"There's a place where I can go and tell my secrets to...In my room, in my room". By the Beach Boys
Since my mom was the one who convinced my dad that I truly deserved my first guitar, it is her picture that holds a place of honor in my music room.
From a slim, ornate bronzed frame she smiles happily at whoever is taking the photograph. Dressed in a pretty pink and white vertically striped summer outfit, you can tell that she is truly happy as she poses on a sandy beach, her ankles being softly caressed by the foamy surf of the Irish Sea. Thanks, mom.
This room is my special place. It is filled with all the musical and memory treasures I have accumulated in my nearly sixty years on this planet. Many of the pieces I have now are light years away from that first poorly constructed but lovingly procured Sears guitar purchased for me by my parents. They could ill afford the expense at the time and I only wish now that they could see what they started with that long ago Christmas gift of theirs.
Inside the mirrored exterior of a wall-sized closet stands a four foot long tubular rack holding stringed instruments. A beautiful big blonde Guild acoustic faces the back of a shiny Ovation 12-string guitar. Behind the Guild, a sunburst colored mandolin and the now familiar rounded shape of a five-string banjo beckon my fingertips when the time is just right. In positions adjacent to each other, a purple bass guitar and half sized electronic keyboard patiently await their turns, while the lord of them all, my trusty cherry red, cream-color trimmed Les Paul perches on his stand.
I think back with wonder to the long ago days when the old high school rock band would beg to borrow a buddy's six speaker amp. The same amplifier would blast out our microphone (we could only afford one) as well as our fully turned up, screeching electric guitars. This all made for some nearly incomprehensible song lyrics but that was fine since we often didn't remember all of the words anyway. As long as there were girls and dancing, who cared?
These days if I want to sound good, I simply plug my incredibly beautiful, easy playing Taylor guitar into a Fender Acoustasonic amplifier and adjust a few dials. There are two music books available, each containing scores of tunes worked out or written during the past forty five years. If I had what I have now back in the mid-sixties, there is no doubt in my mind that I could have gone on to much greater musical fame or...I could have just as easily ended up like one of the Jimmies - Morrison or Hendrix.
I guess it's time for this fair to middlin' musician to go use some of this swell stuff. As I sit on my solid four legged stool crooning my little heart away, I will look with great fondness at the other objects surrounding me; Mom and Dad's wedding photo, a special brown and white souvenier Coors beer baseball bat bottle, a hand drawn "Superman Rising" poster, and a black and white collage of fellow musicians jamming in our old basement. That room was a truly special place with enormously huge, spectacular speakers...just ask my wife, she remembers them well.
Thanks again not only to Mom for getting me started, but also to all of you who contributed to making this small musical hideaway the unique place that it is. As a very large Hallmark card (a birthday gift from an old friend) sitting on a table near my music stand proclaims;
"It ain't over till one of us slurs 'Yer My Best Frrrriend!!!'"
You'll always be my best friends, especially in this place where I can temporarily forget "all my worries and my cares"...in my room, in my room.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
RETURN TO "THE PUMP"
The offer was simply too good to pass up;
"Bill, this is Bob", the voice on the phone said, "I'm going up to the Pump for a beer but I gotta stop at Foster's Market first. Wanna go?" My wife and I were sceduled to go out for dinner soon on this friday late afternoon but god love her, I received Eileen's blessing for our little adventure. Five minutes later, Bob's beat up old brown Buick rolled up to the house.
Another fifteen minutes, a small bunch of bananas, a can of hot-dog sauce (I had no idea they even made such a thing) and a losing $1 lottery ticket later, the two of us entered the bar's dimly lit interior. Knowing Eileen was going to be picking me up for the aforementioned dinner date, I quickly ordered two cold drafts for Bob and I. Might as well make the most of our drinking time, right?
As usual, it never ceases to amaze me how fast an hour can go. Bob seemed to know pretty much everyone in the place. There were several young kids who had gone to school with his daughter, people he knew from his working life and half a dozen other characters happily sipping their beers and puffing contentedly on their cigarettes. Somewhere between Bob telling me one of his hilarious Viet Nam stories and studying the bar's patrons, I noticed a tall, well dressed stranger set himself easily down at the end of the counter.
"Man, I'm glad the Pump was on my way to the cottage" he declared, "That construction on M-31's a killer!"
