The back office smelled like thirty years of cigarettes and one very recent Irish coffee. Marty hunched over his desk, neck brace cranked to its tightest setting, reading the same email for the fifth time. The words blurred together—grant confirmation, fund transfer, implementation protocols—but the number stayed crystal clear: $10,000.00, pending deposit.
He reached for his coffee mug, found only dregs that tasted more whiskey than caffeine, and set it down harder than necessary. The sound echoed off walls plastered with expired liquor licenses and health department warnings that read like love letters from bureaucrats with too much time.
From the bar, Stacy's muffled voice drifted through the thin door, singing something about rich men and poor men that felt pointed.
"Nobody asked you," Marty muttered, adjusting his bank statement so the deposit notification caught more light.
Knocking erupted against the office door—not the polite tap of customers or the aggressive pound of bill collectors, but Devon's signature rhythm: three quick, two slow, flourish.
The door burst open before Marty could respond. Devon Ramirez swept in carrying an oversized sketchbook under one arm and a tackle box of colored markers under the other, his thrift store layers somehow managing to look coordinated in the dusty afternoon light.
"Marty!" Devon dropped his supplies on the desk with theatrical precision, sending a stack of unpaid invoices cascading to the floor. "This is perfect. Absolutely perfect for brainstorming."
"Get out."
"I can feel the creative energy in here." Devon spun in place, arms spread wide, surveying the cluttered office like it was the Sistine Chapel. "All this history, all this... authentic decay. Very inspiring."
Marty's paranoia kicked in as Devon began arranging his markers by color on the desk's only clear surface. "How'd you know I was back here?"
"Psychology of color is key to effective communication," Devon explained, lining up reds with the precision of a sniper. "Warm colors for passion, cool colors for trust, earth tones for—"
"Devon."
"What?" Devon looked up, genuinely confused by Marty's tone.
"How'd you know I was back here?"
"I heard you shuffling papers and muttering about money." Devon capped a blue marker with a satisfied click. "Plus your coffee mug's empty, which means you've been stress-reading the same document multiple times."
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Marty's grip tightened on the bank statement, paper crinkling under his fingers.
Devon opened his sketchbook to a blank page, the title already written in bold letters across the top: RUSTY TAP RENAISSANCE. Below it, he'd drawn a rough sketch of the bar with arrows pointing to various improvements.
"We need to deserve this grant money," Devon said, uncapping a red marker with ceremonial seriousness.
Marty's head snapped up. "What grant money?"
"The one that nice man in the expensive suit offered you yesterday." Devon began sketching stick figures around a crude drawing of the bar's stage area. "I was wiping down tables when he gave his whole cultural preservation speech."
"You were eavesdropping."
"I was working." Devon added musical notes floating above the stick figures' heads. "It's not my fault sound carries in this place. These walls are basically cardboard."
The defensive posture that had kept Marty alive through decades of disappointment activated automatically. His shoulders squared despite the neck brace's protests.
"What did you hear?"
"Enough to know we've got a chance to turn this place around." Devon's marker moved across the page in confident strokes. "Ten thousand dollars, right? That's real money. Money we can use to make real changes."
"Changes like what?"
Devon's face lit up with the dangerous enthusiasm of someone who'd found their purpose. He flipped to a new page, writing "THEMED NIGHTS" in block letters across the top.
"Karaoke Tuesdays, but with actual prizes. Trivia Wednesdays, but about neighborhood history instead of random sports stats. Thursday night magic shows with Frankie—he's got talent, just needs a proper stage."
The marker moved faster now, ideas flowing onto paper in colorful chaos. Devon drew crowds of people—actual crowds—filling the bar's empty spaces.
"Live music Fridays, but not just any music. Local acts, people with stories. Saturday comedy nights, but raw, authentic stuff. The kind of performances you can't get at those chain places downtown."
Marty found himself leaning forward despite his skepticism, watching Devon's wild sketches transform the bar's dead space into something that looked almost... alive.
"And Sundays," Devon continued, flipping to another page, "experimental nights. Poetry, storytelling, maybe even cooking competitions using the hot plate behind the bar."
"That hot plate barely works."
"Then we fix it!" Devon slammed his marker down with enough force to make the desk jump. "That's what the money's for, right? Preservation?"
The word hung between them, loaded with possibility and threat in equal measure. Marty thought about Elliot Crane's smooth assurances, about preservation protocols and community engagement optimization.
"This is all fantasy," Marty said, but his voice lacked its usual conviction.
"Fantasy becomes reality when you have a plan." Devon turned to a fresh page, writing "OPEN MIC REVIVAL" in letters that took up half the sheet. "Remember when you used to have open mic nights?"
"That was fifteen years ago."
"And they were legendary. Slugger's told me stories—people lined up around the block to perform. Musicians, comedians, poets, even that guy who did shadow puppets with beer bottles."
Devon's marker moved across the page, sketching a microphone wrapped in baseball stitching. "We bring it back, but better. Professional sound system, proper lighting, actual promotion instead of hoping people wander in."
Despite himself, Marty remembered those nights. The electric feeling when someone truly connected with the crowd, the way even the hardest regulars would go quiet for a genuine performance. Before the neighborhood changed, before hope became a luxury he couldn't afford.
"People don't want that anymore," Marty said. "They want their entertainment packaged and predictable."
"Bullshit." Devon looked up from his sketching, marker poised like a weapon. "People are desperate for authentic experiences. They're tired of algorithms telling them what they should enjoy."
The observation struck closer to home than Marty cared to admit. He shifted in his chair, neck brace creaking.
