I currently walk with the aid a cane. This may or may not be a temporary condition. I think it is, but since I have yet to consult a physician concerning the offending joint -- a knee vehemently rejecting the notion of conveyance -- I couldn’t say. The condition is tolerable when I avoid walking, and the pain dissipates exponentially with disuse. This luxury is elusive, however, as I must periodically use public transportation to make the ten mile trip from my apartment to the location of a part time job. I did this a few days ago, which was also Veterans Day. This is not a story about Veterans Day, however. Not really.
When I reached the halfway point of my commute, a bus stop between downtown Austin and Zilker Park, I found the bench clogged with amiable drunk folk of the homeless variety. One of them was strumming a guitar. Standing off to the side was a small, silent, nearly invisible man I have seen around that neighborhood for years, notable at this point because he uses a cane when walking -- which I was also doing. At the risk of appearing unkind, I will admit to viewing them all as interlopers. That bus stop is almost always devoid of pesky humans, until I arrive for a thirty-minute wait. I generally use the time to ruminate and untangle the knotted thoughts inside my head.
Guitar Guy started playing and singing. He played well enough, but should never sing. People who accuse Bob Dylan of being a bad singer should listen to this guy and reassess the concept. When he finished his song, he held up his right hand and said, "It's almost back. Them two fingers is coming back. When them two fingers quit working, my guitar-playing career is over." Then, he sang the song again, alternating strained and loud with nasal and plaintive. I still had twenty minutes to wait, if the bus was on time. This particular bus is always on time. This particular morning, it would be late.
After completing his ditty, which had something to do with Babylon, Guitar Guy looked over at me. "Sir? You ain't got a beer at home I could buy, do ya?" I told him I lived five miles away and I had no beer. "That's a shame. My DTs is kicking in. Do ya’ think Schlotzky’s would sell me a beer before noon?” I reluctantly continued relaying bad news until a fiftyish man with a ponytail and guitar case stopped to admire Guitar Guy’s guitar. Suddenly, my sketchy knowledge of Sunday beer law was irrelevant.
Guitar Guy started playing and singing. He played well enough, but should never sing. People who accuse Bob Dylan of being a bad singer should listen to this guy and reassess the concept. When he finished his song, he held up his right hand and said, "It's almost back. Them two fingers is coming back. When them two fingers quit working, my guitar-playing career is over." Then, he sang the song again, alternating strained and loud with nasal and plaintive. I still had twenty minutes to wait, if the bus was on time. This particular bus is always on time. This particular morning, it would be late.
After completing his ditty, which had something to do with Babylon, Guitar Guy looked over at me. "Sir? You ain't got a beer at home I could buy, do ya?" I told him I lived five miles away and I had no beer. "That's a shame. My DTs is kicking in. Do ya’ think Schlotzky’s would sell me a beer before noon?” I reluctantly continued relaying bad news until a fiftyish man with a ponytail and guitar case stopped to admire Guitar Guy’s guitar. Suddenly, my sketchy knowledge of Sunday beer law was irrelevant.
The two men fell into a guitar conversation. The pony-tailed man pulled out a pitch pipe and tuned Guitar Guy's guitar. Then, he inspected Guitar Guy's guitar, the way R. Lee Ermey inspects an M16. He started explaining how guitars are made, like a man who knows everything and assumes he's addressing a man who knows nothing. I had no reason to doubt the veracity of the information, but I stopped listening anyway. Finally, he said, "Well. A Mitchell is a Mitchell," and handed the instrument back. Then, he opened his case, pulled out a Martin with a dull, flat finish that reminded me of a terracotta wall. He started strumming and babbling and offered a lengthy, unsolicited dissertation concerning the hole in Willie Nelson's guitar … including dimension, age and causality.
The bus was even later. The man with the ponytail finally put his guitar back in its case and very nearly walked away, until a previously mute fellow sitting next to Guitar Guy said, "Hope it don't rain." The man stopped in his tracks, put his guitar case down and began explaining how weather works. It seems there was a front, and what happens when a cold front collides with ...
The bus arrived. I climbed aboard, followed by the doe-eyed half-ghost with the cane. I sat down near the front of the bus and rested both hands on the wooden handle of my cane. A young man seated next to me asked if I was a veteran.
The bus was even later. The man with the ponytail finally put his guitar back in its case and very nearly walked away, until a previously mute fellow sitting next to Guitar Guy said, "Hope it don't rain." The man stopped in his tracks, put his guitar case down and began explaining how weather works. It seems there was a front, and what happens when a cold front collides with ...
The bus arrived. I climbed aboard, followed by the doe-eyed half-ghost with the cane. I sat down near the front of the bus and rested both hands on the wooden handle of my cane. A young man seated next to me asked if I was a veteran.
“I do not have that distinction,” I replied. My internal calendar flickered dark amusement, but I did not show it. That would have been disrespectful.