The stranger, Bob and I laughed about the seemingly endless construction on the areas local roads and it wasn't long before my curiosity got the better of me and I began asking questions, starting with what his name was and where he was headed. Something about the man seemed a bit too refined for the usual clientele I normally met in the Pump.
His name was "Rick", he was on his way to a cottage his dad owned to the north and he was coming from of all places, Chicago. Several exchanges later, Rick knew that Bob and I were retired and that we had all gone to parochial school in the Detroit area. All of us had some good nun and priest stories to tell.
As it turned out, Rick wasn't as much out of place in the Pump as I had originally thought. Even though he was impeccably dressed, had perfectly styled hair and wonder of all wonders...was a bureau chief for a national newspaper, Rick had something in common with all of us; a deep appreciation for a cold beer and a love of good conversation. The kind of things you'll find in a swell place like the Town Pump Saloon.
One of the benefits of asking lots of personal questions is that you get to know someone pretty well in the space of an hour. All too soon, Rick was rising up off his black vinyl barstool and heading out for the cottage. Not before he made the kind and gracious gesture of buying his two new friends another beer however. A good man indeed.
It wasn't long before my beautiful wife arrived and we made our own way out the front door and across the busy street for dinner at The Food Factory. Later on that evening, full of delicious fish sandwiches, potato chips and suds, I looked back with great satisfaction on my busy afternoon. In my mind I wondered if Rick might somehow, someday be thinking about writing about the two grizzled old retirees he happened to meet in a small town Michigan bar.
Mostly, I wondered if he will ever, ever know that even now-I am writing about him.
"Bill, this is Bob", the voice on the phone said, "I'm going up to the Pump for a beer but I gotta stop at Foster's Market first. Wanna go?" My wife and I were sceduled to go out for dinner soon on this friday late afternoon but god love her, I received Eileen's blessing for our little adventure. Five minutes later, Bob's beat up old brown Buick rolled up to the house.
Another fifteen minutes, a small bunch of bananas, a can of hot-dog sauce (I had no idea they even made such a thing) and a losing $1 lottery ticket later, the two of us entered the bar's dimly lit interior. Knowing Eileen was going to be picking me up for the aforementioned dinner date, I quickly ordered two cold drafts for Bob and I. Might as well make the most of our drinking time, right?
As usual, it never ceases to amaze me how fast an hour can go. Bob seemed to know pretty much everyone in the place. There were several young kids who had gone to school with his daughter, people he knew from his working life and half a dozen other characters happily sipping their beers and puffing contentedly on their cigarettes. Somewhere between Bob telling me one of his hilarious Viet Nam stories and studying the bar's patrons, I noticed a tall, well dressed stranger set himself easily down at the end of the counter.
"Man, I'm glad the Pump was on my way to the cottage" he declared, "That construction on M-31's a killer!"
The stranger, Bob and I laughed about the seemingly endless construction on the areas local roads and it wasn't long before my curiosity got the better of me and I began asking questions, starting with what his name was and where he was headed. Something about the man seemed a bit too refined for the usual clientele I normally met in the Pump.
His name was "Rick", he was on his way to a cottage his dad owned to the north and he was coming from of all places, Chicago. Several exchanges later, Rick knew that Bob and I were retired and that we had all gone to parochial school in the Detroit area. All of us had some good nun and priest stories to tell.
As it turned out, Rick wasn't as much out of place in the Pump as I had originally thought. Even though he was impeccably dressed, had perfectly styled hair and wonder of all wonders...was a bureau chief for a national newspaper, Rick had something in common with all of us; a deep appreciation for a cold beer and a love of good conversation. The kind of things you'll find in a swell place like the Town Pump Saloon.
One of the benefits of asking lots of personal questions is that you get to know someone pretty well in the space of an hour. All too soon, Rick was rising up off his black vinyl barstool and heading out for the cottage. Not before he made the kind and gracious gesture of buying his two new friends another beer however. A good man indeed.
It wasn't long before my beautiful wife arrived and we made our own way out the front door and across the busy street for dinner at The Food Factory. Later on that evening, full of delicious fish sandwiches, potato chips and suds, I looked back with great satisfaction on my busy afternoon. In my mind I wondered if Rick might somehow, someday be thinking about writing about the two grizzled old retirees he happened to meet in a small town Michigan bar.
Mostly, I wondered if he will ever, ever know that even now-I am writing about him.
