

TALES FROM THE

MUSICAL TRENCHES

A Collection of Short Stories

By C.B. Heinemann

Furka Press Smashword Edition

Copyright 2020 by C.B. Heinemann

All rights reserved

Smashword Edition, License Notes

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Swan Song for Wild Rick, first published in Whistling Fire, Celts, Kilts, and Kips in Florida English; Godzilla In Washington in Battered Suitcase; Freiburgitis in Inside/Outside Literary and Travel Magazine; Three White Boys in Rathalla Literary Journal; The Swiss Birthday Party in Inside/Outside Literary and Travel Magazine; Playing For the War in Ascent Magazine; The Price of A Toilet In Oldenburg in Lowestoft Chronicles; Obsession in BioStories; A Few Tunes In the Pub in Mountain Tales Press—Whisperings: Galileo's Hood in One Million Stories, 2010 Anthology; A Party North of Baltimore in Deltona Howl Archives; Back to the Stone Age in Inside/Outside Literary and Travel Magazine; Concert In Savona in Ascent Magazine; Looking For Ireland first published as Troubled Holidays in Dear Old Erin in Inside/Outside Literary and Travel Magazine

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Swan Song For Wild Rick

Celts, Kilts, and Kips

Godzilla In Washington

Freiburgitis

Three White Boys

The Swiss Birthday Party

The Court of the

Princess of Rockabilly

Playing For the War

The Price Of A Toilet in Oldenburg

The Best Gig Ever

Obsession

A Few Tunes In the Pub

Galileo's Hood

A Party North of Baltimore

Back To the Stone Age

Concert In Savona

Dave's Basement

In the Eye Of the Cat

The Last Busker

Looking For Ireland

About C.B. Heinemann

Other Titles by C.B. Heinemann

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**Introduction**

While everyone hears stories about famous musicians, the barely visible world of struggling musicians is jammed with juicier stories, more colorful characters, and a powerful streak of hopeful desperation. In my own long musical career, I have played, toured, and recorded with everyone from the unknown to the revered. Those who put their futures on the line to pursue dreams unlikely to ever come true possess a peculiar, mad optimism that creates lives that can be more fascinating than those of the stars. The world of struggling musicians is a world of heartbreak and hope, death and redemption, near-starvation and triumph, addiction and epiphany.

Most of these stories are taken from my own life and experiences. The stories Celts, Kilts, and Kips; Freiburgitis; The Swiss Birthday Party; Galileo's Hood; and Looking For Ireland, read in that order, chronicle my first musical trip to Europe, and form the framework for my novel, The Last Buskers of Summer. A few stories are based on real experiences with a few details altered and the timeline compressed to prevent tedious digressions. Back to the Stone Age—which contains the seeds of my novel, Ghosts Behind Walls—is very loosely based on real events, but with imaginary characters and life circumstances dropped into the story, while A Few Tunes in the Pub and The Last Busker are fictional. I have to admit that historical accuracy may be a bit off at times. To paraphrase Sellar and Yeatman, authors of the cleverly mangled version of English history 1066 and All That, history is not so much about what really happened, but rather what you remember.

My musical life has introduced me to extraordinarily interesting and inspiring people, and has taken me to places I would otherwise have never known. But it is always the music that is the most important thing to all those who have chosen this difficult and unpredictable life, and it is always the music that sustains and nourishes us, even in the face of our self-imposed hardships.

**Swan Song For Wild Rick**

I'd heard rumors about "Wild Rick" Mizell for years. He was the hottest guitarist in town and considered one of the local musicians most likely to make it big. He'd been playing to packed nightclubs for years, and when he opened for Johnny Winter at American University, Winter asked him to come up and jam with him at the end of his set. My friends and I were too young to get into the clubs where he played, but we heard stories from older brothers and sisters. So when my friend Mark caught me between classes in eleventh grade to tell me that Rick wanted to audition us for his new band, I was not only flabbergasted that he was interested in hiring us, but that he even knew we existed.

The next day after school let out I saw a guy in his early twenties with long dark hair and a fat handlebar mustache sitting in a blue Ford Falcon behind the school busses. "That's him," said Mark, who ran up beside me. "Right on time, too."

I climbed into the back seat and Rick glanced at me in the rear view mirror. His eyes were dark and glittering. "Hey man, thanks for coming." His voice was high and he spoke in spurts. "So we'll see what happens, okay? I've got some gigs lined up. I want to stop doing cover songs and make my own mark on the world but I need a band. I hear you guys are really good and don't mind a little hard work."

I didn't know who was spreading such stories, but didn't argue.

"I've got drums, a bass, everything you need already. And there's a six-pack of Cokes in the trunk for you, too."

I could tell that Wild Rick was shy and even a little nervous. He drove us a few miles to a brick colonial with a dirt yard next to a highway. We followed him into what looked like a typical hippie group house—bare wood floors, a few mismatched and worn sofas, anti-war posters on the walls. As we entered the kitchen I saw where the garlic and tomato aroma came from. A young woman in overalls with a thick, dark braid down her back was cooking up a big pot of sauce while a toddler played at her feet.

"Hey guys, this is Amy, a friend of mine," Rick said as Amy turned and smiled at us. "Here, come on down."

Rick led us into a spacious basement with only a few cardboard boxes and stacks of amplifiers and speaker cabinets. A double tom-tom set of Ludwigs was set up and ready to go. Mark picked up a red Gibson EBO bass that was plugged in to an Ampeg amp almost as tall as he was. "Is this for me to use?"

