sugar, don’t I know you?” she asked the trucker, piercing him with her squint. “Yours is kind of a familiar face. You come to one of my gigs sometime?”
Dwayne shook his head, gnawing on a toothpick that never left his mouth, not even when he sipped his beer. He abruptly returned to his football game, dropping an awkward patch of silence that Sunshine wasn’t used to.
“Well, maybe you’re right,” she declared loudly, running her fingers through her limp, self-dyed, blaze-red bob. “I been doin’ so many gigs all over. Lots of faces in lots of places, you know? You prolly just remind me of someone else.” Her target nodded politely without eye contact. “Shan, better double up on that.” She pointed to her shot glass, prodded Dwayne for his name, and invited him to listen to the new songs she would be singing that night, noting she always dedicated one to new friends.
Shannon stared at Dwayne until she caught his eyes with a silent told-you-so.
As the old bar filled up, Sunshine scanned the room for newcomers. The idea that face-to-face self-promotion was essential for anyone on the path to superstardom was a tip she picked up from watching countless interviews with her idols, the legendary ladies of country music. When she wasn’t singing, she navigated the bar with a lumbering gait, making connections and telling her tales in labored breaths, her mouth appearing to struggle against the mounds of facial fat surrounding it. Sunshine was always prepared with a collection of destined-for-success stories to share, each as rehearsed as any song in her repertoire. She liked to say they knew her name in Louisville and Columbus, and that she was in negotiations to tour with various bands or that several producers in Nashville wanted to record her; most could tell there was no truth to her stories, but she believed she was generating interest and boosting her popularity. She had to make it clear she wouldn’t be slumming at beer-scented microphones much longer. Everyone in the bar was a potential fan for life, who would one day say, “I knew her when….” If nothing else, they might be useful on contest nights when the audience response selected the winner.
Despite her inexhaustible ego, Sunshine never looked directly at anyone. It was an unconscious mannerism born of a lazy left eye, but it helped her to avoid the judging expressions of those absorbing her size. They all noticed her girth, and she knew it, but she was determined to make it the first thing they forgot. By jumping ahead of predictable pity or outright disgust, she would sell herself as something bigger to become smaller.
Mem’ry Lane could fool no one. It was a dump. More than a dozen safety violations were always in plain sight to the untrained eye, from fraying carpets and loose steps to wobbly stools and an overall lack of cleanliness. Were the bar not constantly dark, its patrons would be treated to a patchwork of duct tape, water stains from inexpertly mended leaky pipes, and a network of exposed wiring. It’s not that the owner, Carla, didn’t care; she just wasn’t interested in paying for what she considered minor cosmetic flaws. Instead, she relied on a foolproof method to keep the building safety inspectors at bay: she became a nuisance. Her complaints to town officials were relentless—faulty streetlights, traffic around her building, trash removal, and other services she couldn’t care less about. As long as she was a pest, no one wanted to interact with her and, consequently, the bar was left alone. For good measure, she maintained a reputation for wreaking havoc on everyone who dared to cross her.
For years, whispered accounts of Carla’s divorce had circulated among her clientele. Barroom legend told that after slowly siphoning off a good deal of her husband’s money, she accused him of adultery and negligence in handling their shared income—accusations that, aside from the infidelity, were entirely invented. Nonetheless, detailed stories and creative bookkeeping won her most of his money and sole ownership of the business. Soon, she held the helm of a mostly cash business and was no longer burdened by the terms of their marriage. While her ruined ex-husband fled and was never heard from again, Carla filled her pockets with under-reported profits and ran the business with the same illegalities she once used as grounds for divorce.
She was a large, top-heavy woman with a sharp, conical bust that demanded attention. Her wardrobe consisted entirely of long, silken shirts over stretch pants, topped with a perfectly coiffed mound of silver hair, amply sprayed to prevent even a single strand from going astray. In the dim lighting of business hours, she was an elusive presence, a shark gliding through the darkness, surfacing to switch out the cash drawers, pour herself a soda, or intimidate any unruly patrons into more appropriate behavior. In a dark nook at the rear of the bar, she counted the take and forged receipts, adding a shot of something to her drink—not from the bottles behind the bar, which she watered like houseplants, but from a large flask she kept in her purse. She watched the patrons from her shadowed perch, noting anything and anyone that displeased her. Carla heard and saw it all, but remained acutely focused on one individual.