Friday, April 9, 2010
DIGGING THROUGH THE PAST
12/06/50
Billy isn't the good baby he was. His formula wasn't strong enough so he was constipated and upset all the time...Dr. said to increase the formula and put two tablespoons of Karo syrup in it, so I did. It's agreeing much better with him and he's not constipated any more.
Thus began one of the initial entries in little Billy's (mine) official Better Homes And Gardens baby book circa 1950. Thank god for mom and Dr. McGlaughlin...I never did like feeling constipated.
There I was, down in the crowded confines of the basement portion of the addition we had added on to our house, searching through cartons of old books, shoeboxes of thirty year old photos and other long lost memorabilia accumulated through a lifetime of hoarding. Nothing is more difficult to let go of than the past.
My cousin had asked me if by chance I might have any old photos of herself and her siblings. It seems their mom didn't take too many pictures of the kids, especially the ones who arrived later on in life, a common fate for those children who peruse the family picture albums. The first born has thousands of artifacts. The last, a few snapshots, perhaps one of him squirming while unwillingly sitting on his older brother's lap.
I came across treasures like my daughter's collection of newspaper articles she had written while in college, long forgotten trophies I had won from dozens of running races, and of course - thousands of photos, none of which were the ones I was searching for. It was while looking through the last container that I stumbled across the "mother"lode (pardon the pun); my baby book.
All the doubts I ever had about my mom's ability to love me unconditionally began to vanish as I gently placed the stained and weathered volume on my upstairs desk and began to slowly page through it's contents. My life's history from prenatal to six years offered itself through the eyes of my at that time, twenty seven year old mother. It seemed incredible to me that she had ever been that young.
6/20/55
Have you grown up since I first started writing in this book! You're almost five years old now and you're a nice little boy. You're my "little boy". That means you're still "baby" enough to like me better than dad - for a year or so anyway. Tonight while you were laying on the couch with your head in my lap, you looked up at me and said, "I love you, mom". And I said to you, "I love you too, honey". Sometimes I wish I could put into words just how much I do love you Bill. There just aren't enough words to say it.
My eyes were watering more than just a little as I looked through the books photographs, journal entries and especially after turning one well-worn page and finding a small white envelope bearing mom's hand written words, "Billy...10 mos - Hair". Carefully, I opened it.
If there is any more wonderful feeling than the soft texture of a baby's locks, I truly don't know what it is. My long lost hair was no exception. Gently, I picked out the small bunch of brownish blonde fuzz and held it to my nose, half expecting to experience the delightful fragrance of Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo, a smell I had always cherished when my own babies were tiny. Alas, there was none other than in my mind.
As I am finishing writing this entry of my own, the baby book is cradled across my lap and opened to the last page. I have made myself a vow as I am looking at it: Whenever I have the tendancy to look back on my life with too much bitterness over the bad times I went through with my mom, I will simply open her loving documentary to the last page;
You're a very sweet baby, darling - stay that way. Be clean in mind and body, be true to yourself and love God. Daddy and I will help you as we're helping your older brother Rob. Love, Mommy
I love you too, Mom and I'm really glad that I redicovered that fact on my way to looking for other things.
lliB
Billy isn't the good baby he was. His formula wasn't strong enough so he was constipated and upset all the time...Dr. said to increase the formula and put two tablespoons of Karo syrup in it, so I did. It's agreeing much better with him and he's not constipated any more.
Thus began one of the initial entries in little Billy's (mine) official Better Homes And Gardens baby book circa 1950. Thank god for mom and Dr. McGlaughlin...I never did like feeling constipated.
There I was, down in the crowded confines of the basement portion of the addition we had added on to our house, searching through cartons of old books, shoeboxes of thirty year old photos and other long lost memorabilia accumulated through a lifetime of hoarding. Nothing is more difficult to let go of than the past.
My cousin had asked me if by chance I might have any old photos of herself and her siblings. It seems their mom didn't take too many pictures of the kids, especially the ones who arrived later on in life, a common fate for those children who peruse the family picture albums. The first born has thousands of artifacts. The last, a few snapshots, perhaps one of him squirming while unwillingly sitting on his older brother's lap.
I came across treasures like my daughter's collection of newspaper articles she had written while in college, long forgotten trophies I had won from dozens of running races, and of course - thousands of photos, none of which were the ones I was searching for. It was while looking through the last container that I stumbled across the "mother"lode (pardon the pun); my baby book.