"Yeah, I know you usually play guitar, so it's pretty easy to play."

While I sat at the drums and adjusted them I wondered what the catch might be. Rick bent down and pulled a gold Les Paul out of his case and strapped it on. The black leather strap was emblazoned with gold lettering.

"What does that strap say?" I only saw part of it as Rick plugged in. "Wild Rice?"

Rick popped a short, loud laugh. "No, man. Wild Rick, not Wild Rice." He pulled the strap down for me to see. "You're crazy, man. But hey, let's call our band Wild Rice." He laughed again, turning away as if embarrassed. "Wild Rice. I like that."

Once he put the guitar on I saw him in all his glory. Along with the long, gleaming dark hair sweeping across his back and that big mustache he wore a scarlet silk shirt, black trousers, and alligator skin cowboy boots. Rings flashed from most of his fingers and colorful tassels dangled from his guitar and strap. Most striking was that he was only about five-foot-three. After tuning he cranked up the volume on his stack of Marshal amps and let loose a high-speed barrage of guitar flash that was so loud and so virtuostic that I reeled for a moment. This guy was the real thing—a guitar God.

Mark tuned up then looked behind the top of his amp for a moment. "This is seven-hundred watts? Seven hundred? I didn't know they went up that high!"

"Yeah man, it's plenty powerful," said Rick. "So look, here's the first song. You might want to turn up some."

Once we were playing Rick lost his nervousness and led us through the first group of songs, carefully teaching us each change, each segment, so that it would be just right. It was immediately apparent why he liked the idea that we were hardworking, because we went over and over and over the songs until they were pounded into our minds forever. I had to beat those drums harder than I ever had before because Rick liked to play loud—very loud. I was too young and awestruck to suggest that he might turn down, and that first rehearsal may have been the beginning of serious high-end hearing loss, but I still remember the songs and those tricky changes so well I could still play them today if the need arose.

After a couple of hours Rick drove us both home. We rehearsed with him three times a week for six weeks and built up a set of solid material, most of it Rick's originals. His songs were built around catchy blues-rock riffs with extended guitar solos that showed off his talents. He didn't bother much with lyrics, which were generally a couple of lines per song repeated over and over. One was You've got my soul, babe—You've got my soul. Another was You got my money—And you know that. The day he showed up with an acoustic 12-string he made up a song on the spot. The music was hard edged, but the lyrics consisted of variations on I don't know—Where I'm going today. There may have been more lyrics to his songs, but I never heard them.

Those little fingers of his were a blur on the fretboard, but speed wasn't all there was to his playing—he employed complex phrasing built on a succession of inventive melodic twists that developed into a crescendo of such emotional power that I could hardly believe he could pull it off. In spite of his gifts he was ill-at-ease around us. It was easy to understand—he didn't really know us and to him we were kids. Many people get involved in music because they don't know how else to relate to other people. Mark and I never really got to know Rick, though we chattered happily away to him about ourselves. We often talked about our friend Dave, and one day when Rick came to my house to pick me up, he looked at my dog with a puzzled expression. "Hey man, is this Dave?"

Rick didn't provide many details about our first gig, and on the Sunday evening he drove us there I found out why. It was at a nursing home. How or why a nursing home hired a loud blues-rock band was a mystery, but Rick treated it with the same businesslike demeanor he might treat any gig. As we set up, I could see his hands trembling.

Once we got started, Wild Rick flew into action. He strutted like a rooster around the stage area in his alligator boots and a black satin shirt, his stubby fingers racing around the neck of his guitar, his head thrown back until his hair thrashed at the small of his back. He tore through his repertoire of blazing fast leads, low note moans, and high note shrieks. I expected our elderly audience to retreat, but their eyes never left him.

After the set a line of elderly ladies waited to meet him, most of them in wheelchairs. I broke down equipment and looked over occasionally. Every one of the ladies took his little hands in theirs, their eyes glowing up at him, and thanked him for coming to make their day so much brighter. Rick, still flushed and perspiring, thanked them for coming the same way he might thank an old friend.

Our next gig was at a coffeehouse for teens called The Garish Grape. I knew the place well and had many friends who hung out there. It was appropriately gloomy, with dripping candles, black lights, and black walls punctuated by psychedelic posters. Most bands who played there were inept at best, fumbling through Cream and Hendrix covers. I could hardly wait to do a gig in front of my peers and Wild Rick didn't disappoint. He was electrifying, and we left the crowd in slack-jawed amazement. I felt like a rock star.

But it was the very next gig that we had been building up to and that had us all on edge. It was at The Emergency, a big-time venue, featuring local stars like Grin—lead by Nils Lofgrin, who later joined Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band—and touring national acts. Rick was more wound up than usual and could barely get out more than three words at a time while we set up. I knew the gig meant a lot to him. He was sweating when he picked us up that afternoon.

Minutes before our set he pulled us into the men's room and held out two plastic cards. "I got you fake ID's just in case. But I don't want anything to happen, man. This is the night we start to make our mark on the world. Whatever you do, don't try getting a beer or anything like that. Don't even go near the bar—I'll get you cokes. And stay in the background, you know? Don't attract attention. Stay under the radar. We could all get in a lot of trouble."

