Conversations With Eddie

Mid-morning at St. Arbuck’s.

It had been a rough week, what with having said a final goodbye to Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.

She had fought bravely against the stroke that had come without warning, stripping away everything that had made her, well...her, and in the end, as so often happens when the very elderly are so stricken, it took her life.

My trip to St. Arbuck’s was an attempt to find solace in the routine, the mundane, the common and predictable ebb and flow of life in my favorite coffee shop.

I sat there slowly sipping my medium coffee, with room for cream, and enjoying the randomness of passing customers.

The Artist—no idea what his real name is, but that’s what I call him—was hard at work on a pen and ink drawing at the next table that was so dense with detail and brimming over with life that you’d swear the image was photographic.

Two young women were hunched over a computer puzzling about what to do with their fledgling company’s website and discussing the need for a more “robust” presence on the web.

A bored businessman patiently awaited the delivery of his beverage, his eyes betraying a more than passing interest in the young woman standing next to him—a twenty-something beauty so busy texting that the barista had to call her name three times before she collected her latte.

The collegian in the corner stared in studied concentration at absolutely nothing while listening to his iPod; fingers drumming out a crazy rhythm on the tabletop.

An aggressive, thirty-something salesman paced obsessively while talking to a potential customer on the phone.

In the midst of this fascinating human tableau, my phone rang.

I checked the caller ID.

It was Eddie.

That would be Eddie Washington, my disgustingly good-looking, African-American best friend, at present on indefinite assignment in New York City.

I answered the call.

“So, like I was saying—“

“What?” he replied, puzzlement coloring his deeply burnished voice.

“I was going to tell you what.”

“Tell me what, about what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dude,” he said in that tone of longsuffering patience for which he is known far and wide.  “You can’t answer the phone like you’ve been in the middle of a conversation.”

“Says who?”

He sighed and then chuckled. “I miss you too, sugar.”

“We were in the middle of a conversation when you had to go. Remember?”

“Man, that was, what, three weeks ago?”

“’Bout that.”

“And you expect me to remember what we were talking about?”

I said, “This from the man who remembers minutia of arguments from years gone by?”

“Can’t help it if I’m in touch with my feminine side,” he replied huffily.

“Right. Anyway...like I was saying, why did you feel it necessary to move to the east coast when you had a perfectly good life here in Vegas, not to mention a perfectly good best friend whose life is now but a sad, hollow shell since you left!”

“Oh,” he said. “That.”

“Yes, that!”

“It’s like I told you, RG, the boy just wasn’t making enough money in Vegas and there are more opportunities for jazz musicians in New York.”

“But everyone who cares about you is here. Your life is here...not in New York!”

I could tell by the long silence that I had struck a nerve.

“I know all that,” he said quietly.

I’ve only seen the man cry twice in all the years I’ve known him, but I could tell he was close to doing so now.

He continued, “I’m so sad I wasn’t there to see Miss Alice off.”

“Yeah, it happened kind of suddenly,” I said.

“I always loved that old woman.”

“She loved you too.”

“I know she did. You guys actually in the room when she passed?”

“No. After ten days of my wife and her sister literally being there around the clock we decided that maybe she didn’t want to die while we were there. Turns out we were right.” I paused for a moment before saying, “I’ve gotta’ tell you, Eddie, I don’t understand the whole death thing, which is quite odd given my theological background. I mean, one minute you’re there, breathing, thinking, dreaming, planning; and the next...you’re gone.”

“It’s definitely a mystery.” He seemed to consider something before continuing. “Let me ask you something...do you think people fear death?”

“Without question,” came my immediate reply. “I think everyone fears death, and the ones who don’t are either lying through their teeth or are completely self-deceived.”

“So, you actually saw the body?”

I said, “We did. Everything was so still. Even the air in the room seemed still. Especially her. We’d been watching her breathe for so long all of us had moments where we swore she was still breathing.”

“Must’ve been a little spooky.”

“No, not spooky. It was, I don’t know, kind of sacred, I suppose.”

“How is your beloved taking the loss?”

I said, “Well, she’s obviously sad, but the stroke had left her mom so diminished, and with no chance of recovery, that when she finally died it was kind of a relief.”

