Keep One Eye on the Weather, Kid
Brock Haggerty stared at the stranger staring back at him. The man looked a lot like him, but his hair carried more gray, and the hairline had crept farther back. His face was weathered and unshaven. His eyes were tired, wrinkles stretching toward his ears. Brock couldn’t remember the last time he’d really looked at himself. He didn’t recognize this man.
The man in the mirror faded into shadow. In his place stood a much younger version of himself—clean shaven, dressed in a dark blue Navy uniform with white piping at the collar, a white sailor hat cocked to one side. His eyes were cold, dark, serious. His mouth held neither smile nor frown, just a straight-line mystery.
Brock recognized this man.
Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Haggerty sat in an office across from the chief. Brock wore dungarees, a light‑blue work shirt, and a blue ball cap with his ship’s name stitched across the front: USS YATES DD‑998. The chief sat opposite him in khakis, the same blue cap pulled low.
“I know you’re capable of a lot more than what’s required as a bo’sun’s mate,” the chief said. “I know you want to go OS. I know your ASVAB score should’ve had you there from the start. But I’m gonna be honest with you, Haggerty. You have a real problem with following orders. And that’s not gonna fly as an Operations Specialist. It’s not gonna fly in CIC.
“Now, you haven’t gotten into any real trouble, but I believe that’s just a matter of time. And it’s my opinion that, in two months, you should take your honorable discharge…”
“And get out of the Navy,” Brock said.
“Yeah. You’re a good man, Haggerty. But you’re meant for something outside of a career in the Navy.”
The chair beneath him dissolved, and he found himself sitting on the after bitts, the mooring lines wrapped tight around them. His guitar rested in his hands. The stars above the harbor were his only audience.
A knock on the door pulled him forward through thirty years in an instant. The fantail vanished. The night sky vanished. Brock was back in his dressing room.
“Five minutes, Brock,” a voice called from the other side of the door.
“Thanks, Dan,” Brock said as he grabbed the ballcap on the table in front of him — the faded gray one from the Blue Collar Bar in Charleston. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway that led backstage. He heard the young man on stage opening for him. He reminded him of his younger self. The performer finished his song, told the audience ’goodnight’ and stepped off the stage.
Brock walked toward the stage as this young man shook hands with the couple guys he ran into backstage, thanking them for doing what they do. He saw Brock and reached out his hand. As Brock offered his, they looked each other in the eyes.
The young man straightened his shoulders. “Mr. Haggerty, it’s an honor…”
“The honor’s mine.”
“No, sir. You don’t understand. When I was nine, my dad brought me to the Carolina Classic. I didn’t care about anyone else playing. I was excited to see you play. In between songs, you threw out some tshirts and hats. I caught one of those hats. This is actually the first time I haven’t worn that hat on stage. My mama bought this cowboy hat for me…”
“I know all about mamas. What’s your name?”
“Chad Wilder, sir.”
“Man, what a great name. You wear that hat with pride, Chad.”
“You mind if we get a picture?”
“Yeah. But only if you send it to me.”
Brock stepped beside him and put an arm around his shoulder. Chad snapped the selfie, then handed Brock the phone. Brock typed in his number and hit send, sending the picture to himself. He handed the phone back and started toward the stage.
“Thank you, sir. If I could ask one question…”
“Sure,” Brock said with a nod.
“Any advice? Kinda just startin’ out.”
“Always keep one eye on the weather, kid.”
Chad’s eyebrows shifted and his mouth froze. Brock continued, “Read your audience. Adjust accordingly.”
“Ladies and gentlemen… Brock Haggerty!” a man onstage announced as Brock stepped into the spotlight and picked up his guitar from its stand, joining the rest of his band already on the stage.
A couple of guys in the crowd started yelling, “You should be thanking Chad Wilder for lettin’ you play!” and “I’m surprised you can still pick up a guitar…”
Brock smiled as he looked offstage at Chad. Keepin’ one eye on the weather.
“Boys…” he turned to his band, “we’re gonna start with ‘Which Man You Get,’ okay?”
The band kicked into a raucous, roadhouse‑type song — loud and rowdy. His hecklers didn’t know what hit them.
An hour and a half later, Brock finished his set and started packing up. His roadie and best friend, Dooley, patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about all this. I got it.”
“Thanks, brother,” Brock said. “I am kinda beat.”
“I know. I got you.”
Brock turned and shook hands with the guys in his band. These were not the Ghost Town Warriors. That was his band — the guys he played with the first decade of his career, until…
“Brock,” Jerry, the venue manager, walked up to him, “that was a great show.”
“Thanks, Jer.”
“Starting out with that song… I didn’t see that coming.”
“Yeah, neither did those guys.”
“Heh. Say… that was the first song you put out after…”
“After the incident.”
“Where you broke the guy’s jaw.”
“Yep. For groping my wife.”
“Yeah, I remember. Shame it had to happen like that.”
Brock looked at the floor.
“It gave you a great song, though.”
Brock looked back up at Jerry, forcing a smile.
“Well…,” Jerry breaking the awkward silence, “I’ll get with Travis once I have the numbers for tonight. Okay?”
“No problem, Jerry. Thank you.”
The dark of the backstage area disappeared into something deeper. Brock was onstage again, sitting on a stool. His band, the Ghost Town Warriors, hung back in the shadows, letting him carry the next one alone.
He started singing softly, no instruments behind him. “Silent night… holy night…” His voice floated out over the room. As he continued, he brought his guitar in—lightly at first, then letting it settle under him, steady and warm.