The place was jammed and Rick turned his amp up all the way. On the first note I swore I could see sound waves ripple out from the stage on a fusillade of high volume. The bass made my lungs shake and the floor pulsate, I pounded the drums so hard that my hands hurt, and Rick's guitar demolished everything in sight, screaming on high notes before descending in a lightning flurry of growling riffs to crushing power chords. We were so loud that my inner ear twirled with vertigo, and several times I almost keeled over. That relentlessly visceral intensity was painful and intoxicating.

During one of Rick's solos I heard a crash and commotion through his Les Paul's cries for mercy. Five policemen ambled in and signaled for us to stop. The agitated owner ran out and spoke to the policemen. People started to leave and Rick hopped offstage to see what was happening. After about a minute he climbed back up and hurried over to me. "The cops are closing the place down, man. We're done. Let's get our stuff and get out." He gave a short laugh. "We blew the windows out, man, can you believe it? We blew the friggin' windows out!"

Rick was more silent than usual on the ride home. He pulled over in front of my house and let the engine rumble. When he turned to me, I saw tears in his eyes. "Hey man, I just want to thank you guys for everything. For everything. You were great and I'm really proud of you. I can't thank you guys enough."

"It's cool," I said, feeling a nudge of alarm. "Sorry we got kicked out, but it was fun anyway."

"Yeah, man." He turned around and wiped one sleeve across his eyes. "Okay, I'll call you guys, okay? Take it easy."

Mark and I didn't hear from Rick for a couple of weeks and he didn't return our calls. We wondered if he was discouraged by getting the boot from The Emergency, or if he decided we just weren't all that good. We still had a couple of gigs coming up and I didn't know what to think.

At last I got a call from Rick and he asked if Mark and I could meet him at Gino's, a burger joint not far from where we all lived. We waited for him and nibbled at Gino Giants, wondering why he wanted to meet us there, of all places. Maybe he wanted to formally kick us out of the band. Or maybe he wanted to discuss future plans. Maybe, Mark suggested, he was just hungry.

When Rick showed up he was wearing a white polo shirt and jeans; it was the first time I'd seen him out of his Wild Rick persona. He walked in with red eyes and a somber expression that gave me a twinge of concern. He shook our hands, which cranked that twinge into a jolt. "Hey guys, thanks for coming. I won't keep you long."

Oh no, I said to myself, here it comes. We're fired.

"Hey man, I just wanted to thank you again for all you've done. You guys were more than I could have hoped for. You work hard and you're really talented. You're going to go a long way, man. I know that."

Mark looked at me and then at Rick. "So what's happening, Rick? What's this all about? What's going on?"

"I'm sick, man." Rick took a shaky breath and lowered his eyes. "I've got cancer. I've got to go in for treatments. They say I don't really have much of a chance—maybe a couple of months left. I guess this is the end of the band. I'm really sorry, guys."

I sat staring at him, feeling as if I'd been smacked in forehead with that Les Paul of his. Mark leaned toward him. "You'll get better, Rick. I know you will. We'll come visit you in the hospital or wherever. You'll be all right."

"Yeah, don't listen to those stupid doctors," I said, still in shock. "You've got something special inside that can beat this."

"I don't know." Rick's voice lost that nervous staccato. "I'm going back home to New York State. To be near my parents and all. It's too far for you guys. And, I don't know, I just don't think you should come. I don't want you to see me, you know, after all they're going to do."

"We'll get up there, Rick," I said, fighting to comprehend. "We can borrow my mom's car."

"No, man, I don't want you to. Don't come up. Please. I can't explain it." Tears filled his eyes until they glittered like diamonds. "I just want you know how much it's meant to me to play with you guys. You helped me maybe, you know, leave something of myself behind. You guys, all this, meant a lot to me."

He got up and left. We stood at the big windows watching him drive away in his blue Falcon just as a mom came in with seven kids screaming and scrambling all over the place.

Decades later when I run into graying musicians who have been playing around the area for awhile I'll ask if they ever heard of Wild Rick Mizell. Frequently, their faces come alive. "Ricky? Wild Rick? Of course I knew him." They stop and chuckle to themselves. "Poor little Ricky." Another pause, this time without a chuckle. "Man, there will never be another Wild Rick again. Never ever again."

On a whim I recently Googled him, using all the variations of his name, wondering if his music ever did outlive him in some way. I didn't get a single hit.

**Celts, Kilts, and Kips**

Just as I managed to drop into sleep, a jolt shot me into wakefulness. There was finality in the way the train slowed in a series of jerks, a summons in the long, loud hissing of the brakes. The world was still dark, but I heard muffled noises in the corridor. I woke Charlie and Terry, picked up my pack and bouzouki case, and stumbled out of our compartment while a series of bumps knocked me sideways.

Two students with baggy pants and spiked hair already stood near the doors rubbing their eyes and blinking at each other. As my companions joined me, I put down my baggage and pressed my face against the cold window to look outside.

The night was black as doom, except for the freckles of stars above and a few random lights in the countryside. We had just reached the furthest-flung barnacle on Europe's outer hull, and I wondered again what made us think that going there would be a good idea. I noticed more lights ahead and called my friends over for a look. A small white sign with black lettering was close enough to read. "Lorient," I said as a chill squirmed through me.

The train hissed again and heaved to a stop. We shuffled behind the few others getting off. Rain gushed from a clot of clouds that swooped down from nowhere, and I regretted leaving our comfortable haven for the forbidding world of Francophones outside.