“Everyone coming in for the memorial?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of like the gathering of the clan. People coming in from all over and—“

“Staying at your house,” he said, completing my sentence.

We both laughed.

“You know my family well.”

“Yeah, man. What you get for having a big ‘ol five bedroom house!”

“Well, needless to say, they’ll all be full.”

After a few seconds silence he said, “Wish I could be there, man. “

“I know. And, for the record, given your present circumstances no one expects you to make the trip. But the thought is definitely appreciated.”

His voice broke a little when he said, “Las Vegas will always be home, and you guys will always be my family.”

Since my throat seemed to be momentarily constricted, I said nothing.

He apparently suffered from the same affliction.

“So,” he said finally. “I’ve gotta run. Got an audition in ‘bout an hour. Could be a really good opportunity for me. One of those things that could launch me into a whole new stream of exposure.”

“Exposure is good.”

He was silent again before saying, “RG, I...”

“You don’t have to say it. I know...I know.”

“This won’t be forever.”

“And we’ll be here when you get back,” I said. “Might even come and see you in the spring.”

“That’d be cool. That’d definitely be cool.”

After a few more casual comments the call was over, and I was left feeling utterly bereft, beggared and bereaved, my emotions threatening to spin out of control.

I slugged down the remains of my rapidly cooling brew and quickly headed for the parking lot and the asylum offered by my car.

It just felt like so much loss—a reality of life with which I have always struggled.

A few deep breaths; a casual wave to a recently divorced friend who pulled their car into the spot right next to me; a glimpse of young mother holding tightly to a newborn; a frantic text from another friend who seemed to be in crisis; the elderly couple who arrive at the same time every morning, holding hands as if they were still in high school...and I realized that I was experiencing the cycles of life.

The thing about cycles is that...well, you have to let them run their course.

If you don’t, you short-circuit the process and never experience what you were meant to experience. 

After wiping away that pesky leakage around my eyes I started my car and drove home.

Gonna miss you, mom.

La Petite Princess

I sat there at my usual place in St. Arbuck’s experiencing the same empty-headed stupor that had assailed me most of the week, sipping coffee while watching busy people come and go in a kind of spontaneously synchronized rhythm.

But even they seemed dull.

Nothing was interesting.

Perhaps it was the holiday.

With Christmas a little more than one week away, the proximity seemed to have everyone rushing about under the relentless prod of “Christmas Spirit.”

Peace on earth could wait for another day.

There were presents to buy!

Pies to bake.

Stockings to fill.

I had just closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands when I heard a small, almost angelic voice say, “I have a dress.”

I looked up and found that the dulcet tones belonged to a little blonde-haired girl of perhaps four or five.

She stood by my table, doing that swinging-your-torso-back- and-forth-with-hands-clasped-behind-your-back little girl thing and gazing innocently at me as if awaiting a response to her pronouncement.

“Why, yes you do,” said I as a smile crawled its way onto my previously dour countenance.

She kind of tilted her head to one side and said, “My daddy says I look like a princess.”

My smile grew broader.

“Is that right?”

She nodded her head as a shy smile appeared.

She wasn’t a particularly pretty child and her handmade dress seemed poorly sewn.

Someone had made a valiant effort to tame her mane of unruly hair—painfully evident was the fact that the hair had eventually won.

And yet, there was a sweetness in her that was compelling.

Glancing past her I noticed a thirty-something man waiting in line to place his order.

By the frequent looks cast my way, I assumed that he was the little girl’s father.

The vanquished hair warrior, no doubt.

After a minute or two, he seemed to decide that I was a decent sort and presented no threat to his child.

“Is that your daddy over there?” I asked, pointing to the man.

She nodded quickly after a brief glance in his direction.

I said, “Are you two buying something to take home to your mommy?”

She stared blankly at me for what seemed like an eternity and then with her lower lip trembling slightly she said, “My mommy is in heaven.”

Dear God!

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” I said.

Yes, I know my response was woefully insufficient, but what could I say, indeed, what could anyone say?

