A muggy South Texas night. Inside the air-conditioned, dimly lit Coral Reef Lounge, it’s tranquil. The cozy dive bar’s dozen or so tables are mostly unoccupied. A few patrons, sipping beverages, sit at the long, rectangular bar, backs turned to the empty dance floor and juke box. A flat panel shows a stock car race with the volume turned down. Nobody is shooting pool at the lone green felt-covered table in the rear.

The walls are a hodgepodge of mounted trophy fish, sports posters, musical instruments, photos of fishermen posing with big catches reeled in on charter boats in the Gulf of Mexico, and the usual glitzy beer signs. A Coors Light wall clock indicates it’s 9 p.m. The oldest continuous bar at South Padre Island is quiet, laid-back, but not for long.

The bartender, a slender, personable young fellow named Sean, serves up a $3.25, 16-ounce Shiner draft to a Wayfarer. Sean tells the Wayfarer he’s originally from Dallas, visited the Island during Spring Break and never went home. “The rat race wasn’t for me, man,” Sean says, lighting a cigarette. “I discovered Margaritaville.”

Occupying the barstool on the Wayfarer’s right is a quiet type, puffing a cigarette, ballcap pulled down over his brow, head buried in some sort of game he’s playing on his cell phone. He’s wearing a disposable Covid mask, but it’s down on his chin.

A salt-of-the-earth ID checker with streaked grey hair sits in a chair by the bar’s entrance. “Checkpoint Charlie” looks like the type who speaks softly, carries a big stick, and would rather ride a Harley than a Honda.

A fellow with tousled white hair, clad in a Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans, rushes through the front door, carrying a plastic water bottle. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, hurriedly exchanging greetings in a British accent with familiar faces before setting about activating a karaoke rig arranged on a small stage in the corner, flipping switches with the efficiency one would expect of a seasoned airplane pilot settling into the cockpit.

Shortly, a half dozen customers filter into the bar. Checkpoint Charlie knows them and waves them on through. “Where’s the signup sheet?” a tall guy wearing a black cowboy hat and a Space X tee-shirt, asks Sean. The bartender hands the “Space Cowboy” a clipboard. 

The DJ, Geoff, an Englishman ex-pat who, like Sean, visited the Island years ago and never left, gets things rolling by taking the microphone himself and rendering a smooth rendition of “Mack the Knife.” The Bobby Darrin classic is a karaoke staple, primarily because it’s doable for even the most novice male performer. “See?” Geoff seems to suggest, “nothing to it, come on up here, this might be your springboard to “American Idol.”

DJ Geoff has barely finished when the first sign-up of the evening, an eclectic young lady, takes the stage. She wears denim short shorts, sequenced sandals, a rainbow-colored halter top, a black shawl, and a baseball cap on backwards. If nothing else, she’s got panache. Launching into Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” with considerable enthusiasm she goes largely unnoticed by the sparce audience.

“Jolene” is followed by a chap in a candy-striped shirt, rangy, with crazy Gene Wilder hair. Throwing caution to the wind, the risk taker tackles “All of Me,” a John Legend slow-tempo ballad spanning two octaves and requiring the use of falsetto. For some reason, the longer he sings, the louder he gets, until at the end the songster is practically screaming. But give him an E for effort.

More people enter the bar, and it’s obvious that they are regulars, exchanging greetings with Sean, Geoff, and others. Multitasking, Sean, cigarette dangling from his lips, takes an order while pouring two mixed drinks at the same time. There are no cocktail servers at the Coral Reef. All drink orders are filled at the bar and when things are hopping there’s a line. Sean doesn’t mind. He doesn’t have to share tips.

Meanwhile, on the stage, a curvy Tina Turner wannabe, complete with miniskirt, loop earrings, and big hair, belts out “River Deep-Mountain High.” All is well until the inevitable moment of truth arrives and her voice cracks on the high notes, shattering like a plate glass window. Soldiering on, she finishes up, unfazed by the misstep, and exchanges high fives with friends seated near the stage.

So it goes at the smoke-filled watering hole, one of the few remaining on the Island where lighting up is still welcome. A sign outside the white concrete building on the main drag reminds passersby that every night is karaoke night, 365 days a year. Little has changed since its current owner, an Island fixture who goes by the nickname, “Ya Ya,” bought the establishment nearly thirty years ago. Karaoke was the “in” thing back then. At the Coral Reef it still is.