Through a labyrinthine maze of friends-of-friends-of-friends talking to the right people, we managed to get ourselves invited to perform at the Festival Interceltique in France—their first American band ever. After years of playing traditional Irish music for drunks in bars who only wanted to hear "Danny Boy," we felt like we'd been handed a promotion to play with the big boys. By day, Charlie was a bike messenger, Terry worked at a record store, and I was proofreader for a typesetting company going bankrupt, so we were all eager to make a big leap into the unknown and maybe, with luck, make it as musicians in Europe.

Our train disappeared while the other disembarking passengers evaporated like ghosts. Terry, puffy-eyed, stuck his fiddle case between his knees and lit a cigarette. Charlie looked around with a grin. "We got here late and early at the same time. I guess we won't find out where we're supposed to go for a while."

We retreated into the dingy station cafe, annoying our waiter by not being able to speak French, smoking, and pouring coffee into our stomachs while waiting for dawn to make an entrance. I found myself repeating my jokes to an increasingly unreceptive audience as a soft haze of blue began to creep over the edge of Europe. It was time for a look around. The air outside was laced with the tingle of early morning.

Lorient wasn't the simple fishing village we had envisioned. The road from the station merged with a wide, tree-lined boulevard crammed with shops and large concrete buildings checkered with wrought-iron balconies. Cars and bicycles gradually oozed onto the streets, over which strings of colorful banners fluttered in the breeze. Lorient was a modern city, without a fishing boat or stripe-shirted fisherman in sight. Rebuilt after the devastation of Allied bombing raids on a German submarine base during the last World War, much of the town looked as if it had been cobbled together from mismatched pre-fab housing leftovers without regard to grace or durability. The scent of car exhaust grew in the warming air.

The lingering effect of jet lag made me feel like a sumo wrestling team was sleeping off lunch on top of my head, and we staggered through the streets for more than two hours, following directions in the dyslexic English that the festival organizers mailed to me until we finally found a small shop with a sign taped over the glass door—"Bureau du Festival."

I bent down and squinted at the smaller sign beneath it. "Great, it opens at nine and it's quarter past. I've got a French phrase book, so I'll trying talking to them."

After a frustrating game of charades with the sleepy office inmates, I began to understand that I would have some bad news for my friends. I walked out and found the two of them sitting against the concrete wall, their heads back and mouths agape in mid-snore. I cleared my throat. "They don't have rooms for us. They said we could get some rooms, but we'd have to pay for them ourselves."

Terry spat out the candy bar he had been chewing on before he fell asleep. "What happened to the free hotel rooms they told us about?"

"They said the rooms are already full."

"Full of what?"

"Irish and Scottish musicians and dancers."

He gave me a stern look through a clump of hair that slumped like an overladen ginko branch. "You told us they were giving us rooms. What happened? How come the musicians who took a ferry to get here can stay in hotels while we're out on the street?"

"They said they might be able to give us some tents and we can sleep in the park."

Charlie smiled and sat up. "We'll be out in the French countryside, breathing fresh, pure air . . . "

"Not with you around we won't."

". . . sleeping out in the great open spaces, meditating by a singing brook each morning before going out to trash ourselves on fine French wines each night. Besides that, the daily hike in and out of town will keep us fit enough so that our excesses won't overwhelm us. Think of it! We'll get into shape and stay drunk at the same time."

"You know what those idiots told me? That the Irish and Scottish performers needed hotel rooms first because they were—get this—tired from their long journey."

"We came thousands of miles!"

"I know, and I told them, but their brains only extend as far as Ireland. After that, the world is a blank."

Mid-afternoon found us glassy-eyed and listless in a small square, surrounded by cigarette butts and empty Orangina cans. The square was a collection of concrete steps, benches, and lumps shaped vaguely like mushrooms. A no-frills fountain squirted a thin stream of water, accompanied by a farting noise, into a pool where trash bobbed on the surface. The day was hot and bright, and the hard surface on which we reclined magnified the heat, but we were too exhausted to care. After marching around all day—unable to find any festival, music, or even someone who spoke English—we resigned ourselves to watching people straggle by, keeping in mind that the train station was only ten minutes away.

"This is stupid." I flicked a finished cigarette toward the center of the square. It bounced on the concrete and spat red-hot ashes beside a group of equally bored teenagers with rainbow-colored hair. A few turned to scowl at us. "We can't sit around like this forever, we've got to do something. Let's go into that cafe across the street and play a few tunes. Maybe they'll kick us out, but at least we'll have done something and might get up some money for rooms. I don't want to sleep in some leaky tent every night after playing concerts all day."

The Cafe Marco was thick with smoke, talk, and the smell of strong coffee. It was also more upscale than most of the bars we poked our heads into, with purple velvet wallpaper, ceiling fans, and brass railings everywhere. Most of the patrons were older men who stared as we picked our way through the maze of tables to the back. A waiter with an enormous black moustache appeared and demanded our orders.

"Three beers, s'il vous plait." I knew enough about European gestures to hold up two fingers and a thumb.

Terry rubbed rosin on his bow hair so energetically that he created a miniature blizzard of white flakes that floated down to his jeans. The top of his instrument was almost entirely white with rosin, and a cigarette burn marred the finish on the bottom edge. Conversations trailed off and all eyes turned to us. I picked out a couple of notes. "Come on, our public awaits."

Without pausing, I closed my eyes and played the opening triplets of "The Dublin Reel." Charlie joined in on flute, rolling and trilling over the notes. The way he loped along with that easy rhythm betrayed his roots in old-timey and bluegrass, but the stutters and rolls were pure Irish.