“Alright now, welcome to another night of the best karaoke here in the great state of West Virginia. It’s Thirsty Thursday, y’all, so we got five-dollar pitchers ’til eleven. Don’t forget Shannon behind the bar. Take care of her, and she’ll take care of you.” The emcee stood center stage in his cowboy hat and boots, meticulously groomed facial hair, and wireless microphone headgear, speaking over the swelling music. “Let’s get ‘er going here. If you’re new or passin’ through, my name’s Dan. A little time with the mic will cost you a dollar. That’s how we do it here at Mem’ry Lane. Lemme kick us off.” With that, he launched into his best Garth Brooks impersonation while taking inventory of that night’s desirable young women.
Dan had been in his mother’s employ since before he reached legal working age, bussing tables and washing dishes until he became the bar’s all-around gofer, handyman, and permanent karaoke host. To Carla, her son could do no wrong, especially since she made most of his decisions, from the clothes he wore to the women he dated. By his mid-forties, Dan resented her control over his life, but he knew he’d be a fool to complain. His mother was the reason for his financial security, and he had free rein over the bar with few responsibilities. It was a comfortable trade-off. And although she may have chosen the girls he could date, he chose the girls he slept with, for which the bar provided an endless and ever-changing menu.
“Next up is Sunshine. Bring it on up here, girl!”
The early-evening bar-goers were still settling in as Sunshine took the microphone, addressing the room like a Vegas headliner. She welcomed them, sharing that Mem’ry Lane was a favorite among the many venues where she performed.
“Most of you know me, of course. I see a lot of familiar faces out there, and I hope—.” Sunshine’s banter was interrupted by an impatient Dan, who started the accompaniment track. “Oh, no. No. I’m sorry, folks,” she said. “Danny, start it again, would you, darlin’? I wasn’t ready. These folks want the full Sunshine.”
Were murder achievable with a gaze, Dan would have been a karaoke host on death row. Nonetheless, he obliged, and Sunshine happily slipped into Patsy Cline’s shoes.
She worked the tiny stage as though it were built for her, without looking at the nearby video monitor for a lyric prompt. A loosely attentive crowd watched as she immersed herself in the song, over-performing and immensely pleased with herself. When the song came to an end, Sunshine again addressed the room.
“Thank you, thank you. Stick around, folks. We’re just getting warmed up here. Sunshine has some great songs ‘specially picked for tonight. I’ll be back shortly.”
Dan had already decided to limit the number of times he invited her to the stage and moved on before she returned the microphone.
“Next up is Heather D. Come on up, girl, and get your song on.”
Every drinker knew of Sunshine’s crush on Dan, not because they had been told directly, but because it was always on full display. Midway through the evening, without warning, she would take the mic, turn to Dan, and ask him to join her in a duet. Experience had taught him it was better to agree quickly and stave off any follow-up requests she made in the third person, which came with batting eyelashes, puckering lips, and increasingly seductive poses.
Such a display occurred later that night when, emboldened by Jack Daniel’s and having cajoled the audience for their support, Sunshine persuaded an irritated Dan to sing with her. The song began innocently enough, but she soon moved closer and closer, eventually letting her hand wander as they harmonized. Dan kept his distance as best he could; however, there was no room for an elegant escape on the tiny platform stage. A rapt house winced in embarrassed horror as she pressed herself against him and slid her hand down his chest, stopping just below the belt buckle, then turned her attention to his backside. Finally, he was rescued by the song’s ending and played off the awkward display with a joke. A tipsy Sunshine was exhilarated, unconcerned that everyone in the bar, from the closest table to the darkest corner, had witnessed her sloppy spectacle. For a few emotion-drenched minutes, he was hers.
Five hours of karaoke. Five hours of country star impersonations, groups of tipsy sorority sisters, barroom sing-alongs, line dances, off-key torch songs, and local oldies singing the oldies, plus a few short breaks during which Dan would sneak out to his truck with a very willing coed. By night’s end, Sunshine had an alcohol-triggered realization. Her budding career had stalled, and she would need to take a bold step to reach the next level. Then, a lightbulb. A single, well-planned event could fund the professional demo she required. Mem’ry Lane was the logical venue for the event. It was easily accessible to the surrounding communities and large enough to generate the profit she sought. Nearly everyone who frequented the area’s bars recognized the name Sunshine, and she was confident that most would eagerly pay to see her perform a full concert. It was time to activate her vast network of fans.
The next night, a sober, determined Sunshine pitched the idea to Carla.
“You can have the downstairs bar stage for the opening hour on a Friday night for a flat fee of three hundred dollars,” Carla offered, “which is my discounted rental rate for friends and good customers. The door charge will be up to you; I’ll even forego my usual percentage. You think about it and let me—.’”
“First Friday of the month. That’s about three weeks away. That’s the date. Will it still be $300, then?”
“Yes, you’ll still get it.”
An overjoyed Sunshine agreed and, after winning fifty dollars and a complimentary drink voucher in that night’s karaoke contest, made her way around the room, teasing that a special event was coming.
