The Keg Solo

The rear service door of the pub clicked open, venting a warm draft of stale ale and fryer grease into the cold night air. A barman with rolled-up flannel sleeves wrestled an empty aluminum keg across the wet cobbles, its hollow metal rumbling like an industrial drum solo between the walls. I slid my dark sunglasses down a fraction and called down, 'Solid low end, mate. A bit heavy on the decay, but the rhythm has teeth.' The lad froze mid-roll, peering through the gloom before his eyes locked onto my stencil. He cracked a startled, tired smirk, gave the metal rim one deliberate tap with his boot to finish the bar, and wheeled it on.