Terry scraped out a couple of notes before getting caught up in the music and churning it out. He wasn't a technically great fiddler, but he was enthusiastic and knew hundreds of tunes. The sound was tight, even after our long journey. After a glance at one another, we flew into The Woman of the House, and the music took off. The tune demanded complete concentration. Terry closed his eyes and leaned into his instrument, one foot banging out time on the floor. I stared into Charlie's face, daring him to drive the music harder and harder, but couldn't tear my eyes away from our circle to see how the customers were reacting. We ended with a flourish, and as we hit the last note, I knew we'd get an immediate verdict.

An explosion of applause hit us from all sides. Even the waiters looked cheerful. A crowd gathered around the entrance, drawn by the excitement.

Terry was beaming now, and took off his glasses, slid them into a shirt pocket, then heaved into a rocking set of jigs. The growing cluster of listeners edged closer.

We ended the tunes with a long, drawn out chord, greeted by table-banging approval. I finished my beer in one gulp just as four more bottles slammed onto our table.

"Vous etes Bretons?" A voice addressed us from the smoke.

I looked up and saw a mustache and a smiling, cherubic face topped by a head of reddish hair.

'Sorry, we don't speak French," I answered. "We're American."

"Americans? Really? Bloody stinking Yanks! "Magic! I'm a Londoner meself, so I won't have to speak any poxy French to you lot."

He was sunburned and muscular, but his bemused face was chubby, with a sprinkle of freckles and pea-green eyes. Turning for a moment, he shouted to a waiter in French, and then grinned at us. "I've never heard Americans play Irish music before. I thought you were Bretons. What brings you to this desolate outpost?"

"We knew instinctively that you were here," said Terry with a facetious smirk, loosening the hairs on his bow. "So far today all we've met are some old geezers. Just tell me one thing—do you always shout when you talk?"

"I'm not shouting, mate. You're over-sensitive, that's all."

"Actually, we're here to play at the festival. Are you playing here too?"

"Not as an official performer, but I play in the sessions. I'm here for the craic."

"The craic?"

"You know, the party, the fun. It's an Irish word. So you lot are really playing here?" He pulled a chair over from another table, nearly tripping a passing waiter, and dropped onto it. "An American band? They never had one here before. How did you Yanks ever learn how to play Irish music? Anyway, if you stick with me you won't have to worry about old geezers. My name's Pete. You've got to come to Mama's, man, it's magic. Forget camping in the park—that's where the dossers go to piss. And don't go Yankee on me and book into some fancy hotel, either. Where are your Bermuda shorts and ten-gallon hats? What kind of Yanks are you, anyway?"

"Looks to me like you've kidnapped our wardrobe," said Charlie. "That's the kind of shirt we usually wear to church on Sundays."

His face opened into a huge smile. "Like it? I bought if off an American bloke in England for the craic. I didn't think nobody else at the festival would be wearing 'em, and you bloody Yanks show up and ruin my fashion surprise. Bloody bastards, you are."

"Don't worry, all we brought were our plaid pants and white belts," Terry said. "We figured we'd put them on and wait for the girls to start lining up. First we're going to sit here and drink until their defenses are down."

"If only we could get some sleep." I hadn't slept in three nights.

"Bloody sarcastic bastards." Pete rapped the table with his knuckles. "Listen, lads. This ain't a dress rehearsal, right? This is it! Life! The bloody Lorient festival! Biggest bloody music festival in the world! Did you come all the way here to worry about your health? We're not getting younger, so let's get pissed as rats."

We didn't have any better ideas, so after finishing our beers we followed Pete. "We'll get pissed out of our bleedin' heads!" he roared as we tottered out onto the light. He led us down a succession of narrow, twisting streets, yelling obscenities back at us as we hurried behind. "We'll take my van so I won't have to come back for it later when I'm too pissed. Come on, then. Life ain't a dress rehearsal!"

We arrived at an aging white van with muddy tires and patches of rust around the underside and doors. As we piled in, empty wine bottles, wadded-up sleeping bags, damp towels, several paperback novels, and a heap of sour smelling clothes greeted us. All the seats had been removed except for the driver and passenger seats, so there was plenty of room in the back.

Then we were off, Pete careening around corners and barreling down the tortuous avenues, laughing and running at the mouth, a bottle of white wine he pulled out from under his seat in one hand, the steering wheel in the other. It was then that I noticed his ability to talk continuously without stopping for breath.

"Well go straight 'round to Mama's, right? That's Le Cafe Morbihan to you, but all the lads call it Mama's. It's where all the craic is to be had, lads, it's f'kin brilliant! Mama's a right laugh and the barmaid, well jiggy-jiggy, my God—you'll meet some of the other lads there too–you'll want to play a few tunes in Mama's—no, wait, of course not, they'll give you free beer, and that might be too much for your thick Yank skulls—Mama's daughter is the barmaid, didn't I tell you? She's a lovely young blossom, she is—my mate Danny wants to ask her out but he gets too pissed and forgets—you're lucky with this weather, it usually rains in Brittany almost as much as it does in England—this van is magic, what do you think? I got it in London at Waterloo Station from some Aussies selling vans before going back home—got my redundancy from my job, and my storm and strife—wife—left me—I decided to go to Europe and get this van, get drunk, play music and have a bloody good time—now I live in the van, it's f'kin magic! You really ought to stay with me in Mama's garage, though—it's just behind the bar so you can stagger in at night, have a proper kip, come back into the bar and start up again in the morning—but, my God, the stench is shocking!"