His voice always had that sound — a little charred on the inside, soaked with years of struggle, warm and dark and resonant. He’d never been much of a drinker; his voice carried all the whiskey he’d ever need. And as he grew older, the barrel of it only deepened, through every song he sang.
He was mid‑song when he glanced toward the bar and saw Ellie—his girlfriend then, his wife later—being grabbed by a man who was clearly drunk. Brock dropped his guitar and jumped off the stage, running toward her.
“Hey!” he yelled.
The man turned his head, and Brock’s fist met his jaw before the man could say a word.
The scenes in Brock’s mind broke apart into a montage of everything that followed. Phones were already out—people had been recording his performance. The videos hit social media within minutes. Most people supported what Brock did. He spent a couple of days in jail, but no charges were filed.
The civil suit was different.
Eamon Brennan, president and founder of M. Brennan Records, paid the $250,000 settlement and made a deal with Brock to pay it back over time through royalties.
Within days of getting out of jail, Brock wrote a song—“Which Man You Get.” His fans loved it. But as the years passed, the shine faded… and so did Brock.
“We’re all packed up, Brock,” Dooley said, patting him on the shoulder. “You ready?”
Brock clenched his jaw and swallowed before replying. He took a deep breath, looked at Dooley, and managed a smile. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Brock said. “I’m good.”
Brock hadn’t used a tour bus in years. After talking it over with his band, the Ghost Town Warriors, they agreed the label might let him take the money it would normally pay them and put it toward what he still owed from the settlement. So the label started hiring studio musicians instead. That’s when Brock began releasing music under just his name.
The label still provided transportation for the band, but Brock and Dooley handled their own. Phil Douglas had earned the nickname “Dooley” for two reasons. One, he drove an F‑350 dually. Two, he was probably just as strong as that dually. He still had the truck. That’s what they drove now, hauling a trailer with the gear Brock needed for shows.
Dooley drove while Brock decompressed. Bubba, Dooley’s yellow lab service dog sat between them.
“Great show, Brock. You haven’t played the Franklin Music Hall in awhile.”
“Yeah, I could have done without the wiseguys, though.”
“Eh… At least your fans know you can still pick up a guitar.”
“You’re a funny guy.”
“Bubba thinks so. Don’t ya…” Dooley chortled.
“I wonder if Ellie’s still up,” Brock said as he pulled out his phone. “Hey, Honey. Sounds like I woke you up. I’m sorry. Yeah, we’re on our way home now. I can ask him.” He turned to Dooley and said, “She saved enough dinner for both of us if you’re hungry.”
Dooley nodded, “Thank you, El.”
“Thank you. We’ll try to be quiet comin’ in. I said we’d try. Ok. It was interestin’. We can talk about it in the mornin’. About another twenty minutes or so. Okay. I love you more.”
Dooley pulled into the driveway of the Haggerty house — a one‑and‑a‑half‑story brick ranch with the driveway running alongside it to the garage. He parked in front of the garage door. Dooley got out and, with a whisper, told Bubba to hop down. After Brock stepped onto the concrete, he eased his door shut, but it didn’t latch. He bumped it with his hip until it clicked. Dooley watched him, expression blank, then shut his own door normally.
Brock shrugged. “I tried.”
As they approached the back door, they saw the dining‑room light on and Terrin, Brock’s eldest son, sitting at the table looking at his phone. Terrin noticed movement outside and startled, then relaxed when he recognized his dad, Dooley, and Bubba. He unlocked the door and opened it for them.
“I’m glad you made it home safe,” Terrin said quietly.
Dooley trotted off down the hallway toward the bathroom. Brock sat down at the table.
“You want me to warm your food up? It’s in the microwave.”
“That’d be awesome, son. Thank you.”
After starting the microwave, Terrin returned to the table. “How was the show?”
“It was good. Made me feel my age a bit but…”
“How’s that?”
“I’ll show you,” Brock said, pulling out his phone. “You ever heard of Chad Wilder?”
“Yeah, he’s all over YouTube. I think he’s got a little over a hundred thousand subscribers.”
Brock showed Terrin the selfie. “He opened for me.”
“Yeah? That’s kinda cool.”
“He said when he was nine, his dad took him to the Carolina Classic just to seek me. He caught one of the hats I threw to the audience and tonight was the first time he didn’t wear that hat on stage.”
“Dang, dad… You are old.” Terrin smirked as he got up and grabbed the heated up food from the microwave and divided it between two plates. As he sat the plates on the table, Bubba looked up at him and smacked his lips with his tongue.
“I think there’s a burger in the fridge… leftover from last night,” Brock noted. “He’ll eat it cold. You heat it up, it might burn his tongue.”
Dooley returned from the bathroom and sat down in front of his plate, looking up to see Terrin giving Bubba a burger. “What in the world did you talk them into?”
They started to laugh until Brock remembered the two sleeping on the couch. He put a finger to his lips, stood, and walked over to make sure they hadn’t disturbed them. Ellie and Allie were curled together, breathing slow and even. Brock leaned down from behind the couch and kissed the top of Ellie’s head.
He walked back to the table but didn’t sit. “I love you guys… but I’m gonna go over there and curl up beside those two sleeping beauties. Terrin… I’ll see you in the mornin’. Dooley… sometime tomorrow. Now, you don’t have to leave yet. You don’t have to leave at all.”
“Naw,” Dooley said, scratching Bubba’s head. “Bubba’s not gonna sleep anywhere but his bed. You know I gotta bring his bed with us on the road.”
“That’s right.” Brock smiled. “Well, you leave only when you’re ready. G’night.”
“Night, Dad. Love you,” Terrin said.
“Goodnight, Brock. Love you, brother.”
