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?