All the doubts I ever had about my mom's ability to love me unconditionally began to vanish as I gently placed the stained and weathered volume on my upstairs desk and began to slowly page through it's contents. My life's history from prenatal to six years offered itself through the eyes of my at that time, twenty seven year old mother. It seemed incredible to me that she had ever been that young.
6/20/55
Have you grown up since I first started writing in this book! You're almost five years old now and you're a nice little boy. You're my "little boy". That means you're still "baby" enough to like me better than dad - for a year or so anyway. Tonight while you were laying on the couch with your head in my lap, you looked up at me and said, "I love you, mom". And I said to you, "I love you too, honey". Sometimes I wish I could put into words just how much I do love you Bill. There just aren't enough words to say it.
My eyes were watering more than just a little as I looked through the books photographs, journal entries and especially after turning one well-worn page and finding a small white envelope bearing mom's hand written words, "Billy...10 mos - Hair". Carefully, I opened it.
If there is any more wonderful feeling than the soft texture of a baby's locks, I truly don't know what it is. My long lost hair was no exception. Gently, I picked out the small bunch of brownish blonde fuzz and held it to my nose, half expecting to experience the delightful fragrance of Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo, a smell I had always cherished when my own babies were tiny. Alas, there was none other than in my mind.
As I am finishing writing this entry of my own, the baby book is cradled across my lap and opened to the last page. I have made myself a vow as I am looking at it: Whenever I have the tendancy to look back on my life with too much bitterness over the bad times I went through with my mom, I will simply open her loving documentary to the last page;
You're a very sweet baby, darling - stay that way. Be clean in mind and body, be true to yourself and love God. Daddy and I will help you as we're helping your older brother Rob. Love, Mommy
I love you too, Mom and I'm really glad that I redicovered that fact on my way to looking for other things.
lliB
Monday, April 5, 2010
CHILDHOOD LIVING...IS EASY TO DO
My bony fingers were stretched out next to Owens as I attempted to capture his concentration, "Its easy Owen" I cajoled, "E...D...A...D, E...D...A...D, just repeat those notes over and over. Its simple!"
My niece's youngest boy wasn't buying into "Uncle" Bill's musical instruction as I attempted to show him the rhythm line to "Gloria", one of the classic rock hits of all time, at least in this geezer's humble opinion. Owen's focus quickly shifted to a small black and white photo stuck in the corner of a guitar chord chart hanging on the wall directly behind the keyboard. "Who the heck is that, Uncle Bill?", he inquired innocently. I turned my gaze upward at the picture, gulped and made a grab for it.
The photo showed a dark-skinned native woman standing beside what appears to be a thatched hut. She is wearing some type of wrap-around cloth skirt while sporting a double stranded pearl necklace and holding a waist high banner declaring her to be; "Miss Bougainville". The semi-well endowed lady is also smoking a pipe and completely naked from the waist up. It is a souvenier from my fathers war time experiences and probably not something a third grader should be seeing but I had totally forgotten it was in my music room.
Two questions immediately flashed into my elderly, addled brain: One...how on earth do I explain this to Owen's parents, or worse yet...my wife? Two...do I make a big deal out of it or just act like its the most natural photo in the world? I chose the latter of the two actions but not before Owen's younger, first grade sister rattled off, "Why doesn't that lady have a top on Uncle Bill? Who is she? Can I see?!"
To the kids it was no big deal. I tried to explain how the picture was of a native woman on an island where the people didn't wear clothes because it was too hot and that Owen's great grandpa probably took it during World War Two a long, long time ago. Then I placed Miss Bougainville out of sight on top of my amplifier. Immediately, the crashing sounds of loud music and singing began to fill the air again. God bless their little hearts, innocence, and short attention spans.
Later on, before and after dinner I continued to marvel at Connor, Owen and Ellie's inquiring minds: Owen, upon spying several mourning doves pecking away at the ground beneath a bird feeder in front of our house, "Do...you...ever.., want to shoot those birds with a B.B. gun sometimes, Uncle Bill?" (Owen's dad is an avid wild game hunter and so are his boys). Ellie, on spying the long pointy fingernails on my right hand asks at least twice, "Why do you let your nails get so big, Uncle Bill?"