He bounced the van up a small alley, slammed to a halt, and leapt out. "Come on, lads! We'll get pissed as rats!"

"You make it sound so elegant. This must be one of those French literary salons I've heard about."

"Sarcastic bastards."

We followed our new friend around a corner and onto a tiny street where strange-sounding music blared out of tin speakers tied to the telephone poles. The neighborhood was seedy, with dirt, bottles, cigarette butts and dog turds sprayed over the cracked pavement. The music made everything seem even more exotic and dangerous. Here we are, I thought to myself, darting furtively into a smoky den of iniquity on a disreputable side street, with wild, forbidden music beckoning us to drunken revelry in the company of strangers.

Le Café Morbihan was nearly empty, with only a few older men slouching in the back drinking pastis and murmuring to one another. The place offered several gray Formica tables surrounded by plastic chairs, and a ceiling fan that barely turned enough to keep the flies moving. The walls were lime green, and a large Irish flag had been nailed to the wall in the back and billowed crookedly in the breeze from the fan. To the left of the door stood another bar where more old men drooped over their drinks.

Sitting alone in the middle of the room was a shirtless fellow with a sputtering French cigarette stuck in his mouth. He was playing the fiddle furiously and not particularly well. He had a tangle of black hair, thick glasses, and the spotty beginnings of a beard, and his only clothes were stained white shorts, a pair of work boots, and a black plastic digital watch so large that it dwarfed his hand. Next to him sat a tall, gaunt guy with prematurely graying hair and a beard who smiled and snapped his fingers along with the fiddler while keeping a glass of wine firmly in his other hand.

"That's Tony, my mate, playing the fiddle," said Pete. "The other bloke is Mick, and he's on holiday from priest school, you know, seminary. They're English too, and they'll be glad to meet you lot—Tony's been playing here by himself all day. He's a quiet bugger, so don't mind if he doesn't say much. I do the talking for both of us. Mick's just a nutcase."

Tony kept playing while we gathered around his table and got out our instruments. He stared straight ahead, seeming not to notice us as he scratched his way through a jig. Pete trotted to the bar and returned with a large bottle of wine and a stack of glasses. "Here you go, lads! Muscadet, the best drink in town because the beer is absolute rubbish." He plopped the bottle onto the table, adding, "It's cheap and gets you well pissed."

Unable to contain his enthusiasm, he sprang from his chair and slopped wine into six glasses while Tony continued to scrape out the jigs and Mick clapped along. As he slid into "The Foxhunter's Jig," we joined in and the energy level shot up. Pete danced around the room in a comical version of a jig, spilling most of the wine, while Tony came out of his trance to grin around his cigarette.

The music intensified and groups of people wandered in. Pete drew a big round bodhran, or Irish drum, out of a plastic bag and began to bang away on it while Charlie led us into another tune, the notes popping out of the tube while he skipped effortlessly between octaves. We ploughed through The Cliffs of Moher, Tobin's Jig, The Bride's Favorite, and Tripping Up The Stairs, playing off one another, tossing in harmonies and counter melodies, and maintaining an unwavering rhythm that drove the music with a hypnotic pulse. When by mutual consent—communicated by catching one another's eyes—we ended the tunes, the patrons roared their approval and settled in to listen. Terry then started a hornpipe and Charlie picked out a harmony. Tony laid his fiddle on the table, lit another Gauloise, and nodded. "'Ello, you're quite good," he said in a sing-songy accent. "Where did you find this lot, Pete? Are they Bretons?"

"They're from America. What do you think?"

"Brits playing Irish music and now Yanks playing Irish music. Fancy that. Next I'll be hearing the Irish lads sing 'God Save the Queen.'"

"It's lovely to meet you lads," said Mick, his green eyes glowing. "Lovely music, a lovely day. Ah, the craic is mighty."

After some more tunes, Mick stood up, looked around the room with that luminous grin of his, snapped his fingers, and sang in a pleasant baritone:

Let the grasses grow and the waters flow

In a free and easy way

But give me a drop of that rare old stuff

They brew near Galway Bay!

Come policemen all, from Donegal

From Sligo and Leitrim, too

We'll give 'em the slip and have a sip

Of that real old mountain dew!

We played on into the night while more people flowed in, and could barely keep up with everyone who introduced themselves, bought us drinks, offered snippets of their life stories, or of previous encounters with Americans, or asked us why Yanks were playing Irish music. The hours dissolved into a collage of tunes and old songs and laughter, with an endless flow of Muscadet finding its way into us. With Pete leading the way, we lurched to nearly every bar in Lorient that night. We would play in some dimly lit pub or crowded cafe, drink more wine, meet more people, and be swept out to the next place.

Eventually the wine wrestled us into submission, and we found it necessary to become increasingly horizontal. Our new friends helped us through the narrow alleys of Lorient, and finally transported us to a small door which they opened and entered before depositing us on the floor of a garage where snores exploded from every corner. My new companions directed me to a sleeping bag, so I lay down and, after a round of swearing and rustling, joined the unconscious chorus.

A sinister alliance of world-class stenches finally hauled me willy-nilly back into consciousness. The undead souls of sour wine, stale tobacco, intestinal gas—and above all, the vinegar of overworn socks—mingled briefly before they assaulted my nostrils and slithered toward my stomach. A whiff of hot tea thrust itself to the forefront.