"Nobody comes to open mics in dive bars."
"They will if we give them a reason." Devon began writing again, this time listing promotional ideas. "Social media campaigns, partnerships with local venues, cross-promotion with the coffee shops and record stores."
"What coffee shops? What record stores? They're all gone."
"Then we partner with the places that aren't gone yet." Devon's enthusiasm refused to be dampened by reality. "Food trucks, house concerts, basement shows. Cleveland's got an underground scene—we just need to tap into it."
The office door creaked open, revealing Slugger's massive frame filling the doorway. He removed his Indians cap, revealing the bald spot he usually kept hidden.
"Sorry to interrupt," Slugger said, "but I heard planning sounds. Like coaches drawing up plays."
Devon waved him in with the confidence of someone who'd never met a stranger. "Perfect timing! We need someone who understands strategy."
Slugger approached the desk cautiously, studying Devon's colorful sketches with the concentration of a scout reviewing game film.
"That's a beautiful play diagram," Slugger said, pointing to Devon's stick figure crowd. "But what's the batting order?"
"The what?"
"The lineup. Who goes first, who closes the show. Can't just send your cleanup hitter to the plate in the first inning."
Devon's eyes widened with sudden understanding. "You're right! We need structure, progression, a way to build energy throughout the night."
"Every performer gets three strikes," Slugger continued, warming to the theme. "Three chances to connect with the crowd. After that, it's back to the bench."
"That's brilliant!" Devon grabbed a green marker, adding Slugger's rules to his growing list. "Three-strike system keeps things moving, prevents anyone from dying on stage too long."
Marty watched the two men hunched over the sketchbook, building on each other's ideas with the intensity of generals planning a campaign. Despite his cynicism, he found himself drawn into their enthusiasm.
"What about prizes?" Marty asked, surprising himself by participating.
Both men looked up, Devon's face breaking into a grin that could have powered the bar's neon signs.
"Cash prizes for winners," Devon said immediately. "But also bar tabs, guest bartending shifts, maybe even a monthly showcase for the best performers."
"Like spring training," Slugger added. "Separate the pros from the amateurs."
"And we document everything," Devon continued, his marker flying across the page. "Video highlights, performer interviews, maybe even a podcast about the local scene."
The conversation gained momentum, practical details emerging from wild creativity. They discussed sound equipment rental, stage lighting options, promotional strategies that didn't require massive budgets.
Devon sketched a flyer design featuring a microphone wrapped in baseball stitching, with bold text reading: "STEP UP TO THE PLATE AND SHOW YOUR STUFF."
"That's terrible," Marty said, but he was almost smiling.
"Terrible in a good way," Slugger agreed. "Terrible enough to be memorable."
"Exactly!" Devon added stars around the border, making the flyer look like a circus poster. "We're not competing with the slick downtown venues. We're offering something they can't—authenticity."
Marty studied the evolving design, his inner critic warring with something that felt dangerously like hope. "What if nobody shows up?"
"Then we perform for each other," Devon said simply. "But they'll show up. People are hungry for real experiences, for places where they can be themselves without judgment."
"And if the performers are terrible?"
"Then we celebrate terrible." Slugger adjusted his cap, settling it at an angle that suggested strategic thinking. "Sometimes the worst performances are the most entertaining."
Devon flipped to a new page, beginning to sketch a calendar of events. "First open mic next Thursday. That gives us a week to spread the word, get equipment sorted, maybe even convince Frankie to do a magic show as the opener."
"Frankie would love that," Marty admitted.
"And Lana could do psychic readings between sets," Devon added, warming to the theme. "Create a whole variety show atmosphere."
The planning session continued, Devon's sketchbook filling with increasingly elaborate ideas that somehow remained grounded in practical possibility. They discussed logistics, promotion, even contingency plans for equipment failure.
Marty found himself contributing more than he'd intended, sharing memories of successful nights from the bar's past, offering insights about what worked and what didn't.
"This might actually work," he said quietly, more to himself than to his companions.
"Of course it'll work," Devon replied, adding final touches to his flyer design. "It has to work. Places like this don't get second chances very often."
The weight of that truth settled over all three men. They were discussing more than entertainment—they were planning a last stand against irrelevance.
Devon stood, stretching muscles cramped from hunching over the sketchbook. "I'm going to start putting up flyers. Slugger, can you help me figure out the best spots?"
"Absolutely." Slugger rose as well, his bulk making the small office feel even more cramped. "Strategic placement is key to effective recruitment."
They gathered the promotional materials, Devon's energy infectious enough to pull even the cautious Slugger into full participation.
"Marty," Devon said, pausing at the door, "this is going to be great. The kind of great that makes people remember why they loved this place."
After they left, Marty remained at his desk, surrounded by Devon's scattered marker caps and discarded sketch pages. The office felt different now—less like a tomb for failed dreams and more like a war room for possible futures.
He picked up one of Devon's abandoned flyers, studying the crude but enthusiastic design. "Step Up to the Plate and Show Your Stuff." It was terrible. It was perfect. It was exactly the kind of authentic ridiculousness that might actually work.
From the bar, he could hear Devon and Slugger moving around, the sound of tape being pulled from rolls, chairs being repositioned. They were actually doing it—turning wild ideas into concrete action.
His phone buzzed with another email notification. Implementation timeline. Integration requirements. Technical specifications that read like instructions for something he didn't understand.
Marty closed the laptop, tucking the grant paperwork into a drawer he rarely opened. Whatever came next, whatever "integration" actually meant, at least they'd have one week of possibility first.
One week to remember what The Rusty Tap could be when people still believed in second chances.