My answers are short and honest...no, I wouldn't shoot those birds because they are just hungry and...I keep my nails long Ellie so when I play the guitar they will make a nice sound on the strings. Then I show her how it works.
All too soon, they will gravitate toward other pursuits. The teen-age years will swiftly come calling, then its off to college, marriage and the drudgery of having to come to grips with jobs, paying bills and all the other nuisances that adulthood offers.
Like their elderly Uncle however, I hope they will at least be able to recreate that sweet joy of childhood when their own nieces and nephews come a callin some sunny Easter afternoon in springtime. Just before they get there "kids", be sure to scan your music room for unexpected surprises or at least be willing to answer their questions with complete honesty and most of all...love.
My niece's youngest boy wasn't buying into "Uncle" Bill's musical instruction as I attempted to show him the rhythm line to "Gloria", one of the classic rock hits of all time, at least in this geezer's humble opinion. Owen's focus quickly shifted to a small black and white photo stuck in the corner of a guitar chord chart hanging on the wall directly behind the keyboard. "Who the heck is that, Uncle Bill?", he inquired innocently. I turned my gaze upward at the picture, gulped and made a grab for it.
The photo showed a dark-skinned native woman standing beside what appears to be a thatched hut. She is wearing some type of wrap-around cloth skirt while sporting a double stranded pearl necklace and holding a waist high banner declaring her to be; "Miss Bougainville". The semi-well endowed lady is also smoking a pipe and completely naked from the waist up. It is a souvenier from my fathers war time experiences and probably not something a third grader should be seeing but I had totally forgotten it was in my music room.
Two questions immediately flashed into my elderly, addled brain: One...how on earth do I explain this to Owen's parents, or worse yet...my wife? Two...do I make a big deal out of it or just act like its the most natural photo in the world? I chose the latter of the two actions but not before Owen's younger, first grade sister rattled off, "Why doesn't that lady have a top on Uncle Bill? Who is she? Can I see?!"
To the kids it was no big deal. I tried to explain how the picture was of a native woman on an island where the people didn't wear clothes because it was too hot and that Owen's great grandpa probably took it during World War Two a long, long time ago. Then I placed Miss Bougainville out of sight on top of my amplifier. Immediately, the crashing sounds of loud music and singing began to fill the air again. God bless their little hearts, innocence, and short attention spans.
Later on, before and after dinner I continued to marvel at Connor, Owen and Ellie's inquiring minds: Owen, upon spying several mourning doves pecking away at the ground beneath a bird feeder in front of our house, "Do...you...ever.., want to shoot those birds with a B.B. gun sometimes, Uncle Bill?" (Owen's dad is an avid wild game hunter and so are his boys). Ellie, on spying the long pointy fingernails on my right hand asks at least twice, "Why do you let your nails get so big, Uncle Bill?"
My answers are short and honest...no, I wouldn't shoot those birds because they are just hungry and...I keep my nails long Ellie so when I play the guitar they will make a nice sound on the strings. Then I show her how it works.
All too soon, they will gravitate toward other pursuits. The teen-age years will swiftly come calling, then its off to college, marriage and the drudgery of having to come to grips with jobs, paying bills and all the other nuisances that adulthood offers.
Like their elderly Uncle however, I hope they will at least be able to recreate that sweet joy of childhood when their own nieces and nephews come a callin some sunny Easter afternoon in springtime. Just before they get there "kids", be sure to scan your music room for unexpected surprises or at least be willing to answer their questions with complete honesty and most of all...love.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
TUESDAYS AT THE PUMP
The scrolled wooden sign read; "THIS TOWN IS TOO SMALL FOR A TOWN DRUNK, SO WE ALL TAKE TURNS" Ah yes, another tuesday at the Town Pump Bar, a quaint little place where I enjoy a beer or two or at most...three once a week or so. You just never know who you might run into while leaning your elbows on the old wooden railing, sippin a fresh icy mug of Miller Lite.
I had never really paid much attention to the dim interior of the place but as I gazed at my reflection in the counter length mirror behind the bar, I once again became aware of the almost mystical power a drinking establishment sometimes casts upon its patrons. The first thing that captures your attention is the color and texture of the dozens of potions available.
Magical shades of greens, browns and purples reflect in the soft light of an invisible lamp above the bottles; Jamiesons, Black Velvet, Kesslers, Jack Daniels,and Bacardi containers offer a nearly overpowering welcome. Personally, I am captivated by the bronzed statue of a beautiful young girl kicking up her petticoats while dancing one-legged on a barrel of Blatz beer.