"You'd better get up. You lot have to play soon." Pete leaned over me with a cup filled with hot tea, still in his Hawaiian shirt and leather cap.

"Play?" I croaked. "I can't even move, and my head is somewhere under a car."

"That sensation in your head is the Muscadet. Anyway, Mama says you can stay back here as long as you like."

"Lucky us." I forced myself to sit up and waited for the first wave of dizziness to pass. The floor was hard as concrete, and upon closer examination, I found that it was concrete. "Where the hell are we?"

"You wouldn't remember, would you? This is Mama's garage. Listen mate, you lot are on Paris television in an hour. You might want to run a comb through your hair. After all, several million frog-eaters will be staring at your gob this afternoon."

"Who told you that?"

"Charlie went down and talked to the festival people."

After pulling on my shoes I pushed open the heavy wooden door that separated the garage from the bar and stepped into a haze of tobacco smoke. The place was already full of familiar faces, many of them already flushed from drink. The jukebox churned out Mike Oldfield's "Moonlight Shadow" as a group of shirtless young men danced in a line holding chairs over their heads. Mama, the owner, was a robust older woman with eggplant-dyed hair who hustled about, smiled at me, then scolded her laughing customers, none of whom could understand a word she said. I washed my face in cold water in the bathroom, dabbed at it with wads of toilet paper, then returned to the pub.

"You survived last night, eh?" Charlie looked refreshed by the previous night's excesses as he lounged at the bar with a cigarette. Terry sat red-eyed and miserable.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You looked so cute lying there in the dirt, your mouth wide open to give free rein to your melodious snores. I've never seen you put away wine like you did last night. Even the Paddies were impressed."

"Is there anything to eat out here?" I caught sight of a girl behind the counter who was pulling a beer and sneaking glances at me. I hadn't see her the day before, and would certainly have remembered if I had. Her honey-blond hair was a sea of curls, and she wore a gray skirt and a white shirt that hugged her shapely form. The skin on her face was smoother than I thought was possible for any human over the age of three, her green eyes twinkled with humor, and her lips were so full and juicy that I couldn't rip my eyes off them.

Pete flung his arm around my neck. "That's Lash, who I was telling you about yesterday. She's lovely, isn't she? A really lovely person, too. All the lads here are in love with her, but she doesn't speak any English. You look like you've fallen under her spell, you do. You're not the first."

Terry's eyes began to vibrate. "I don't feel well at all—in fact, I think I'm getting the flu or maybe something worse. I'm afraid to eat anything. Everywhere we go we're surrounded by stink, thieves, and weird food. You've seen the toilets. They're just little holes in the floor where you're expected to insert everything."

Mick ambled over and gave us a meaningful look. "Lad, you have to be a sharpshooter and a contortionist to use a French toilet for anything serious."

"You guys ought to get a job with the French tourist board." My eyes clung to the girl's face as she handed frothing beers to the boisterous Irish boys, her lips stretching at the corners as she smiled.

"Mick, if you're going to be a priest, you're going to have to deal with a lot of these very problems. The stink of incense, taking confession from thieves, eating weird food at church dinners . . ."

"Personally, I find the French charming," said Charlie. "It's amusing to observe the astonishment and delight with which they listen to me speak their language. Often, as they take note of fine points of grammar or syntax in my speech, I notice with satisfaction their cold stares of appreciation."

"I'm not sure we should trust Pete," Terry murmured as Mick headed for the toilet. "We don't even know him, but we've practically put our lives in his hands."

Charlie shook his head. "His life is not only an open book, but he'll even turn the pages for you. He wants to tell you everything about himself in one breath. So far he's been pretty good to us. He even got us into this dump. By the way, Mama said we could lock our instruments in her storage room. And Terry, you know that this place has a real toilet. Why do you think the Paddies stay here? So quit worrying so much. You and Mick should think of the first disciples, going out into the dangerous pagan world, eating weird food, grappling with Paddies, using strange toilet fixtures. You're following in holy footsteps."

Terry stood blowing his nose. The capillaries in his eyes bulged red and his face held a grim expression. He wasn't kidding when he told us he didn't feel well.

"You should get some more sleep," I told him. "Charlie and I can do this. Get some tea and rest up."

Terry picked up his fiddle case. "I'm not here to sleep. I told you guys I'd do this with you, and that's what I'm going to do. I can't get any sleep back there anyway. There's always somebody coming in or out, or farting, or talking loud. I'll be fine."

Pete's voice boomed into my ear. "Down there for dancing, up here for thinking! I mean drinking! Hey, you lads better get down to the Palais if you want to be television stars. Millions are waiting to hear you, so try and give us a smile."

Holding our instrument cases over our heads to protect ourselves from the rain, we wound through a maze of lanes lined by cream-colored buildings with shops on the street level. The walls and lampposts were plastered with posters of all ages advertising concerts, films, lectures and other entertainments, most of them too worn to read. Every other door opened into a smoke-stuffed bar or cafe, each home to its own visiting nationality where a gang of Scots, Welsh, Bretons, Irish, or Galicians might be found drinking, arguing, or singing their national songs. The soggy air smelled of rotting vegetables. Pete darted into one shop and returned with cans of Coke and "Baby Koo" ice cream bars.

"Bloody 'Baby Koo,'" he remarked. "Leave it to the French."

