TWO

The toys in the lawn produced no fingerprint of the paint thief.  I resumed the next day with new buckets of Midnight Owl, a deep almost purple grey and Honey Blush, a bright golden yellow.  In the time that lapsed I had challenged and lost an open mic contest at the edge of our neighborhood.  It was three blocks from my house, two from here, down in “Happy Holler” on Central Ave.  The Monday night crowd of working songwriters was all who would remember.  I replayed to myself again how it had happened, slapping paint on the sunny wood siding along the East side of the House.

 “We landed our dreams in Tennessee, left them in the closet had to see.  Made preparations to have a life, looking all around to the left and the right.”

The guitar sound is thin.  A slight hum of feedback and the strings are dead.  I’m dead.  Dead on the stage.

“People grow apart when they let go, hearts turn hard and they grow old.  They say the years won’t all be good.  Got into a car so the next one would.”

I’m losing them.  No one wants to hear this somber mess.

“Hope makes the heart learn to hold.”

This song is too long.  I should trim it when I play it live.  Dang it I want to disappear.

“The coldest city I’ve ever known, was warm on the floor that we had at home.  If we had a chance it’d a been the same.  Taking our chances was why we came.”

“Bottom of our pockets were soon pulled out, drove to Virginia laughing out loud.  Jim Croce singin’ on the radio, “New York City is not my home.””

Epic fail.  One more time.

“Hope makes the heart learn to hold.”

This song is so long.

“Try to work hard, try to see it through.  Yet to hear a song of a dream come true.  Except for the one that I had about you, haven’t woke up and I don’t want to.”

Wake up.  You’re performing.

“Gotta believe that there’s room to stand.  Only have a palm with an open hand.  Never underestimate the quiet man with a woman by his side that believes he can.”

There it was, my best line.  Anything?  Nobody’s even looking at me.  Good.

“Hope makes the heart learn to hold.”

Almost there and we can go home.

“Hope makes the heart learn to hold.”

Such a long song.  Unbearable.

“I’m the one who calls your name, early in the morning each day the same.  One more chance to throw a stone, ripple in the pond and a wish for the road.”

I may take a walk to the river tonight.

“Hope makes the heart learn to hold.”

Let it ring.  Breathe.

“Thank you, my name is Levon (pronounced Lee-von, like the jeans) Walker.”

See ya.  Now unplug the guitar and don’t trip.  Smile, dummy smile.  You look terrified.  I am.

I got a Coke and grabbed a seat.  Okay, Diet Coke.  Ashley was at home asleep, very pregnant.  Only a handful of people were there, mostly lonely songwriters waiting to play.  I could maybe justify buying a beer this lovely Monday night but I don’t have it.  I stuck around late for the vote and lost.  The winner was good.  He had a natural and easy way.  I wish I were easy.  Then I walked seven minutes home with my guitar and found my brushes waiting for me in a bucket of cold, murky water.  If you take care of a good brush it can last a very long time.