The Devil's Copper

want.”
“Can’t we just get a pizza?”
Apparently that was not an option.
The day fell on a weekend that year.  That was not to say we were not burdened by work; we both had jobs which required our attention beyond working hours.  I had to carry a beeper, which went off any time the answering service got an emergency flooding call.  At which point I would have to find a phone and contact one of our on-call drivers and send them out.  Which was always a fun call to make on the weekend.  Jack, meanwhile, was a little more advanced, and had a cell phone that could reach him at a moment’s notice.  He hated cell phones.  He said they were removing our ability to distance ourselves from those we want to distance ourselves from.  Prophetic words.  Anyone who had a financial investment emergency on a Saturday when markets were closed didn’t deserve to be able to contact someone on their day off.
Dinner was delightful.  If that’s the proper word to describe it.  It was overpriced, and I’ve had better meals with a greasy spoon.  But Jack seemed to enjoy watching me attempt to be civil.  We lived together, but we were not married, and it was not my business how he spent his money.  However, if the funds came out of a shared account, there was no way I’d have been okay with spending that kind of money on ravioli that didn’t taste much different than the frozen kind you buy in a bag.  I was going to compare it to the canned type just to be spiteful, but I’d only be insulting myself; I do have some standards.
After dinner, he said he wanted to check in on work and asked me if I’d mind.  I did, but I wasn’t going to object, as my beeper had gone off twice during our ‘intimate’ dinner.  We didn’t swing by his office though, (neither his professional or personal one), but rather, stopped at a small and frankly concerning little bar in the Donovan I had never heard of before.  Speaking of having some standards.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“Mike has a job tonight.  I thought it would be fun to watch.”
Mike, the ‘time traveler’ who almost fooled me a year ago, was going to work his craft on another unwitting individual, in a dive bar on a Saturday night.  Hardly the opera, but I was intrigued.
“Are we overdressed?”
Jack looked down at himself, then loosened and removed his tie.  “Perhaps it’s a good thing you didn’t wear a dress.”
“Told you.”
We opened the doors, and were assailed by live music booming at deafening levels.  It’s not that I don’t like heavy music; I’ll listen to anything.  If it’s good.  But it was a little hard to tell if the band was going for Led Zeppelin or eighth grade band practice.  It sounded as though the guitarist thought they were playing thrash metal, but the drummer thought he was accompanying a waltz.  They were shit, is what I’m trying to insinuate.  Upon breaching the perimeter, we were assailed with the dim light of the bar, the reek of beer-soaked carpeting, and the hum of raised conversations trying to be spoken and heard over the unruly mess coming from the tiny stage in the corner of the establishment.  It wasn’t overly crowded, and we were able to find a table at the back of the bar.  Jack pulled out my chair and gave it a quick wipe down with a handkerchief before allowing me to sit.  Once he joined me, the guitar solo ended and the singing began.
“That was supposed to be New Orleans is Sinking?”
“Singer’s good,” Jack leaned over and said.  It sounded like a whisper but was actually a shout.
“Too good for this band.”
“Exactly.”
Jack left, then returned with two bottles of Molson Canadian. Because what else are you going to find in a bar in Northern Ontario?  We endured two additional songs of amazing vocals backed by terrible guitars, a drummer with no rhythm, and a bass player nowhere near as loud as his tattoos.  Eventually this came to an end, and the band regrettably took a break between sets.
“You really know how to show someone a good time,” I muttered.
“Wait for it.”
The band dispersed and made their way to the bar, looking for alcohol and commendation from their adoring fans, while the singer made his way off to the left of the stage, taking his place at a small table.  One or two young patrons, likely underage and thrilled to actually see any live band play, spoke with him for a few minutes but it was clear he was only being polite.  After they left, he seemed happy to return to his solitude.
Off to our right, the door to the bar opened.  A man wearing a vibrant jacket slipped in.  He went mostly unnoticed, except by us.
“Showtime?”
“Showtime,” Jack agreed.
The actor made his way over to the singer and asked for a moment of his time.  Due to the general hum of conversation and the music the jukebox began to play between sets we couldn’t hear the actual exchange but it was easy to assume what was being discussed.
“The singer’s name is Jerry Fallon,” Jack explained.  “He’s aspired to be a vocalist since he was a child.  He could just never find the right band.  His family wants him to give it up, and who can blame them with these musicians.  He’s about to give in to the pressure but his friends want him to keep trying, even if it means leaving the city and trying somewhere else.  I mean, you heard him, he’s pretty good isn’t he?”
I nodded, too intent on watching the conversation to reply.  I was mentally filling in their words, based on the information Jack was feeding me.  There was a look of skepticism, even