Fanning out the sides of the dress she said, “Mommy made it for me to wear in our church’s Christmas program.”

In an effort to avoid further clichéd and hackneyed drivel, I simply nodded my head in silent understanding.

“She wanted to be here for Christmas, but God took her to heaven last week.”

My heart felt ready to burst.

I wanted to pick that precious child up, cradle her in my arms and tell her whatever she needed to hear that would bring comfort and hope.

She said, “Why did God take my mommy?”

A sniveling voice somewhere inside my mind hissed, Come on, Mr. big-shot writer. You’re so clever, say something to the kid that’ll make the pain go away.

“Well, sweetheart,” I said, struggling for composure, “sometimes God gets lonely for his special children—so lonely He just can’t stand to be away from them so He...He brings them home.”

She nodded silently as if, along with me, weighing the truth of my statement.

After a moment or two, she said softly, “Mister?”

“Yes?” said I, my voice choked with emotion.

“Do you really think I look like a princess?”

Her gaze was piercingly direct.

I blinked my eyes rapidly, hoping by doing so the river of tears pressing against its levy could be held in check.

“Honey,” I said. “You are the prettiest little princess I have ever seen.” And I meant every word.

I sensed her father’s presence before I saw him.

“Megan, come on. You don’t want to be late for your program, do you?”

Pointing my direction she said proudly, “Daddy, this man thinks I’m the prettiest little princess he’s ever seen.”

As he stood just behind her, holding a coffee in one hand and hot chocolate in the other, our eyes met, this brave father’s and mine.

And while no words were spoken, understanding passed between us.

That and something more—gratitude.

Then with his lips pressed together in a tight smile, he said, “And did you say thank-you?”

Megan looked at me and said bashfully, “Thank-you.”

They turned to go and almost made it out the door when suddenly Megan ran back and threw her arms about my neck hugging me tightly.

And then she was gone.

Me, I was left breathless with the wonder of what had just transpired.

I sat there not knowing what to do.

And then suddenly I knew exactly what to do.

I quickly threw my things into my trendy European man-purse and ran out the door.

I had a Christmas program to see, and if I hurried, I could probably catch the little princess and her father in the parking lot and get directions.

All at once, Christmas had taken on a whole new meaning.

A Place In The Sun

The morning hadn’t started well.

After the fact, my beloved and I blamed it on the stress that accompanied the situation we’d been dealing with for the past ten days.

She’s in hospice, you know.

“She,” being Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.

Palliative care.

It sounds so cold and clinical; but hospice is anything but cold, and it most certainly is not clinical.

It is kind, caring and staffed with people possessed by a passion to ease the suffering of those who can no longer do so for themselves.

Insomnia had left us thrashing about in the thick sludge of exhaustion, the effects of which had been compounded by digestive systems that apparently had, unannounced, determined to go on extended leave.

In short, no nutrition and no sleep conspired together to produce an early morning phone conversation that had been less than, well, beneficial.

You might as well know that I’m not the sort to simply leave things alone—a reality that works, at times, to my beloved’s profound vexation.

I’ve tried to change.

No, really, I have!

But I just can’t walk away when I know there is something that remains to be said, an action that needs to be taken or, at times—more often than I care to admit—an apology that begs to be delivered.

This was one such time...the apology thing.

So, I showered and shaved; put on some pretty snappy duds, even if I do say so myself, and headed for the hospice facility.

On the way, I decided to stop in at a nearby St. Arbuck’s to collect a couple of coffees and a wedge of sumptuously moist cinnamon swirl coffee cake.

Yes, I know...blatant bribery!

Go ahead and call it for what it is, I don’t mind.

I’ve learned to go with what works.

And that definitely works.

Most of the time.

The neighborhood in which the hospice is located is, um, different than my neighborhood.

I believe the current PC description would be, “economically distressed,” a designator that could be, sadly, applied to many Las Vegas neighborhoods that previously enjoyed an entirely different distinction.  

The people were different as well, at least when compared to my St. Arbuck’s.

They too seemed “distressed.”

But there, as in virtually every coffee shop I’ve ever patronized—both in the States and abroad—there was a collegial camaraderie that pervaded the atmosphere; a sense that those who gathered were involved in a shared experience; that, sink or swim, they would do so together.

