It was deader than four o’clock in Idaho, and we were playing to the barmaids. There were maybe ten people in the bar all night, but we put our souls into it anyway.

A lot of people think rock and roll is all drugs and glamour. I suppose part of it is. But people never stop to consider the empty nights or the bar owners who don’t want to pay you. But you take the good with the bad, I guess.

Anyway, it’s a job. Sure, it’s tough to play when there’s nobody there to cheer you on - but then again, it must be even tougher to have to turn a screw for eight hours a day in some factory. So I ain’t complaining too much.

Besides, it was Thursday night. You never expect a crowd on a Thursday.

We were right in the middle of “Hot Legs” by Rod Stewart when I caught a flash of red over by the front door. Wow! I was knocked out as soon as she walked into the bar. I looked over at Ronnie, our bass player, and gave him a quick “Elvis” sneer - our secret code for, “I saw the bitch first.”

I squinted through the floodlights for a second look, and that’s when I noticed the balding man tagging along behind her. Surely this gorgeous blonde wasn’t with that old fruit! He looked like somebody’s insurance salesman or the guy who does your taxes!

They both walked over to a booth and sat down opposite each other. So they were together! Go figure!

As soon as they were settled in their seats, I saw the woman lean over and say something to him. The guy jumped right back up and headed for the bar.

Ah ha! She’s got this guy wrapped around her finger, I thought as I watched the old dude shuffling back with his lady’s drink. He’s probably got money or something.

A rich, pussy-whipped wimp! There was hope for me yet!

I glanced at Ronnie. He was turned around messing with his amp. He didn’t notice. Good!

As our set was ending, I tried to decide whether I should go up and talk to the lady. I knew there was a chance that her companion might get mad; maybe he wasn’t a complete wimp. Maybe I had them tagged all wrong.

But when you’ve been in the bars as long as I have, you get to where you can size people up pretty good. And, to me, this looked like a classic case of rich-old-man-with-nice-looking-blonde syndrome.

I figured, fuck it. What do I have to lose? Even if the old dude did get mad, what was he going to do? He certainly wasn’t going to kick my ass! And the chances of him packin’ were slim to none.

After we finished the set, I put away my guitar and moved straight over to their booth. As I approached them, the woman looked up at me and smiled.

Was that an invitation? I took it as such.

Without a word, I scooted into the booth next to her.

“My name’s Jerry,” I said, sticking out my palm. She stared at my outstretched hand with a bored look on her face.

“You’re pretty cocky, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Why, no, ma’am, I just wanted the pleasure of your acquaintance,” I replied, being comically polite. I cleared my throat, again offered a handshake. I repeated: “My name’s Jerry!”

“My name’s Rhonda,” she deadpanned, her eyes never leaving mine. She let my hand dangle there. “Pleased to meet you.”

Oh, so this bitch likes to play games! Good, I thought: I like a good challenge!

I looked over at the old guy. He was just sitting there with a sad, stupid look on his face.

Rhonda noticed my quizzical look. “Oh, that’s Ralph,” she answered my unasked question. “He’s my husband.”

“Husband?!” I repeated. As soon as the word left my mouth, I realized that my tone of surprise might hurt the old guy’s feelings. But Rhonda just snickered and hit me in the arm playfully.

“Yeah, that’s my Ralph,” she sighed. She reached across the table and brushed her painted fingernail across his lips. “Honey, be a pumpkin and go play the jukebox or something. Give us a few minutes alone, would you?”

I watched in amazement as the guy muttered something, gave his wife a tight little smile, then took off in the direction of the jukebox.

“And don’t play any of that goddamn Air Supply, either!” she called after him as he walked away. “Play something good!”

“Okay, honey.”

Holy shit! I’ve seen pussy-whipped rich guys in my day ... but this guy had them all beat!

Rhonda was watching me watch her husband. She smiled smugly. “Yeah, that’s my little Ralphie...”

“He’s rich, ain’t he?” I asked bluntly, smiling smugly myself.

Rhonda scooted away from me and shot me an uppity sneer. “What’s it to you, Sherlock? Are you writing a book about my financial situation or something?”

Oh, man - what a cocky little bitch! Well, I knew just how to handle a woman like that! I’m hip to the game: sure, she can push her wimpy husband around, I thought, but what she really wants is someone like me to show her who’s boss! I’ve seen it too many times!

I gave her my best “rock and roll” lip-curl and stood up. “Well, whether Elmer Fudd over there is rich or not doesn’t make any difference to me,” I said in a bored tone of voice. “I gotta go finish up the last set.”

I could tell she wasn’t about to let me get the last word. But what she said surprised me: