Minor Swing

I have no desire to read the news this morning.  Maybe not for a long, long while.  I want to make something, to say a thing.  I will walk early, go to breakfast, and begin on some new mixed media pieces I've had in mind.  Later as the day gives way to afternoon and the crowds begin to disperse anticipating the mundanity of tomorrow's horrors, I will walk through the blocked off Boulevard of my small village's downtown and look at the end of the weekend's art show.  Then, of course, I will go to my mother's for dinner.

Last night, I went to a party with artists and lawyers, or so it seemed to me.  The friend who gave the party is a lawyer and an art collector and a pretty swell guy.  I know that "lawyer" and "art collector" sound precious and terrible in their own ways, and I'm sure this fellow would not wish to be categorized as such.  He is a traveller and a reader and many things that no longer exist or are not supposed to any more.  I usually run into him in the places that you would go, the "best places" in that sense.  You would like him as I do.

Many years ago, he bought a small house on the edge of our small town in what was the transition between chic and run down.  It is not so transitional any more, and he has expanded the house and built outdoor gardens and seating areas designed by people who are brilliant at that.  And so last night I was tempted to leave my house after dark to venture into a select crowd.  It was not without some trepidation on my part.

I parked on the street lined with cars and walked into the back yard just where the food was being served. I was hungry and thought this a good sign, so I filled a plate with barbecue and sides and looked for a place to sit.  Right away, I found a chair just in front of the trio he had hired to entertain.  It was absolutely the best place I could have been that night.  Beneath the clear sky and bright stars they played Gipsy Music lit up by a set of small blue lights.

(here is the trio who played last night under the moonlight)

Enthralled, I sat with a small group of people bobbing my head up and down with a goofy grin like the kid that I am.  My friend had left a message that said if I wanted to I could bring a date but that wouldn't be necessary as there would be lots of single women.  "What would they want with me?" was my internal response, so I was happy to sit and eat and drink and listen to these fellows in so intimate a setting with no need to interact with the crowd.  

After about an hour, though, they took a break, so I got up to throw away my paper plate and to get another drink.  I stood about for some time looking at and listening to the crowd.  The easiest to hear were the older attorneys, especially if they were from the south.  They are quite funny, really, if you are used to them.

"How do you know Harvey?" a woman asked the man standing behind her waiting to get a drink at the bar.  

"Glad to meet you," he said in a loud, Alabama voice.  "I'm Reverend Spilker, Divine Guidance at your command."

"Oh," said the woman, "nice to meet you.  How do you know Harvey?" she asked again as if it really mattered.

"I'm his spiritual advisor," said the reverend.  "And I'm available for service."  

"Really," the woman said again in an astonished voice.  Apparently she knew Harvey well enough to be surprised that he had a spiritual advisor.

"No. . . not really."  

"Oh," she said.  You could tell she had lost some balance.  "What do you do?"  

"I'm an attorney, sorry to say," he offered with the old apparent pride.  He'd made it long ago.  

I drifted off into another conversation but that booming drawl kept drawing me back.  He was talking about cattle and land.  

"All land isn't the same, you know.  You hear somebody has a cattle ranch down here, but it might take twenty acres to raise a cow and a calf."  He was full of wisdom.  But he was cleverly drawing her into a joke set in Montana that I knew well as a hillbilly joke set in the holler, but there are versions set in Alabama, too.  By the time he had finished, I had my drink and was headed for the house to see what my friend had hanging now.  

The art had all been changed and was, as always, magnificent.  As I stood gazing at a portrait, a friend stepped up to say hello.  He, too, is an attorney, a generous fellow who leaves me books of art and literature on a regular basis, another traveller and adventurer and a fellow full of good tales.  In a bit we wandered outside to sit and chat.  And after awhile, halfway through an interactive tale (nothing, of course, gets to be told as planned), I felt a dash of something cold thrown against my shirt.  I looked down and saw that it was red wine.  Oh shit, I thought.  And I looked up to see who had thrown it.  Surely this had to be retribution for something I'd done in the past.  Now would come the reckoning.  

I looked up to see a big fellow waving his hands approaching me.  It didn't take me long to realize he was in good shape.  I was seated and didn't think I had much of a chance of swinging first.  Hell, I probably would have to ask him to help me up out of the chair.  But then I realized he was dismayed that he had spilled his wine.

"Oh Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, shit, I can't believe it, I was just standing over there and it just flew across I've never seen anything like it. . . ."  He was unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the tails out of his pants.  "Here, man, I'm giving you the shirt off my back, take it, man, I'm sorry. . . ." I was glad we weren't fighting because he didn't have much fat on him.  Suddenly his girl was standing in front of me with some club soda and napkins.  "Here," she said, "here. . . " and she began dousing my shirt with water and patting it down until I was completely soaked.  But her blouse was low cut and so I couldn't help but stare at her breasts as she worked her drunken motherly magic.  Then my friend offered, "He'd rather have the shirt off her back," and she turned her head and laughed.  

"Don't worry about it," I said.  "When you have the kind of friends I have, this is a nightly occurrence.  It's not a party without a spilt drink.  I thought you threw it on purpose.  Hell, I'm just glad I don't have to fight."  

The apologies went on for awhile.  The fellow obviously felt badly, not for me, really, but for himself.  Obviously, he wasn't an attorney and didn't know the host.  It was obvious, too, that he had embarrassed his girl before.  He was just a fellow who couldn't live above his station, I guess.  Not like the fine hillbilly whose shirt he had just ruined.  

And so the night went on, my shirt drying to a nice shade of purple.  And after a few more tales, it was time for me to go.  The night was still clear, and the Gypsy Trio was playing its last songs.  Walking back to the car, I thought, "You need to get out more.  There are so many nice people to meet."  But really, the music was the best thing that had happened so far this year.  Such is my life.

I've spent more time telling this tale than I intended and the morning is no longer that young, so I must now hurry if I am to do what I had thought to do when I woke.  Then, lying in bed, I imagined opening a small cafe where Gypsy Trios would play.  I'd need a piano player, I thought.  Something like this.