Over the next three weeks, every business in the county was plastered with homemade fliers. Sunshine created a setlist of tried-and-true crowd-pleasers and prepared a disc of accompaniment tracks, carefully timed for dialogue and anticipated applause, to maximize her performance hour. She applied countless gold sequins and rhinestones to an enormous, bright yellow shirt dress she planned to wear over yellow leggings and a seldom-worn pair of red, fringed ankle boots. Visually and vocally, she was determined to shine.
On the evening of her karaoke recital, Sunshine arrived at six-thirty to find the bar quiet and faintly lit. Carla emerged from the shadows, startling her.
“Shoot fire, Carla! I didn’t see you there. I hope it’s okay to come a little early. Thought maybe I’d be able to do a little soundcheck.” Sunshine looked around and found no sign of staff; the chairs were standing on the tabletops.
“Yeah, girl, you go on.” Carla smiled. “I’ll give you the extra time at no charge. Good luck tonight, and you have fun with it.” Carla turned, her cones leading the way back into the darkness.
“Oh, can I just get the sound opened up, shug?” Sunshine called, referring to the audio cabinet next to the stage, which wore a large padlock.
Carla stopped and turned to her renter with a concerned look.
“Hon, you didn’t ask to rent the sound tonight, only the space. I didn’t think about it before; the legitimate acts always bring their own, of course.”
Crestfallen, but not wanting to seem the amateur she was, Sunshine drummed up an excuse.
“Oh, I gotcha. My bad. I should’ve mentioned I’m replacing some of my equipment. Wear and tear, you know. What’s the fee for the house sound, hon?”
“Well, generally, it’s an additional hundred, plus Danny’s hourly to operate it.” Carla’s mask of concern grew exaggerated. “But he won’t be back ’til later, and he’s got the key.”
Sunshine tried to remain calm and said she understood before retreating to her car, where she dug a small portable stereo out of the trunk. Its sound was far from professional, but it had a microphone attachment. All was not lost, at least not until she realized the microphone’s cord was too short to allow her to move around the stage. She would have to stand in one place near the stereo, which itself had to remain within reach of the nearest electrical outlet. With only minutes until the doors were set to open, she had no choice but to accept her circumstances and make it work.
Professionals deal with much worse, she reminded herself, as the chairs on top of the tables again caught her eye. She was certain Carla would say the floor staff wasn’t part of the venue rental, and not wanting to waste what little time she had, Sunshine arranged the room herself. Shannon, who worked entirely on tips, was the only service that came with the house. She stood behind her bar, lazily flipping through a magazine, as the costumed singer worked herself into a sweat setting up the chairs.
At Mem’ry Lane that evening, Sunshine’s performance could be seen for an entry fee of twenty-five dollars plus drinks. At the same time, the bouncer, following his employer’s instructions, waived the usual cover charge for the upstairs bar during the first hour of business, when patrons could enjoy half-off all well drinks. On the hour, with every empty chair arranged and beneath the growing muffled noises from the second floor, Sunshine stood tethered to her portable stereo accompaniment and began to sing. The audience she expected never arrived; the sound of her voice lured in no one. Aside from Shannon, who occasionally offered applause for the singer, and Carla, concealed in the shadows, Sunshine sang to an empty room for an hour, hoping others, even just one, would sit and listen.
The instant her hour was up, customers who had been standing by poured into the space, bringing laughter and life. Dan, suddenly back from wherever he had been, unleashed the sound system, blasting music from the speakers that had been denied to her. The room filled with cigarette smoke as billiard balls were racked and the televisions lit up with sports. Shannon sprang into action, serving as if she had extra arms.
Sunshine began to drink. She was determined to find out where she had gone wrong. Where was the audience she expected? It was no use asking the men at the bar who were engrossed in one of the several football games playing over the bar. Others offered quick excuses—traffic, losing track of time, getting held up by one thing or another—before returning to the same beer-soaked conversations they had every night. Suddenly, Sunshine noticed one of her favorite regulars guarding the restroom and surveying the crowd.
“Didn’t see you at my show tonight, Wiley. Too bad you missed a good one.”
“Huh? Uh, oh yeah. I was upstairs.” The scruffy old man looked off into the crowd, an unlit cigarette between his lips and a spare behind his ear. “You sing somethin’ later. I’m sure I’ll hear it.”
“Wiley, you never drink up there with them kids.”
“Didn’t have a choice.” A smile appeared on his face as he spotted what he had been looking for. “Sorry, gal, but your door charge was my whole night’s drink.” He sent a slight wave to the opposite side of the room, signaling to a petite, older woman dressed in a teenager’s clothing—a denim miniskirt and crop top—with her hair dyed black and wearing enough makeup for a circus job. Already feeling fine, just two beers in, the woman made her best attempt at a sultry strut across the floor like a dizzy runway model and lurched past Wiley and Sunshine into the restroom.
