“Just show up, have some coffee, and find an excuse to leave,” Pam said to herself, a mantra she had repeated to the rhythm of the tires, to the hum of the engine, to the knowledge that this is one move she’s not ready for and will never, actually, be ready for.

Blind dates are never a good idea, she knows this quite well, and yet Kelly is so persistent, so constant that she just wears you down until she gets what she wants. The fact that if she squinted just right, Ben Franklin’s smile looked almost like his smile and she would have considered coffee with him had a bit to do with this, but not much. Not too much.

Ryan never actually offered to set her up with some of his business school friends, but Pam needed to say something at that moment, something to make him feel the way she feels, and as soon as she said anything, Kelly jumped at it, saying she knew the perfect guy for her.

Pam ignored the feeling in her stomach as she drove to the coffee shop she agreed to meet this, whoever. Soon, though, when she got there, the feeling had spread through her veins, out to her fingers and toes, up to her head and was beating behind her eyes like a drum.

The date’s name was Eric. He would be wearing a brown jacket and jeans. Pam parks her car and walks down the block to the coffee shop in short paces, though she doesn’t want to draw it out. Half a block to go and she spots him, or someone matching his description. Tall, not as tall as Jim, but taller than her, to be sure. His hair is dark brown and cut close to the skull. He’s sitting on a bench beside a homeless person strumming on an acoustic guitar. The open case is littered with change and several bills.

The street performer hits the last chord of a song and the man who might be Eric starts clapping. She gets closer and watches him. He takes out his wallet and drops a five dollar bill into the open case.

“That was great, man, damn great,” he says. “I’d like to hear another song if you can.”

“What song?” the man on the ground asks. He’s relatively clean, but his closes are in tatters and he’s severely unshaven.

“‘Kisses Sweeter than Wine’?”

“The hell kind of a troubadour would I be if I didn’t know that song?”

“Not a damn good one, that’s for sure.”

The man with the guitar starts strumming some chords, and goes through a progression of six before he starts singing. “When I was a young man,” he starts, “and never been kissed, I got to thinking it over what I had missed.”

Pam watched and found a smile creeping over her lips as she listened. The man’s voice would never get him on American Idol, but he hit the pitch perfectly and was putting a lot into it, a sort of swagger she’d never heard in that particular song. The man who might be Eric was tapping his foot in time and nodding his head and fully enjoying the tune.

When the singer finished the last repetition of the chorus, “oh, oh, kisses sweeter than wine,” she joined in with the applause. The man who might be Eric looked up at her and there might have been a smile that passed between them. He was cute, she thought, but not as cute as-

She caught her thoughts and could tell already how this situation would end.

“You got time for one more song, buddy?” the man asked the singer.

“I always got the time. What you want to hear now?”

“You know any G. G. Allin?”

“A couple songs. Most folk don’t want to hear none of that, though.”

“If you could play some “Outlaw Scumfuc”, I’d be much obliged.” He pulled out his wallet again and dropped a ten into the guitar case.

“Boy, that’s my damn theme song.” He got a better grip on the neck and found the chord before he went at strumming. “Everybody knows that I'm a scumbag. They won't come and see me in this dive. Everyone's afraid of what might happen to them. Or if they'll even get out of there alive.”

Pam had never heard the song before, and though she didn’t have any intentions of going home to download it, vulgar as it was, the way the old man sang it, well, it was entertaining, at least. The man who might be Eric was enjoying it and even singing along with one verse.

“'Cause I like to drink whiskey by the gallon, I live on peanut butter sandwiches, I don't care. I spent some nights in jail in this old country, everybody hates me and I just don't fucking care,” he sang, an awkward harmony with the old troubadour. When the song was over, both of them were laughing and the man who might be Eric shook the old singer’s hand.

“I’ll see you around, Irv.”

“Damn well better.”

“Get somewhere warm tonight, alright.”

“I should be able to manage that.” And with that, the man who might be Eric walked over to her and confirmed her suspicions.

“Pam, right?”