Creak.
The bar's back door opened, and a gust of icy wind swept in, carrying snowflakes that swirled wildly. The warm, cozy air inside met the chill, causing a prickly numbness to spread through fingers and toes. Hastily shutting the door, the world returned to silence.
"Good evening."
"Hey, Anson. Good evening. The weather outside is absolutely miserable today."
"It sure is. It was sunny this afternoon, and then by evening, the sky just seemed to collapse into darkness. Makes you wonder if there's a giant hole up there. Who knows how long this snow will last?"
"God, I hate winter. But seeing you here makes me feel a little less alone."
"Oh, Jim, you should know my look today was carefully curated."
"Curated? For what? A homeless aesthetic?"
"It's called 'effortlessly disheveled chic.'"
"And your inspiration? The pigeon lady from Home Alone 2?"
"Bingo. Correct answer. Glad to see my effort is being recognized."
Their banter, a blend of teasing and sarcasm, livened up the atmosphere.
In front of the door stood a young man in his early twenties: Jim Colby, a bar waiter.
Sporting a bizarre, choppy haircut and exuding a rebellious edge, his face bore an unmistakable disdain for the world—a hallmark of his age.
Jim gave the man before him a once-over, then a more careful second glance, still struggling to believe his eyes.
Standing there was none other than Anson Wood.
A white T-shirt layered under a collarless white shirt and a light gray checkered one, topped with a dark gray overcoat that draped past his knees.
His short, wildly unkempt hair resembled a bird's nest, with each strand stubbornly doing its own thing. A scruffy beard covered half his face, giving him an air of weariness and age, almost obscuring his features entirely.
Worn, dirty boots bore witness to countless miles traveled, while a black guitar case slung over his shoulder completed the weathered look.
He stood there, unembarrassed, without a trace of disguise.
And yet, Jim still doubted his own eyes, unwilling to believe his judgment.
Anson Wood?
The famous Anson, reduced to this ragged, haggard state?
"Ha."
Jim forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"But I get it. You need to hide your real identity. If someone recognized you, this bar would be overrun in minutes."
Anson didn't seem convinced. "You sure about that?"
"Oh, I'm sure. But you must've let a few people in on the secret, right? Spread the word a little?"
Jim widened his eyes, offended. "Are you questioning my integrity?"
Before Anson could respond, a ponytailed girl passing through the kitchen chimed in, "Jim told his neighbor."
"And I told my best friend," she added casually.
Jim: ...
Caught red-handed, Jim could only stare at Anson, at a loss for words. Finally, he turned and shouted helplessly, "Rebecca!"
Rebecca Jones shot him a knowing grin. "If you don't get the buffalo wings to table six soon, I might let slip a few more things."
"Oh, and Anson, you've got five minutes until showtime."
Without waiting for a response, Rebecca disappeared with a tray of plates and four beers, her brisk steps leaving no room for argument.
Anson chuckled at Jim's guilty expression and evasive gaze.
"Don't worry," Anson said.
"I mean, even if word gets out, it's not like the crowd will pack the bar.
"Either no one will believe it, or my appeal isn't strong enough anymore.
"Or maybe folks come looking, can't spot the real me, and leave in frustration thinking you made it all up."
"I'm guessing Edward has been spreading the word too," he added, referring to the bar's owner.
"Too bad it hasn't helped business much. I'm not sure whether to apologize on his behalf or mine."
Jim couldn't hold back and burst into laughter, though he quickly composed himself, clearing his throat.
"I've got to get back to work before Rebecca explodes. Break a leg out there tonight."
Turning away, Jim couldn't suppress another fit of giggles as he walked off.
Finally, the space grew quiet.
This was New York's East Village, in downtown Manhattan.
A breeding ground for art in all its forms—painting, music, writing, performance, and dance.
In the 1960s, this very area had nurtured the seeds of folk, country, and rock music, pushing them into the mainstream.
Legends like Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash had performed in its small bars before launching into superstardom.
Though rising rents had driven many artists to Brooklyn, downtown Manhattan remained a haven for underground art.
Anson had drawn inspiration from filmmaker Woody Allen—
A devoted jazz enthusiast who had performed saxophone at a downtown bar for over a decade, under his own name, week after week.
The idea resonated with Anson.
Embarking on his own journey, he'd followed Johnny Cash's footsteps, immersing himself in the life of a musician. But he'd always been an outsider, observing from the sidelines.
Now, he wanted to step into the role himself, to truly experience that life.
After researching Manhattan's bar scene with Warner Records, Anson visited venues in person and pitched himself to this bar's owner.
Performing under the name Levine Davis, Anson played a 30-minute set every night during the early slot—the warm-up act.
A week had passed, and his performances had caused barely a ripple.
Yet Anson relished this time.
If street performances felt like wandering adventures, bar gigs brought him closer to people, creating a connection between performer and audience.
At the very least, he'd made friends with the bar staff and its owner.
Life swayed between chaos and calm, and Anson found solace in grounding himself in the simple act of making music.
Now, it was time to perform.