For Dave
There was a night when you and I played, and we stayed until the bitter end, listening to other artists, some better than others. The deal was you had to wait, probably to buy food or beer from the establishment, so it would be worth the payout to the winners, I guess.
We won, well, second place anyways, 50 bucks, mainly because the band that should have won got tired of waiting and left. Someone said we sang Amazing Grace all the way to the bank.
I was singing and you played sax. I started it off way too high, but you found the key and joined right in. Somehow, we nailed it, though my throat was a little sore for the rest of the week.
It was early morning before we got out of there, 50 bucks richer, though you went home the next day, and I never went back.
I think back on that night, the waiting, the decision about whether it will be worth our time in the hands of a subjective someone who doesn’t know us and has their own views about what constitutes good music, and we’re prisoners to the inevitable compare and contrast.
To be honest, I feel like I’m still sitting in that room, waiting, when sometimes all I want to do is go to sleep. Only now you’re not here. It’s just me. Which in some ways might be a good thing. It’s one thing to be disappointed. It’s quite another to disappoint someone else. Though knowing you, you’d probably be pretty gracious about the whole thing.
I’m still playing. Still waiting. Watching artist after artist get their due. Trying to stay faithful. Looking for partners. Wondering when the night will end. Hoping for a gift. Listening for my name to be called.
Wondering if sometime, I’ll just give up, leave the room for the last time, take the long back road home, lay my weary body down, and go to sleep.
Slow Mover 