As I gaze to the right of the dancing queen, several other sights pique my interest: The hand stitched sign that informs customers, "REIDS TOWN PUMP SALOON, ESTABLISHED 1969"; An eye level box of small wrapped packages advertising, "NU BREATH. DON'T LEAVE HERE WITHOUT THEM! PASS THE BREATH TEST!"; And of course, the familiar sight of a gigantic head mount taking up the entire rear corner of the bar. The thirteen point elk looks forlornly at me from his stationary position next to the popcorn machine.
It is at this point of my observations that a young man in brown shorts and a grey t-shirt plops himself down on the black vinyl seat next to me. At first I am too busy doodling in my journal to notice him but it isn't long before we strike up a conversation as he takes deep drags from a very annoying cigarette placed in the tin ashtray in front of him. The only bad thing about the Pump is that occasionally it seems like everybody in it smokes at the same time. Your clothing reeks of the smell after you leave.
The young man's name is "David". David is out of work, has a fourteen month old child with "the true love of his life", but also maintains a relationship with a girlfriend. Somehow, he must tell the girlfriend that he wishes to "get back with" the aforementioned true love (there is no mention of marriage to either woman); he also has two very purple, black, blue and bloody eyes. After listening to a long list of his life and problems, I ask; "So what happened to the other guy?"
It takes David a minute to figure out that I am talking about his eyes.
"Oh, yeah...now I getcha. The other guy looked pretty good" he says, laughing just a little, "I was in a cage fight up in Traverse city a couple of weeks ago. I looked a lot worse back then!"
David proceeds to tell me all about the fight; how he actually got a leg-lock on the guy but ended up on his back with his opponent slamming his fist into Dave's face as he lay helpless against the floor of the ring. He doesn't remember a lot after that which is probably a good thing. I ask him if he will fight again, expecting that the beating he suffered might make him a wee bit anxious in the future;
"Sure, man. I think I'll actually fight two or three more times because I enjoy it. I actually won my first fight!" he proudly proclaims.
As my hour in the Pump draws to a close I find out a lot more about David. My wife says I ask too many questions sometimes but people's lives fascinate me...especially young folks like David. He collects beer cans to get bar money and rode his bicycle to get to the bar. I rode my bike to the Pump too but it wasn't because I lost my drivers license or I couldn't afford a car. David went to a military school as a last resort to get his GED and as it turns out, his dad is exactly the same age as me. David is not a bad guy, it's just that I have a hard time mustering up sympathy for a twenty-six year old, unemployed father (just lost his job as a bus boy). Still... I truly feel sorry for him.
Maybe its because I am a good listener or perhaps because I remind him of his dad, David surprises me on my way out;
"Hey man...do you think I could get your phone number?" he asks hesitantly, "I'd just like to talk to you sometime, man". He looks away as I answer him while trying to gaze directly into his swollen blue eyes;
"Dave", I reply, "I don't give out my phone number to anyone I just met but I will see you around town or I am often in here on tuesdays if you ever want to talk. It's nothing personal, I hope you know that"
David looks sadly at the well worn red and white formica top of the bar,
"It's ok. man...I just thought you were one of those "mentor" guys thats all". As I pat him on the shoulder and tell him I will catch him around sometime, his next words stun me; "I love you, man" he mumbles.
"Me too", I say softly as I head for the back exit.
In my soul I know that what David needs is to make a commitment to doing something to better his life and that has to begin with him. Giving up those $7:00 a pack cigarettes he was smoking would be a great start but I didn't tell him that. Maybe the next time I buy him a beer at the Pump I'll venture into the land of advice, something he has probably gotten a lot of but in a much sterner tone of voice from his dad and others.
Pedalling my bicycle into twenty mile an hour gusts of wind, I make my way home as the breeze washes the smell of stale smoke from my clothing. I am left to ponder who I will strike up a conversation with on my next trip to the Town Pump and hoping that David will eventually make something of himself. Sometimes the best thing a person can do...is listen.
I had never really paid much attention to the dim interior of the place but as I gazed at my reflection in the counter length mirror behind the bar, I once again became aware of the almost mystical power a drinking establishment sometimes casts upon its patrons. The first thing that captures your attention is the color and texture of the dozens of potions available.
