Fragments From Floyd

Perhaps one of the things that makes the Friday Night Jamboree such a central event in the life of Floyd County is its predictability. Always three dollars at the door, when you finally decide to come in off the street. Always sultry as a tropical island inside with two hundred hot bodies radiant with the buzz of blue grass and twenty of them clogging on the wooden floor in front of the stage. And every week, while new faces from out of town and even out of country are always there, I've never once been to the jamboree I didn't see a half dozen of the same faces. For the Friday Night Regulars, if you don't see them in their usual seats on Friday night, you know something is bad wrong and the Hospitality Committee at the church is taking them covered baskets of homemade bread and chicken soup.

Slim here, as I call him, is one of the regulars. The Man in Black. There seems to be less and less of him every time I go, and it's true for all of the permanent fixtures on Friday night: this world is not their home, they're just a passin' through. But til then, Friday night is the peak of the week, a time to grab your old battered instrument for some street music, stash three bills in your pocket, an extra one for a cool drink, and join the Friday Night family in town. They'll be expecting you.