 And isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?

British poet John Donne said it best, “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main...”

With these thoughts rattling around in my head, (a head that, for the record, seems to grow ever more empty as the years roll by, a reality for which I have no explanation whatsoever) I got into my car and prepared to drive the remaining four blocks to hospice.

But at that moment something caught my eye.

Something so startling; something so stunning; something so unexpectedly out of the ordinary that I simply had to stop and stare.

For how long I know not...but stare I did.

The morning sun had just crested the top of Sunrise Mountain; its rays like drops of liquid gold saturating and transforming the valley below.

A wheelchair-bound man of some years, homeless by the looks of him, sat in the empty parking lot, cup of coffee in his hand, face upturned toward the shimmering light, a smile of consummate pleasure transforming his craggy countenance.

He sat there, bathed in the warm, uncommon ochre radiance .

And sat.

And smiled.

And sat some more.

Finally, he sipped his coffee...slowly, languidly, pleasurably.

What I found so stunning about this scene was the fact that this man who was more distressed by far than anyone else I had seen that morning, had, as Bernard von Bülow coined, found his “place in the sun.”

Literally.

Engaging my often overly romantic, artiste’s imagination it wasn’t much of a stretch at all to picture him in that exact spot, each and every morning awaiting that moment when night turned to day; the cold was sent packing and he could experience a moment of private joy.

And it didn’t cost him a thing.

The coffee? From a gas station on the corner that gave it away for free.

It made me think of Miss Alice and this present journey upon which she has unwillingly embarked.

The days grow cold.

The night is upon her.

The light of life grows ever dim.

But step, by step—breath, by ragged breath—she moves inexorably toward a different kind of light.

Toward her place in the sun.

Journey's End

Skin, like parchment

Translucent

Sagging now as if there is too much to cover

Although there isn’t much left at all

Mouth gaping

Brow furrowed as if in concentration

Breathing has become the most important thing in her life

Slip, slip, slipping away

And yet...she lingers

Ben Johnson said that time is an “old, bald cheater”

And I say that death is a relentless, gray stalker

Shadowing our footsteps

Dogging us down the days

It is not her nature to “go gentle into that good night”

Not because of fear, or lack of faith

She fights

She fights because even now, she isn’t really ready to go

And so, she lingers, because I just know she’d love...

One more game of Skip-Bo with her best friend

One more opportunity to see Jeopardy

One more trip “downtown”

One more bouquet of pink carnations

One more trip to Dallas, or Spokane

One more chance to laugh and scream with her girls

One more hug from her grand and great-grandchildren

One more meal at Taco Bell

Still, she lingers

Loved by most

Adored by many

Treasured by her family

Our lives enriched incalculably

Softly now

Peace, sweet peace

Only steps away

From journey’s end

Occupy America. Or- The Ideological Ruminations of a “Jinglebrained Ninnyhammer”

By nature I am not a political animal.

However, in response to a challenge by my good friend, Patricia Volonakis Davis, I wrote an article for Harlot's Sauce Magazine (A non-partisan Internet publication), which can be read HERE.

I'd appreciate hearing your views.

rg

The Elder

For a limited time, purchase Volume 2 and receive Volume 1 for free at:

 Dream Chasers Media Group

It was a beautiful morning in Las Vegas, and I was sitting inside St. Arbuck’s—the reasoning for being inside now escapes me given the pleasant temperature—reading the morning paper and savoring each sip of my medium coffee with room for cream.

Sinatra was belting out, “All Of Me” on the in-store sound system; people all around me were engaged in collegial conversation; and everyone’s mood seemed a bit lighter due to the fact that all of us had survived yet another summer.

Hey...it’s a big deal here in Vegas!

If you’ve never spent a summer here (which, for the record, begins in May and lasts well into October) then you probably don’t know what I’m talking about; but if you have...then can I get an, “Oy!”

The young man seemed nervous.

Not nervous in the sense of being concerned, but more like an anxious anticipation.

By the looks of him, he was in his early twenties; well dressed in that funky, hipster style where the clothing looks as if it came from a thrift store, but actually cost a bundle.

