The Silver Dollar by David Cameron

I swing the doors expecting a waft of stale beer and rancid sweat; shabby, not shiny like a new brass spittoon.

But the Silver Dollar Saloon fairly gleams. It’s the place to be seen for all the wrong reasons, iniquity’s playground, an outlaw’s oasis.

Yet, empty it echoes—a hollow shell and vacant vessel of dreams deferred where trouble dogs each patron’s steps, my steps as well. Alone, I sit at piano plunking out notes, a scrap of a song I cobbled together those nights I barely slept; a shadow of why I came west.

It’s my shot at redemption—showcase my talents, find purpose banging out tunes for miners, scofflaws, women of the night. Rumors tell of epic fights and gunplay is a given.

“Mr. Harris?” A lady enters—all business. “Yes,” I say, embarrassed, standing. “Can you start tonight?” She asks, not probing for training or skill. “Sure!” I stammer, thrilled until I spot the sign, and it’s clear why I’ve just been hired at a glance.

The reason for my swift election is manifest. “Please don’t shoot the piano player,” the sign reads, “He is doing his best.”