A Concert

The most efficient route to the train station, determined through three days of trial and error, was down the front stairs and along the fence bordering the high school playing field.

Noisy and unattractive like the northern walk, but less distant. The sidewalks under construction served as guideposts through which we navigated - a sideways prance over unfinished gutters preceded a two-step shimmy around a detour sign. The same broken glass and crushed cans marked the overpass. The freeway on-ramp presented multiple occasions where confused parties warily considered right-of-way protocols in a dance between human and human-controlled machines.

The morning’s diner shown in the distance. Merry recollections of pancakes, eggs, coffee, Bloody Marys, and friendly service from earlier in the day. The building disappeared as we descended into the metropolis’s squealing underbelly.

That walk to the station took only a few minutes from the abode which served as our temporary dominion. The purveyor of the home fashioned the decor. A unique, if not heavy, style of woodwork made up the dining room table, the accompanying benches, the television stand complete with drawers built into the brick, numerous bookshelves adorning the high wall, and several picture frames. Dark, finished oak by the look of it. Was the owner personally responsible for this artistry? Someone they knew? It felt personal without being the identity. Almost too suitable and convenient for a short-term rental.

Upon our arrival and initial investigation, we discovered the windows glazed in a frost that obscured their transparency. The purpose, by our mock appraisal, was to dissuade potential invaders. Through no clear line of sight shall one assess a bounty. Or perhaps the frost was to ease the cleaning process after check-out. Let the fingerprints, dirt, and dust remain to save a rag for the surfaces that matter. Maybe by rendering the glass from transparent to translucent, the proprietor aimed to obfuscate the view of the highway to elevate the sense of privacy. For there is no retreat quite like the paradise of only being able to hear, not see, the constant treading of tires on pavement, the heavy purr of the engines powering them, periodic honks of a horn, and sirens singing above it all. Ever so peaceful is a serenity one may craft when one chooses to create it.

This was the dominion where, two nights before, music blared from a portable speaker competing for the group’s attention. Pure white countertops lay skewered with empty and half-full glasses, some garnished with bitten and sucked limes. Those same countertops were the podium of reminiscences, testaments, commitments, and confessions.

Over boxes of pizza, open and cooling, we told stories. Between sips of the piña colada IPA purchased that day from the local but nationally renowned taphouse, we were vulnerable. I sat at one of the three barstools. Others sat next to me while the rest stood. Unsure of what compelled me other than the comfort and joy of being around and spending time with dear friends, I told the story about the adopted duckling that never was.

That story is always preceded by the retelling of a dream from my first year in college. In that dream, I saved a baby duck from peril. I thought about that duck the entire day. Losing (despite never having) that duckling stuck with me like a family pet of many years and memories, not a wisp of the subconscious, had passed.

A couple of years after saving that dream duckling, I almost saved a real one. It was early spring. My father was caring for the plants surrounding the house. On the south-facing side, he happened upon a young female mallard roosting in one of the potted shrubs. Startled, and acting with maternal instinct, the mallard fled the pot to distract this ferocious predator hoisting a garden hose. Upon further investigation, nestled within the outdoor ceramic on top of the soil lay a single, chalk-green egg.

Knowing my affinity for ducks, we discussed the conundrum. We could discard the egg or leave it, despite the unlikelihood of the mother returning. I insisted on a third option. I would care for the egg. Within the hour, we had a homemade incubator fashioned out of a beer cooler, a heating pad, hand towels, and a kitchen thermometer. Thus began my ordeal of managing a homemade incubator in hopes of a little duckling being born.

For five days and five nights, I maintained the optimal temperature and humidity levels for incubating duck eggs. I woke up a couple of times per night to check the levels. On the fifth day, I sought validation of these efforts and began candling the egg. Candling is a simple process of holding a candle or a flashlight up to an eggshell to illuminate the inside and deduce if it is fertilized. After some time, I determined that the egg I cared for was not fertilized. There would be no baby duckling. To confirm this, I did the unthinkable. I fucking cracked the egg in the kitchen sink.

You know those memories that you don’t regret, but had something been minutely different, you would have? This is one of those moments. I don’t know what I would have done if a developing duck came out of that egg.

It was a fond memory. Retelling that tale to friends, complete with tears of joy and laughter, invoked a silly sense of pride. The care I paid to that non-existent duck was borne of optimism and hope. Hope that, should it be born, it would be healthy. And that it would be loved, and that it would love me. It wasn’t selflessness. It was a vision of a unique experience.

