The man on the stage holds a banjo. He plays the banjo. He sings in a twangy voice but sometimes a Midwestern accent slips out. He sings love songs and sad songs about love. Black cloth is draped behind the stage so he sings sad songs in blackness.
This is my first date with Richard. I’m not gay, but I figured I’d give it a go. I mean, he asked so nicely. Would you like to go hear some music? He has a friendly voice. So we’re sitting here listening to the banjoist. I sip black coffee. Richard sips some concoction it took the barista like fifteen minutes to make. The milk is fluffy. Who’d have thought of fluffy milk? It sticks in Richard’s mustache until he licks it away.
Most of the people in the coffee shop are talking. They’re having conversations about retirement plans and the medical maladies of their pets and other things that people talk about when they’re not listening to the music.
A young woman sits by the front of the stage. She is skinny, almost unhealthily so, and has fine blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She bobs her head to the music so that the ponytail bounces a beat behind. I am checking her out, which I feel bad about since Richard sprung the buck fifty for the coffee. Poor Richard. If only he knew what I’m coming to realize. I am most definitely not gay. Mystery solved. Light the pipe and smoke it, Sherlock. Maybe we can just be friends, Watson.
The front door creaks open. It is silent, but the motion gives the visual impression of a creak without the accompanying sound. It opens as if the hinges are old and squeaky. A black man enters, hunched over, moving as if he too were old and squeaky. He jitters across the threshold and takes a seat by the back wall. He gives an impression of homelessness. He has a black bandanna on his head, tied so the corners dangle in front of his eyes. He is forever pushing the corners of the bandanna out of the way with a jerky movement of his hand.
The homeless man talks to himself. There is no one else near him to whom he might be talking. His hand jerks up and pushes the corners of the bandanna out of his eyes. What is he talking about, I wonder. He is very interested in the things he has to say. He nods, agreeing with all of his arguments.
I lean close to Richard and half-whisper.
“The selfless man is a myth,” I say. “There’s no such thing as a choice that doesn’t benefit the chooser. Whether I eat the last cookie to satisfy my hunger or give it to you for the emotional gratification derived from generosity, either way I’m serving myself.”
“Huh?” asks Richard.
I lean back, unable keep the frown from my face. I take the cookie from the plate between us. It is filled with chunks of toffee that stick to my teeth.
A final chord rings from the banjo, and the audience claps politely, fingers to palm, not the more enthusiastic palm to palm. Palm to palm is reserved for larger venues.
The banjoist strums the banjo, adjusting the capo on the neck. The chords he plays seem random, each plucked from a different song. It’s like listening to the wandering of his thoughts.
“This next song,” he says into the microphone, “is about love. It’s rather sad.”
He begins a slow, sad song about lost love. I don’t consider the banjo a romantic instrument. It’s not the tool of the serenade, but there is something of longing in its timbre. The short string on top pierces through the other sounds, like a cry in the night. It is animal and it is human. It is an animal eating a human. It is a human wishing not to be eaten. And that is longing.
Richard taps the back of my hand. I look at him, and he looks right back into my eyes, longingly. I yank my hand away and suddenly the slow, sad song is Richard’s. He lowers his gaze to his compostable coffee cup and the fluffy milk within. Something like cinnamon is sprinkled on top.
I chug the remains of my coffee. Rising, I pat Richard on the shoulder and mouth Thanks for the coffee, but he doesn’t look up to see it. I walk to the stage and take a seat next to the skinny blond woman. She smiles at me. I take a moment to think about lips, of which I find hers to be a pleasing example. Blood rushes into my ears and I can barely hear the song over the roar of my insides.
The banjoist sings:
When the sex dries up
And you realize
That you lack completely
Emotional or intellectual
Compatibility
Well, that puts a crimp in things
The old homeless man lurches forward. He bumps into my chair. He stumbles past me and stops, toes pressed against the stage. His hand jerks up and pushes the corners of the bandanna out of his eyes. Bringing his palms together he claps along to the beat. The tempo drags and the claps come only occasionally. Palm to palm.
For his part, the banjoist doesn’t seem to notice the clapping, like he didn’t notice the many people talking. Like he didn’t notice the whoosh of the air conditioner or the grrrrzdddkkkk of the coffee grinder. There are so many things not to notice. The banjoist finishes the last verse of the slow, sad song, and begins the final refrain.
Lifting his face to the ceiling, the homeless man sings along. His voice spreads like thick paint, a high warbly tenor. The harmonies are unexpected, surprising, tense. They release into minor thirds and open fifths. They are tense again. The homeless man claps along, palm to palm.
The room has grown quiet. Every breath is held. Mouths hang half-open, unfinished words readable on the shapes of tongues. The only sound is the singing.
The two voices tangle together in a soaring double helix. A man in a flannel shirt stands and sways to the song, waving his arms above his head like at a revival. Asses slide to the edges of seats. I take the blond woman’s hand in mine and squeeze it. She squeezes back. This is what they call a moment.
The banjoist and the homeless man hold the last note until their lungs give out, and still the banjo rings after them. Everyone exhales the breath they’ve held, but still no one claps. The man in flannel stands motionless, arms still above him, like he’s diving upwards. Only the homeless man is still clapping to the beat of the already ended song. The banjoist looks down at the homeless man as if noticing him for the first time. He adjusts the strap on his banjo and crinkles his nose. He makes a shooing motion, fingers down, brushing away at the homeless man with the backs of his hands. The homeless man keeps clapping a slow beat, palm to palm. His hand jerks up and pushes the corners of the bandanna out of his eyes.
“This next song,” says the banjoist, “is about love. It’s rather sad.”
He looks into the darting eyes of the homeless man and strums the banjo. The chords are disjunct and don’t make any sense together.
He sings:
Go away, crazy man
Take your fidgets
Take your jitters
Take the subtle
But somehow overpow’ring
Scent of
Vinegar
The hell away from
Me
Go away, crazy man
Take your soupy eyes
Take your droopy cheeks
Take this subtle
But somehow overwhelming
Feeling
Of pity
The hell away from
Me
The homeless man fishes through his pockets and pulls out a metallic bubble gum wrapper. He smooths out the wrinkles, sliding the wrapper between his thumb and middle finger. It looks like a magic trick. I expect the wrapper to keep coming and coming, an endless silver ribbon. The homeless man drops the wrapper into the empty tip jar in front of the stage. For a moment his motions are deft, effortless.
His hand jerks up and pushes the corners of the bandanna out of his eyes.
Again the banjoist makes the shooing motion, at the same time thanking the homeless man for the tip.
Removing his banjo, gripping it by the neck, the banjoist smashes it across the top of the amp. There is a brief whine of feedback then silence. The audience claps, fingers to palm.
The old homeless man shuffles away from the stage. He pauses by Richard, who is still bent over what must by now be a cool cup of fancified coffee. The homeless man taps the table with two fingers. Richard looks up and sees the homeless man’s extended hand. The skin is dry and callused, the texture of old asphalt. Richard reaches and takes hold. He rises, and hand in jittery hand the new couple walks out. I grin at Richard’s broad back. Good for him.
The blond woman still holds my hand, the sweat of our palms intermingling. I reach up and stroke her cheek with the back of my finger. Again she smiles, stretching her lips free of wrinkles. I am reminded of sad songs about love, but I can’t remember the lyrics.
The man on the stage holds a broken banjo.