He stood there staring through the windows at the parking lot and frequently, almost obsessively checking his cell phone.

That he was awaiting the arrival of someone important was obvious.

As to who that someone was...I automatically assumed it was a woman.

I mean a young, handsome guy like him...it made sense.

A car drove slowly into the lot, pulling into a handicapped space right by the front door.

I’m thinking, Well, good for him. He’s got some substance to him if he’s dating a girl with disabilities.

His face broke into a wide smile of recognition and he quickly exited the store to stand on the sidewalk in front of the car.

What happened next surprised me, for it was not a young beauty who emerged, but a white-haired elder who was likely somewhere north of eighty.

The brightness of his smile matched that of the young man as they engaged in a warm and affectionate embrace, the old man patting the young man’s back and kissing him on each smooth cheek.

He stepped back, held the young man at arm’s length and mouthed something like, “You look good” before they turned to make their way inside.

Once through the door the elderly gentleman immediately spied a young father sitting at a table with a boy of about two.

He obviously knew the man, for a similar scene was played out with the hug, the backslapping and cheek kissing.

Added to that was the old man pretending to steal part of the child’s pastry, which produced loud protest accompanied by gales of laughter from the little boy.

After several minutes of, “How’ve you been? You okay? You making it alright since the divorce?” and other questions of concern directed at the young father, he said, “Call me when you need to. You know you can call me, right?” All of which was spoken with a thick Long Island accent in a voice that brought to mind tones of deep, burnished mahogany.

Eventually he and his young friend collected their coffees and found a table in close proximity to mine.

Not only had I been wrong in my original assumption of who that young man had been waiting for, I soon realized that my second guess was wrong as well...for this was not his grandfather, but a cherished elder.

Elders. They are in short supply in our society.

We seem to have many mentors...but so few true “elders.”

And this man was a true elder.

A father.

As I observed their interaction, the level of respect and honor shown to this ancient by that youngster was nearly startling to behold within the context of what I have come to expect in our culture.

Were you to only cast a casual glance in the young man’s direction, you would see the clothes, the ragged hair, the extensive tattooing and be tempted to surmise that he, like others of his peer group, have no time for one such as this older man.

And yet, there they were—the young man hanging on his every word.

The old man caught my eye, smiled and said, “And how are you doing this morning, young fella?” (Which actually came out, “’N how-a you doon dis moah-ning, young fella?”)

Young fella. I immediately liked this guy. “I’m doing just fine, sir. Enjoying the friendship you two share.”

He chuckled, slapped the young man on the shoulder and said, “This here is my boy. His grandfather—my best friend—passed on a couple of years back, and ever since me and him have been great friends. Isn’t that right, Scotty?”

Scotty turned partly in his chair. “That’s right. Old Joe here is responsible for keeping me straight—keeping me headed toward my dreams.” His accent was every bit as thick as Joe’s.

I smiled, and said, “Nice to meet you both,” and went back to what I had been doing when they walked in, which wasn’t much of anything at all.

The line stuck in my head, though: Headed toward my dreams. And it made me wonder how many of us have people in our lives who are dedicated to keeping us moving in the direction of our dreams.

Probably not many.

But that’s what elders are supposed to do—create an environment where their ceiling is our floor. And I could tell that that was exactly what Old Joe was doing for Scotty.

When I finally left sometime later, there they were, still hunched over the table engaging in life transference.

It made me glad to be the age I am—glad I have a few “Scotty’s” who see me as that elder in their lives.

As I got into my car it occurred to me that I had never felt so young. 

Saturday Morning Musings

The direction of your feet determines the end of your journey.

It's something I've found myself pondering frequently over the past couple of weeks.

Not sure why.

Probably because of all the people in my world who are experiencing less than satisfying circumstances.

But circumstances should never determine your outcome.

Nor should they dictate your direction in life.

As great as the temptation is to just give up and be swept along by the flood, how about starting your own flood?

A flood of positive declaration that you WILL NOT be denied!

Someone once said that if you can't be killed, and you can't be bought...you can't be stopped.

