The Warm Thrill Of Confusion

A manila envelope full of old ticket stubs.  I forgot I saw them, him, her.  I can't remember a single thing about that show.  This show was like a tent revival and that show was a morgue where the corpses were laughing on the slab. So old they are like relics from another life.  I think they are.

I remember he wore a black blazer with white piping, creased jeans, and cowboy boots.  I remember how fine his hair was, noticing a single light behind and to the side shone through it like sunlight through a window screen.  He played four songs that he shared royalties with and walked off and we looked at each other in a funny way and no one said, "Is that all?"  We knew.  So we left too.

I remember her eyes set on her own hand as it strangled the neck of her bass. I thought she was completely hypnotized by every note she was playing amid the chaos.  Her mind calculating the position and angle of direction for every sweaty torso jostling just feet away like radar was being emitted from the top of her head.  Had one of those animals crossed the boundary into her zone I doubt she would have winced let alone miss a note.  It wasn't poise or control, it was strength and no one crossed over her line.  She willed it.  I think she made me love women bassists.

I remember being on the floor and so close to the stage that I was frightened by the proximity long before the opening act came out to bathe in our disgust.  So close I could see grimaces of workman faces between songs when the set list was still too long and the singer was doing his shtick too early in the night.  It felt like no one but me was looking at him and his guitar, and he seemed frustrated at the tone dial, and he glared into the wings at someone who was being paid to take glares.

I remember being so far away that the amplifiers had two echoes. So high and far away that the security guards hid away from the crowd for a quick break and they passed a smoke between each other.  No one but us fools up here in the clouds. 

I remember riding shotgun in a Mustang up Broad Street after my brain had been washed with Marshall stacks and Gibsons.  Fast was so slow and stop was still moving with the red stop lights shining on  wet pavement.  It was spring and the air was warm and humid and we sipped bourbon from my metal flask with the smell of the city filling our noses.  Let's go for a ride and get the energy out of us so we can speak with more than one syllable.

I remember a show and you were pushed by the mob and a bottle broke in your hand.  Big drops and a thick trail of blood and not enough alcohol in your system to numb the pain.  You went to your car and wrapped your hand tightly with cloth and jammed it into a leather work glove.  By time the band was drenched with sweat and it was all over, the glove was already long hard with dried blood.  As payback you scared the mob, waving wild arms and guzzling beer like water and flashing feral eyes and they could all see your mangled hand.  They left before any of us were done, they knew it was safer somewhere else.  The band loved you for that.

I remember taking you out that one icy night to a small club where we were packed in like cord wood.  There were horns and shouting and shiny suits and choreographed steps.  The air was so hot that women were fainting and you shimmered, all hips and fingertips.  You drank sweet alcoholic mixtures and smiled sweetly when that little slur came alive, coaxing me to say things southern, foreign to you.  It was so cold outside.  After the adrenaline was gone you slept peacefully, under warm soft sheets, sleet hitting our window.  It was our last show, the last chapter of our book.

I have my ticket stub.