"TOOTSIE'S BLUE ORCHID LOUNGE"
by Christopher Feliciano Arnold

A muggy Thursday night in downtown Nashville and the crowd at Tootsie's Blue Orchid Lounge is overflowing onto the sidewalk, dudes and dames alike with their noses pressed to the window, trying to get a peek inside. Inside's where the lucky folks are, standing in the neon beer sign glow, chuckling, clinking bottles together, lighting cigars, blowing great puffs of smoke up to the ceiling where the fans are spinning like mad. The place is packed tight, but there's always room for one more at Tootsie's, like this lanky boy on the sidewalk trying to fit himself through the door. He squeezes his way between the patrons, hoping for a place to stand, but that's a tough chore tonight, even for a kid who's toothpick skinny, because that's Katie Collins and her Small Band on the stage in the corner, and in Nashville it's just not Thursday night unless you're hearing Katie Collins and her Small Band. There's Johnny Dozer on the bass, Hairy Ray at home behind the drums, and that's Slim Watts himself tuning his Telecaster, although folks claim that his guitar never goes out of tune, that he just fiddles with it every few songs, for effect. Behind the microphone, Miss Katie Collins. The lanky boy finds an empty square on the checkerboard dance floor, near the wall, just in time, because Miss Katie's about to channel Patsy Cline.

And Lord how this crowd loves to hear a song they know, and you can bet Miss Katie Collins and her Small Band play the classics, going on thirty years now. The tune starts and folks are hootin' and hollerin', and bodies would be dancing if they had any room to dance. It's easy to get thirsty on a night like this, but thankfully a buxom waitress patrols the sticky dance floor, brushing shoulders with the patrons, delivering frosty bottles of beer to the folks who need them most.

"Thank you, ma'am," the lanky boy says, setting two dollar bills on her tray.

"Do I look like a ma'am to you?" the waitress says. "My name's Sunshine."

"Thank you, Miss Sunshine."

On a slow night, Miss Sunshine would be sure to add that Sunshine is her God-given name, not something she made up for show, and that she's proud of it, even though plenty of teachers and schoolmates found it silly. But being Thursday night, there's no time for talk. By the grace of God she forges a path clear up to the stage and passes a longneck up to Hairy Ray behind the drums. Without missing a beat he takes the bottle, smiles his toothy grin, and has himself a long, cold gulp.

Now Katie Collins is getting to the chorus and the chatter in the room drops off, everyone holding their breath, anticipating those long sweet notes, Patsy Cline come again. Old Time Mike sits in his chair near the wall, smoking. He's been waiting for Patsy Cline all night. Old Time Mike was one of Tootsie's original sudslingers, back when the side door of the lounge led right to the Ryman, the original Grand Ole Opry, when Cash and the King and Hank Sr., even sweet Patsy herself would sneak through the door for a quick one to soothe the jitters. Old Time Mike listens to Katie croon through the chorus, and something's not quite right. It's not Hairy Ray or Johnny Dozer—they're in sync like always. It's not Slim Watts—he hasn't hit a wrong note in thirty years. It's Miss Katie Collins. Maybe just a pretzel stuck in her pipes, thinks Old Time Mike. But now she's misremembered the words.

Old Time Mike stubs out his cigarette. His concern spreads like a house fire and soon every last person in Tootsie's is looking up at Katie Collins like the real Katie Collins has been stolen and replaced with a cheap imitation. And behind the bar, hanging on the wall, the black and white portraits of the Music City greats—Cash and the King and Hank Sr., sweet Patsy herself—their great faces seem to peek out from their photo frames, puzzled, wondering what's become of the real Miss Katie.