Don't let life kill your dreams, and refuse to buy in to the lie that the outcome is predetermined.

Set your face like flint into the wind and go forward with confidence.

The Loudtalker

“You don’t understand...I don’t have that much time! If I have to wait until then I’ll lose everything!”

The man’s loud and strident voice cut through the early morning calm of St. Arbuck’s with all the subtlety of a bullhorn in a library.

He was a well-dressed fellow of middle age, his clean-shaven scalp gleaming above a face marked by intelligent eyes and neatly trimmed moustache. That he was under stress was evident by the sheen of perspiration he randomly, absently, wiped from his brow.

Fingering a Bluetooth device that seemed to be uncomfortably suspended from his right ear, he continued even more loudly, “I’ve put everything I have into this business. I can’t lose it! I just can’t!”

My beloved, whose back was to the man, looked up from her morning Sudoku puzzle, arched her brows and mouthed, “Wow!”

I heard one of the young mothers at a nearby table mumble something to the effect that the man needed to learn how to use his “inside voice.”

“So, you’re telling me there’s no chance?” he inquired, his voice cracking a little on the last word.

The man’s eyes darted rapidly left and right, left and right...over and over in a crazy, stuttering rhythm as his body sought release from the terrible stress of the moment.

“Assets?” he barked. “My assets are tied up in my company!” He seemed to be listening and then said, “My house?  Oh, that’s a good one! My house is worth even less than my company which isn’t worth anything at all!”

A look of concern colored my beloved’s lovely face as she whispered, “I feel really sorry for him, but I wish he wouldn’t talk so loudly.”

I thought about that for a few moments before saying, “I know, but sometimes desperate times produce a desperate cry.”

She nodded her head thoughtfully as if considering my statement.

The man swore...an expletive relating to bovine fecal matter. “You guys are all the same! You make a big deal about being there for people, but when it comes right down to it you’re only in it to line your own pockets. Worthless bastards!”

He now leaned with his forehead resting in his right hand; index finger tap, tap, tapping almost spastically against the top of his head.

If you want to know the truth, it broke my heart to see him like that; a once proud businessman broken under the wheels of an unforeseen economy.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he muttered, seemingly as much to himself as to the individual on the other end of the call.

Slowly, very deliberately he removed the Bluetooth from his ear, his finger hovering dramatically over the cell phone before stabbing downward and ending the call while the other party was still speaking.

With a sigh torn from the depths of an obviously tortured soul he leaned his chair back on two legs; hands covering his eyes...lips moving wordlessly. Looking to his left through the window and out onto the busy streets of Ocean Beach he seemed to track the passing pedestrian traffic as if silently judging that none were as unfortunate as he, and resenting each and every one of them for it.

Letting his chair fall forward the front legs connected loudly with the tile floor causing one of the two young mothers to utter a startled yelp and glare at him in obvious offense.

He opened his laptop; closed it; opened it; closed it and then opened it again staring vacuously at the screen for a few moments before closing it for good.

The cell phone vibrated loudly on the tabletop...once, twice, three times as he sat immobile, staring in obvious indecision.

He finally picked it up, uttering a world-weary, “Hello?”

Listening in a sort of vanquished indifference he swept his eyes around the room, making contact with mine briefly and then tracking onward.

Suddenly, he was completely focused on the conversation.

“Well, sure; I could do that. I mean I have my tools in the truck and it’d be no trouble to—“

Cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, he quickly stuffed the computer into a backpack that had been hanging off the back of his chair.

“Well, obviously I’ll have to get eyes-on to give you a definite price, but I guarantee you’ll be able to afford me.” This was accompanied by a nervous chuckle as he listened in silence for a few more seconds, nodding his head frequently before replying, “Okay. Text me your address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” A brief pause and then, “Thank-you for this. You have no idea how much it...right. I know. He’s a good friend, and I’ll try to live up to his hype.”

When the call ended the man stared at his phone, smiled a crooked little smile, gave his head a shake and said in his loud voice, “Well, you just never know what’s gonna turn up.”

He took one last glance through the window at the living mosaic of busy people passing by, all with somewhere important to be—a purpose behind their comings and goings—and I could tell from his body language that he had flipped the switch.