This story was one of dozens we shared into the early hours of the next day. An unfamiliar, noisy, sparse duplex became a home over those nights as the energy of loved ones sparked the air.

We carried that energy on our journey, days later. The world changed in the subterranean tunnels. Vibrant colors melted as skeletons, turtles, and bears danced within a menagerie of roses and sunflowers. The air was heavy with expectation as the music, which never stops, rang near.

The anticipation bloomed with each screeching halt of the train at a new stop in this famed, historic city. The ratio of commuters to attendees decreased at every station. Conversations grew livelier as riders discussed their past experiences with this iconic movement. Hopes and calculated expectations of what songs we would hear rang throughout the metallic tube. It is in these moments that it clicks. It is a sensation more than fandom. It is a community more than listeners. It is timeless and it is beautiful.

Rudolph’s

The hallowed grounds welcomed us as they had millions before. The alleyways had life. The sidewalks overflowed and became one with the streets. Back doors opened for vendors and tenants. Watering holes catered to the masses. Residences boasted occupied stoops adorned with spilled barbecue sauce, cigarette and marijuana smoke, abrasive laughter, and familiar clinks of green glass on clear glass as the tenants oversaw the familiar throngs of strangers. New to us, we simply wandered. Despite an urge to browse the t-shirts, glass, grilled cheese, jewelry, coolers, posters, talismans, pins, ointments, and guidance, we sought solace elsewhere. We were also thirsty.

It was September, but it felt like Christmas. Both because of the general cheer and because the establishment we chose is always decorated for Christmas. Strands of white and colored lights adorned the bar and ceiling, intertwined with tinsel and plastic spruce. It either smelled like peppermint and live pine, or I decided that’s how I wanted it to smell, and thus how I remember it. We ordered buckets of Corona and Coors Light. The conversation picked up where it had left off. It always does.

Then we hit the queue.

THE SHOW

Lost in the sound, the company, and the moment. We sang and danced. Note after note. Song after song. The power of music and time.

The encore

The crowd surged between the final song and the encore. With clasped hands touching smiling lips holding bated breath and a dreamy gaze upon the stage, the crowd rejoiced knowing that the music was not over. The hum of the whispers and sighs of satisfaction indicated a successful showing thus far.

As the band resumed their mark on the iconic rugs that characterized their production for years, the vibe was concrete. Demure and focused, the preamble confirmed what many hoped we would hear. More a hymn than an American rock song, more a place than a sound. The first bars transport listeners today, as they have for 50 years past, a little closer to their emotions.

Fare you well, my honey

Fare you well, my only true one

My 15-month-old son, firstborn and only child at the time, was 1,020 miles away from me at that moment. It felt like he was in my arms. I sing this song to him. Holding my wife, swaying in the breeze, thinking of lulling to sleep with them both on this melodic pillow caused a familiar and not unwelcome burning behind my eyes. This moment is enough. They are more than enough.

From our left, a man stepped into our periphery holding his phone to the stage, seeking an unobstructed view for himself and a faraway friend. Via FaceTime, they shared the moment. Compelled, perhaps through solidarity, empathy, or sorrow, I acknowledged our new friend with a look and a brief embrace - a brief stop, a shared moment with a longing soul. A return glance to the love of my life, aglow in both stage lights and warmth of spirit.

Fare you well, fare you well

I love you more than words can tell

What poetry. Simple and profound. The recipient, a person, a place, a moment, unaware of the visceral and often fleeting instant of being loved. The speaker, enraptured and vulnerable, knowing nothing other than that love. That is what it felt like. And all the colors that so seamlessly blended on The L hours earlier became even brighter with a touch of grey.

after

Magnetically, we were drawn to a light gray building with a chalkboard sign out front. I didn’t know what the chalkboard sign read, nor the name of this establishment, but I vow to revisit. What time it was when we broke the threshold is a mystery as well. All we know is that, despite the dining room clearing out, we were welcomed with open arms and a smile.

The white linoleum shone with the reflection of neon, colorful chandeliers, and warm ambient lights. The smell of fresh tortilla chips, a hint of lime. Red plastic Coca-Cola cups of water tap down in front of us. Laughter emanates from the kitchen. We match it. Warmth everywhere.

Everything sparkled. And it sparkles today in my memory.