Somewhere in S. Florida- Spring '07
I must like the highway. It offers some solace. After all, it too is lonely at 2:30 in the morning. It's quiet. An occasional object sound of wind. Black pavement turned gray from so much rubber friction. Flickering lights that aren’t powerful enough to shine luminosity on a would be male murderer (a la Aileen Wuornos) and sewage odors that follow you for a few miles, are, let's say, not so uncommon. Ick.
The life of an artist is not always so easy and rock -n- roll. We commit to a 10-hour drive to perform a 30 minute set. We get there and the rooms are not prepared. We have a 3:30 lobby call. Roll eyes and sigh. Reception isn’t hardly helpful so we go out to eat Italian. Seated in the patio was like being in Rome. Until 4, well clad, cigarette-puffing Cuban women come outside with their fuerte latin accented yickity-yack. No one at the table understands what they’re saying except for me, so I pretend to not be “familia conocida”. They only came outside to smoke. They note our agitation and kindly agree to go back in. Good. Lunch was less than mediocre. After all, Cubans cooking Italian is like the Greek trying to play major league baseball.
And then, a punch in the face-worthy encounter that I was NOT expecting, changed everything. I saw him! Yes, him. For those of you that know me and I’ve told, you know who he is. My entire universe shook. I didn’t lose my composure, but damn, I saw him! Damn, damn, damn! The tardy readiness of the rooms was a miniscule matter all of a sudden. BIG SIGH. A white limo picked us up and took us to the venue. A shot of Scotch, someone, please!
Rain, rain go away, come back another day. The clouds must have seen my near-bursting tears. Shows were nice. Back to the hotel. I slept like a baby, knowing he was no more than an answered phone call away. Sunday morning was super easy. Emotions in check. Breakfast. Gas. Bathroom. We get in the van and head back.
On the same highway.
5 men and me.
I’m not in my solitude anymore.
I saw him.