Geoff finishes off his bottled water. A chiseled young man with dreadlocks, clad in an NSYNC tee-shirt, takes a seat on the stage’s barstool, flexes his biceps, and proceeds to deliver a smooth interpretation of Bruno Mars’ “Count on Me.” One gets the impression that this dude has staying power and will return to the stage several times before the night is over.

The Coral Reef is rapidly filling up. A glance at the clock reveals that it’s a little after ten. A hefty sort wearing earbuds slides onto the vacant bar stool to the Wayfarer’s left and proceeds to scroll his phone, most likely surfing a karaoke website. Sean hands him the signup clipboard.

“Sure you don’t want to give it a go?” Sean inquires of the Wayfarer, still nursing his Shiner.

DJ Geoff calls out the Space Cowboy’s name, he strides to the stage, and commences singing one of those quirky ‘80s songs you either love or hate, “I’m Gonna Be,” by the Proclaimers, a silly number about a lovesick guy willing to walk five-hundred miles, then another five hundred to win the apple of his eye. Space Cowboy starts clapping his hands during the second verse, and soon, the troubadour has patrons singing along, some shouting, whenever the lyrics call for “FIVE HUNDRD MILES!” The night is young, but Coral Reef karaoke is already striking gold.

It’s getting noisy. Performers are now competing with crowd chatter. DJ Geoff turns up the speaker volume, opens another plastic water bottle, takes a sip. He’ll get to slip away for a break when eventually somebody chooses “American Pie,” a karaoke classic with a long version running time of eight minutes, thirty-two seconds.

A suave, good-looking gent who resembles Usher settles onto the barstool. He wears a pair of gold-cross earrings that jiggle when he moves his head. From the moment he launches into The Backstreet Boys’ “I Want it That Way,” it’s obvious he’s got vocal talent. Toward the end, he’s knocking it out of the park, when leaning a bit too far back, the crooner loses his balance, topples to the floor, and lands flat on his back, feet in the air. Without skipping a beat, he keeps singing, gets up, reclaims his seat, and finishes to a mix of applause and laughter.

There’s a logjam at the entrance. Checkpoint Charlie, using a flashlight phone app, inspects drivers’ licenses while a petite brunette wearing overalls, drink in her hand, wails “I Put Your Picture Away.” Something tells the Wayfarer she really means it.

A young woman with frizzy, purple hair, wearing a Whataburger tee-shirt, makes an impassioned plea to get her male companion into the bar. “I swear he’s twenty-one,” she insists. “He went off and left his billfold in the hotel room. I wouldn’t lie to you, now, would I?”

“She’s tellin’ the truth,” the young fellow chimes in, bouncing up and down like a pogo stick, his behavior doing nothing to further his cause.

“Then go back and get it,” Checkpoint Charlie responds, cutting him no slack.

“Well, we don’t have no key,” the Whataburger woman persists. “And our friends ain’t answerin’ the phone.”

“That’s not my problem,” the dispassionate gatekeeper replies in a tone that suggests it’s a lost cause.

Sliding around the temporary roadblock, with a nod from the ID checker, is a couple not easily forgotten. She’s enormous, wears a Tommy Bahama shirt, arms and legs covered with tattoos, hair in a huge topknot. He’s tall, brawny, head shaved, wearing a muscle shirt emblazoned with cats’ eyes. If you wanted to hire his-and-her bouncers, you’d need look no further. Are they here to perform a Sonny and Cher duo or on their way to a mixed gender tag team wrestling match?

Trailing behind them, two John Wayne cowboys wearing ten-gallon hats and leather vests, and a pair of couples, dressed to the nines in all black, like it’s 1979 and they’re headed to Studio 54 to frolic with the likes of Andy Warhol and Debbie Harry. The men wear Blues Brothers’ sunglasses, the ladies scroll their cellphone screens.

It’s closing in on 11 p.m. and the bar is nearing capacity. At a nearby table, a group of Latino couples converse in Spanish. The table is cluttered with packs of cigarettes, beer bottles, and empty shot glasses containing squeezed slices of lime. One of the men, wearing a black felt cowboy hat, converses on a cell phone that might be the largest on planet earth. Amidst his call, he downs a shot of tequila, slams the glass on the table, and shouts “SALUD!” DJ Geoff calls out names, and two of the Hispanic women take the stage, and commence singing a bouncy Norteño polka. It gets the crowd going, and soon the dance floor is rocking.

Karaoke jock Geoff is earning his money tonight, keeping up with the endless list of performers, cueing up the music tracks, escorting singers on and off the stage, monitoring the electronic equipment, and with audience alcohol consumption factored in, staying on his toes for the unexpected.

