Jeff's here. He's on stage (small and coffee-shop intimate) and he has a guitar in his hands. According to dream logic, that means he ought to be playing, even though he doesn't know where he is or how he got here.

Why should he question it? Shit's been crazy enough lately, so it stands to reason that this is just a natural extension of that crazy.

And besides, there's already an audience. Doesn't matter if it's one person or a thousand, he's going to keep their eyes on him. So he starts strumming (the guitar's already in tune, that's nice), eyes closing, humming along to one medley, then another, before he settles on a tune. That's when he looks at the crowd with a playful smile in his eyes that soon passes to his lips as he sings.

"You keep saying you got something for me..."

That's some Nancy Sinatra for the crowd, which feels both big and small, impossible to really focus on. The more he plays (another song, and another, moving from one genre, one moment in time, to the next, without any cohesive theme to speak of, until his fingers hurt and his throat aches), the more the others fade to the periphery, while one figure starts to stand out in greater clarity.

The kid at the bar. ("Kid," like they're not the same age.) It's like he could be real, tangible, unlike the rest, who don't feel quiiiite right.

So Jeff looks right at him as he starts on his last song, fingers finding familiar chords as he shoots that knowing, playful smirk at the stranger. "Outside there's a box car waiting..."

Here Comes Your Man. Yeah, that's Jeff Calhoun for flirting.