He too had somewhere important to be.

Purpose.

His countenance was transformed.

Slinging the backpack over his shoulder he exited the store and was immediately solicited by a homeless youngster sitting dejectedly on the sidewalk.

He smiled and gave the kid some money.

OB Funkadelic

It was a perfect, late summer afternoon in the OB (that’s Ocean Beach to the uninitiated among you).

Surfers were shredding the waves; on the beach teenaged boys and girls vied for the best position on the sand that would afford the greatest opportunity for interaction with the opposite sex; businessmen and women sat on the seawall staring with unveiled envy; and inside St. Arbuck’s I breathed in and out, content to simply be alive on such a beautiful day.

My position next to the large, open rollup windows lining the front of the shop afforded me an unobstructed view of the main beach and lifeguard station.

A middle-aged couple exited the store, sat down at one of the bistro tables on the sidewalk and, in a comedic scene worthy of primetime television, promptly spilled not one, but both of their mango smoothies.

At first their faces registered horror and then disbelief as they stared incomprehensibly at the sidewalk and the pooling remains of their drinks.

He looked at her; she looked at him; and then they both burst out laughing at their misfortune.

I mean, why not...it was funny!

On his way inside to borrow a mop and wet towel he said to me in passing, “What’s really funny is that we did exactly same thing last week!”

“Well,” I replied, “Practice makes perfect.”

I could tell he didn’t think that was quite as funny as I did.

I get that a lot.

Anyway...

While he and his wife cleaned up the sticky mess my ears picked up a sound that was almost stunning within the context.

It was a familiar sound—one with which I had been intimately acquainted for much of my life.

It was the sound of a drummer and bass player laying down some raw yet serious funk!

I stood up and craned my neck in every direction in a futile attempt to locate the source.

Walking outside and past the still chuckling couple I spotted a red, classic 1964 Chevy Van parked next to the curb across the street, its side doors opened onto the grassy area adjacent to the lifeguard tower.

On the sidewalk next to the van two young men, dressed in vintage black suits, white shirts and skinny black ties, sporting black Ray-Ban Wayfarers were working out a heavy groove.

The drum kit was basic—kick, snare and hihat; the smallish bass amp was plugged into the van’s cigarette lighter; the Fender Jazz Bass looked as if it had been dragged behind the van all the way from wherever they had originated; but, oh, my gosh...could those young men play!

They were good!

No, they were better than good...they were amazing!

I hurried across the street and took up a proximate position, along with a dozen or so other music lovers, and listened to them work their magic.

And magic it was!

Think P-Funk.

Think Sly and the Family Stone.

Think The Bar-Kays.

Think The Ohio Players.

In other words, those two young men were definitely putting some stank on it—pure improvisation at its best.

One groove flowed seamlessly into the next and before I realized it, thirty minutes had passed.

They worked the final groove into a thundering crescendo, tagging the end theatrically and bringing their performance to a conclusion.

And the crowd went wild.

Literally!

The whole scene was so unusual in that setting as to be nearly surreal.

One could almost imagine that those two guys had been sent down from the funk gods for no other reason than to add a bit of musical whimsy to brighten our dull, ordinary lives.

I talked to them for a few minutes while they packed up and learned that the bass player, an old friend and former bandmate of the drummer, had just moved back to town and they were working on forming sort of a neo-funk band.

I gave them a tip—a really good tip, for which they were profoundly grateful—wished them well and went on my way.

Back inside St. Arbuck’s it occurred to me that musicians—whether they be young, old, or in-between—basically just want to play and will do so wherever an audience can be found.

They’ll even play for nothing should the occasion demand it for it’s passion that drives them.

I know this passion well, for it has driven me for most of my life.

It’s not a passion to make money (much to my beloved’s chagrin) but a passion to make music...to free the creative gift within and see that gift touch others.

I suppose that was what I found so satisfying about the performance I’d just witnessed...they were just there to play. The fact that I, or any of the others for that matter, demonstrated our appreciation monetarily was beside the point.

I found that the experience turned me philosophical.

I know, shocking, right?