Up and down the bar ash trays are filling up. The Wayfarer’s eyes are burning. Ceiling fans are hard at work but do little to disperse the blue-grey haze that envelopes the room. A woman in a red dress sings Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly,” and the Wayfarer wonders if she’s referring to the cigarette smoke that is getting sucked up his nostrils every time he inhales.

The Wayfarer notices that his bar stool neighbor on the right is still playing a video game on his phone. He wonders why the fellow persists in keeping the Covid mask on his chin. At an opportune moment he intrudes.

“Just habit,” the guy says. “Maybe I’ve got an X on my back, but every time I go in Walmart without it somebody gives me a dirty look, sometimes even a lecture. Now I just go everywhere with the damn thing on my chin. I suppose I’m what they call a “chin rider,” he laughs.

“Well, doesn’t look like anybody’s going to complain in here,” the Wayfarer observes. “Yours is the only mask I’ve seen in this place.”

“I guess you’re right,” he says, glancing around, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. “I read where there’s a study in France that claims smokers have less chance of getting Covid. Something about the nicotine intake.”

Now there’s a new one, the Wayfarer thinks to himself, not knowing whether to laugh or take the man serious. Best to just let it drop. Bar discussions with strangers can deteriorate quickly if the participants have opposite opinions.

The Wayfarer’s stinging eyes tell him it’s time to split, but he has become thoroughly engrossed in the karaoke spectacle, so when Sean asks if he’s ready for another round, he answers “yes” and orders a rum runner. The request throws the bartender for a loop. “Did you say rum runner?” The Wayfarer had just as well have asked for a glass of Chardonnay, for after all, this is a serious bar. Frilly drinks like daquiris and piña coladas are served up at the hotel bars on the beach, but not here. The establishment doesn’t even have a blender. Nevertheless, Sean complies and soon returns with something masquerading as a rum runner. “How much do I owe you?” inquires the Wayfarer.

Sean ponders a moment and pulls a number out of the air. “Seven bucks,” he says. The Wayfarer hands him a ten-dollar bill and waves off the change. One sip of the rum runner tells him to stick to beer or something basic like rum and Coke next time.

A tall, leggy blonde takes her turn in the spotlight. As Geoff hands her the wireless mike, a pair of her besties hop up on the stage. Always prepared, Geoff grabs two more mikes, hands them to the companions and the trio catapults into a rousing version of the Beatles’ “Run for Your Life.” It’s loud but spot on. If these three were angry at you, it would be prudent to run for cover as fast as your legs could carry you.

There are lines everywhere—at the bar, the restrooms, the ID checkpoint, the ATM machine. The menagerie of vocalists continues. An outdoorsman type wearing camos and a duck hunter’s cap pipes a passable “Miles and Miles of Texas,” the young lady who opened with “Jolene” returns with Pat Benatar’s hard-driving “Heartbreaker,” a fellow wearing a snap-button western shirt, fancy boots, and George Strait Resistol, renders “The Fireman.” The mishmash of selections whipsaws from Cold Play’s mega hit “Viva La Vida,” to Sam the Sham’s party favorite “Wooly Bully,” then M.C. Hammer’s groundbreaking “U Can’t Touch This.” When it comes to karaoke, practically anything goes.

It’s pushing midnight and there’s no sign of a slowdown. Three females who look to be college age lock arms and break into Little Big Town’s “Little White Church,” a high energy country-rocker that gets the crowd whooping it up. DJ Geoff steps away from the singers and unscrews the cap on his plastic water bottle. Sean empties his tip jar, which is crammed full. A baby-faced string bean is turned away at the door by Checkpoint Charlie.

The Wayfarer slips off his barstool and heads toward the exit. Looking back, he sees that somebody else has already claimed his seat. Stepping into the night air, he resolves to pile his smoke-saturated clothes outside the front door of his condo until he can get them washed in the morning. He quit cigarettes thirty years ago but tonight his sinuses think he’s started up again.

A taxi pulls up and a viral young man with a wheels-off Patrick Swayze mullet gets out, looking like he just stepped out of a 1980s time-machine and is here to audition for “Dirty Dancing.” He glances at his phone screen on the way to the front door. The Wayfarer can’t help but wonder if the flamboyant fellow has the pipes to pull off Bill Medley’s golden-throated baritone on “The Time of My Life.”

                                                                                                        First Place Winner - OWFI Writing Contest (2022)