“Don’t judge, now,” Wiley warned, answering the question mark on Sunshine’s face. “She ain’t no beauty queen, but when them teeth come out, she can suck the siding off a trailer.” Willie adjusted his high-waisted jeans and walked into the bathroom, latching the door behind him.
Sunshine was confused. She walked through the bar, receiving several more flimsy excuses and more than one ‘What was your name again?’
Later, after a frenzied wave of customers at the bar subsided, Shannon began to restock her workspace.
“Look out, Dwayne,” she warned. “She’s had a few. She’ll be on the prowl tonight.”
Dwayne swallowed hard.
“Why you gotta sour a man’s beer, woman?”
Sunshine decided the evening need not be a total loss and took a cue from the activity behind the restroom door. She approached the bar, squeezing in next to her target, and leaned in to order another drink. With a sigh, she raised her chin in Dwayne’s direction, hoping to entice him with her shapeless neck.
“Catch my show tonight, Dwayne?” Sunshine asked, running her index finger back and forth over her lower lip. “I mean, I don’t know if you were able to get in or not.”
“Nope.” The old, bearded bar jockey, twice Sunshine’s age and a third of her size, made no effort to hide his disinterest.
“I was thinkin’ about gettin’ out of here.” Sunshine leaned in and spoke directly into his ear. “Want to come home with me?”
“Thank you, no. I’d rather not.”
“Well, we can go to yours, then.” Drinking brought out the child in her, complete with pleading whines. It made no difference. “Why not?” she asked, assuming what she thought was an alluring pose. “Afraid you can’t handle it?”
Dwayne looked at her puffy red face, her eyes not meeting his for even a moment. She impatiently took a long swig from her beer bottle as he scanned her figure from top to toe.
“I don’t want to handle it.” Dwayne sent Shannon a subtle nod for another beer.
Sunshine backed away, muttering under her breath. Easily distracted, her armor remained intact until she noticed a piercing stare from across the room. On top of everything that disastrous evening had brought her, Sunshine was in debt to Carla. The bar-goers parted, clearing a path for the owner.
“Let’s just settle up real quick so you can go and enjoy the rest of your night. I prefer cash.” Carla’s mischievous smile made it clear that she was enjoying herself.
“Could you give me a little time on that, shug?” Sunshine trembled, hoping charm would buy her some leeway.
“What are you gonna do, put on another show to raise the money?” Carla’s smile and voice fell sharply. “This is business. Time to settle up.”
Sunshine had no idea what to say or do and stood silent for some time, staring at the floor. When she finally looked up, she noticed Dan standing directly behind his mother, arms folded.
“You owe me three hundred dollars. That’s a fraction of what I could have made during your empty show. But I’m not unreasonable. I’ll give you the weekend. Every week after that will cost you another fifty. You’ll be leaving now, and you won’t be permitted back in until you make good in full. And I’d think about doin’ somethin’ special for Shannon if I were you. She lost an hour of good tips tonight.” Carla raised her evil smile again as quickly as she had let it drop, adding a sarcastic concern to her tone. “Got some good payin’ contests this month. I sure hope you’ll be in the clear in time to participate. Danny’s gonna walk you to the door. Try not to fondle him on your way out. Safe home.”
With that, Carla returned to her dark alcove as Sunshine gathered her things. She headed for the door, which Dan held open, taking her humiliation outside where a light midnight mist could be seen in the glow of the streetlights. There was no telling when she would be able to return. But Sunshine didn’t think about where the money would come from, nor did she dwell on the dressing down she received from Carla or that the scene was fodder for years of bar gossip. Instead, she wondered what would bring customers to Mem’ry Lane without such a valuable draw.
The idea that superstardom was all but guaranteed was something Sunshine had held onto and hidden behind for years. She could sing well enough to carry a tune; however, unlike many capable of the same, the sound of her amplified voice against an instrumental track led her to believe she possessed something special. Yet, the only thing she had to distinguish herself was her weight, which usually eclipsed any performance she gave. She was a large woman trying to be what she was not expected to be—talented, desirable, even feminine. Ambition and overwrought confidence had turned into self-deception, convincing her she was more than an amateur bar singer whose applause depended on the amount of alcohol the audience consumed.
Sunshine headed home in her running-on-a-prayer Taurus. As if the evening had gone perfectly, she followed her usual post-bar routine, stopping at the all-night deli for a hoagie and potato chips, which she ate as she drove. Once home, she changed her clothes, turned on the stereo, stood before a full-length mirror, and became a star.