Magical shades of greens, browns and purples reflect in the soft light of an invisible lamp above the bottles; Jamiesons, Black Velvet, Kesslers, Jack Daniels,and Bacardi containers offer a nearly overpowering welcome. Personally, I am captivated by the bronzed statue of a beautiful young girl kicking up her petticoats while dancing one-legged on a barrel of Blatz beer.
As I gaze to the right of the dancing queen, several other sights pique my interest: The hand stitched sign that informs customers, "REIDS TOWN PUMP SALOON, ESTABLISHED 1969"; An eye level box of small wrapped packages advertising, "NU BREATH. DON'T LEAVE HERE WITHOUT THEM! PASS THE BREATH TEST!"; And of course, the familiar sight of a gigantic head mount taking up the entire rear corner of the bar. The thirteen point elk looks forlornly at me from his stationary position next to the popcorn machine.
It is at this point of my observations that a young man in brown shorts and a grey t-shirt plops himself down on the black vinyl seat next to me. At first I am too busy doodling in my journal to notice him but it isn't long before we strike up a conversation as he takes deep drags from a very annoying cigarette placed in the tin ashtray in front of him. The only bad thing about the Pump is that occasionally it seems like everybody in it smokes at the same time. Your clothing reeks of the smell after you leave.
The young man's name is "David". David is out of work, has a fourteen month old child with "the true love of his life", but also maintains a relationship with a girlfriend. Somehow, he must tell the girlfriend that he wishes to "get back with" the aforementioned true love (there is no mention of marriage to either woman); he also has two very purple, black, blue and bloody eyes. After listening to a long list of his life and problems, I ask; "So what happened to the other guy?"
It takes David a minute to figure out that I am talking about his eyes.
"Oh, yeah...now I getcha. The other guy looked pretty good" he says, laughing just a little, "I was in a cage fight up in Traverse city a couple of weeks ago. I looked a lot worse back then!"
David proceeds to tell me all about the fight; how he actually got a leg-lock on the guy but ended up on his back with his opponent slamming his fist into Dave's face as he lay helpless against the floor of the ring. He doesn't remember a lot after that which is probably a good thing. I ask him if he will fight again, expecting that the beating he suffered might make him a wee bit anxious in the future;
"Sure, man. I think I'll actually fight two or three more times because I enjoy it. I actually won my first fight!" he proudly proclaims.
As my hour in the Pump draws to a close I find out a lot more about David. My wife says I ask too many questions sometimes but people's lives fascinate me...especially young folks like David. He collects beer cans to get bar money and rode his bicycle to get to the bar. I rode my bike to the Pump too but it wasn't because I lost my drivers license or I couldn't afford a car. David went to a military school as a last resort to get his GED and as it turns out, his dad is exactly the same age as me. David is not a bad guy, it's just that I have a hard time mustering up sympathy for a twenty-six year old, unemployed father (just lost his job as a bus boy). Still... I truly feel sorry for him.
Maybe its because I am a good listener or perhaps because I remind him of his dad, David surprises me on my way out;
"Hey man...do you think I could get your phone number?" he asks hesitantly, "I'd just like to talk to you sometime, man". He looks away as I answer him while trying to gaze directly into his swollen blue eyes;
"Dave", I reply, "I don't give out my phone number to anyone I just met but I will see you around town or I am often in here on tuesdays if you ever want to talk. It's nothing personal, I hope you know that"
David looks sadly at the well worn red and white formica top of the bar,
"It's ok. man...I just thought you were one of those "mentor" guys thats all". As I pat him on the shoulder and tell him I will catch him around sometime, his next words stun me; "I love you, man" he mumbles.
"Me too", I say softly as I head for the back exit.
In my soul I know that what David needs is to make a commitment to doing something to better his life and that has to begin with him. Giving up those $7:00 a pack cigarettes he was smoking would be a great start but I didn't tell him that. Maybe the next time I buy him a beer at the Pump I'll venture into the land of advice, something he has probably gotten a lot of but in a much sterner tone of voice from his dad and others.
Pedalling my bicycle into twenty mile an hour gusts of wind, I make my way home as the breeze washes the smell of stale smoke from my clothing. I am left to ponder who I will strike up a conversation with on my next trip to the Town Pump and hoping that David will eventually make something of himself. Sometimes the best thing a person can do...is listen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)