The Palais de Congress was a glass and steel monstrosity on a grassy hill overlooking the harbor, and the hub of festival activity. Pete ran ahead to find out where the "American band" was supposed to go, and then emerged from the clusters of umbrellas to wave. "Hurry up, these blokes want to interview you in three minutes."

We soon found ourselves in a large tent at the front of the Palais surrounded by television types who positioned microphones, chairs, and cameras while we sat on our assigned stools and began tuning up. Technicians adjusted their lights on us until they blinded us.

"Those rehearsals the last couple of months were all well and good," said Charlie. "But once we're in front of those cameras, it's every man for himself."

The interviewer—a tall, distinguished-looking man with huge sunglasses, a powder blue suit, and a black kerchief around his neck—sat at a table, combed his mustache, and tested the mics. Pete sat next to us and poured out a large glass of wine from a bottle somebody handed him. The interviewer said something and Pete looked confused. "I think he says to play something."

Charlie slipped into an easy set of jigs as the crowd grew larger. Terry and I joined in just as the interviewer drew one finger across his throat, signaling us to stop.

"Now he says if you're American, why do you play Irish music?"

Charlie and Terry sat frozen so I was forced to talk. "Our families are Irish, and we've heard Irish music all our lives. Charlie has played all over Ireland, and Terry plays at dances every weekend."

"Why do so many people in France play jazz?" Terry snapped. "After all, jazz is from America. Does that mean French people shouldn't play jazz? Is there something wrong with us playing Irish music?"

Pete's smile fell as he struggled to translate this into something polite. "Now he says, how do you like Brittany? What do you think of the festival?"

"Tell him Brittany is nice, but the only music we've heard so far is coming out of those horrible little speakers they stick up everywhere. Apart from that, traveling five thousand miles to be forced to beg our way into some filthy stink-hole populated by flatulent teenagers was a lovely introduction to the festival."

Pete lowered his voice to a hiss. "Just play some reels or something."

Terry launched into a set of minor key reels, throwing in loud barks from the adjacent strings to inject that mad energy peculiar to Irish music. Charlie jumped in, and they played note for note at a breakneck clip, slashing, trilling, and embellishing so fiercely that I almost forgot to play along. When we roared to a close, the crowd cheered. Charlie's face was flushed and he flashed Terry a thumbs-up. "You are the man!"

Each day blurred into the next as we flung ourselves into the spirit of the festival. The town of Lorient transformed itself for ten days into a Mardi Gras, music festival, and Celtic family reunion all rolled into one. There were concerts, parades, dances, rooftop performances, impromptu jam sessions, the occasional fight, and pipe bands marching through the streets around the clock. Everybody in town was drunk all the time, and in a buoyant mood.

We fell in with people from all over the Celtic world—prim Cornish groups who played the simple but melodic music from their windswept land; Welsh singers who mostly kept to themselves and only spoke English grudgingly; Galicians who painted their faces red and stayed up all night dancing, drinking, and singing around roaring bonfires; Scottish pipers in kilts who managed to play perfectly even when extremely drunk; Bretons—dressed in their regional costume of white shirts, black trousers and vests and wide-brimmed hats—who never missed an opportunity to express their pride in being Celts even while the Irish poked merciless fun at them.

After playing one or two concerts a day on stages set up in tents or auditoriums around town, we spent the rest of our time in the company of new acquaintances, playing tunes, comparing versions and the variety of names we knew them by, and drinking way too much Muscadet or fizzy French beer.

One night I found myself playing with a group of musicians from Cork around a fire just outside the Palais de Congress. The music was fierce, everyone was drunk, and a huge crowd had gathered. After running inside the Palais to use their toilet, I returned and paused to buy some frites at a small stand near our fire. As I stood eating the scalding hot frites and listening to the music, I looked at the empty plastic chair with my bouzouki on it and felt a thrill gurgle through my body. This is so cool! And I'm a part of it. I'm accepted. They even left my place for me to come back to. I almost laughed at my own thoughts, but only because I realized that they were true. This is cool—what I'm doing and part of is cool—I'm cool!

Pete was right about Lash—I was completely smitten and couldn't take my eyes from her when she was around. He was also right that she didn't speak any English, and it was probably a perfect mode of defense for her too, because nobody could get anywhere with her. I did think she liked me because of the way she allowed a sideways smile and raised her eyes when she looked at me. She always smiled when I caught her eye. It drove me mad. She didn't work in the evenings, but that's when we found ourselves back at Mama's, where we played for our friends until we got too wasted to be entertaining and Mama herded us back into the garage for the night. There we would find spaces for ourselves and crawl into our sleeping bags on the concrete floor. Living for the moment was rough work.

On the night before the last day of the festival, Charlie, Terry, Pete, Tony, Mick, and I pooled our money and got a cheap hotel room so we could finally catch up on some sleep. As light poured in the windows, the jagged claw of morning scraped through our tangle of blankets, pillows, backpacks, socks, cigarette butts, wine bottles, folded up pamphlets and hung-over people crammed into our tiny hotel room. Only a few hours before, we had been conversing in melodious tones with wit and insight, punctuated by bursts of the music of our Celtic forebears, celebrating our latest concert. Now we lay in a stuffy hotel room while a crowd of pipers tuned up on the street below our window, squawking horribly.

Pete was first to push aside the debris and get up. I reluctantly opened one eye and saw that he was wearing an Abba T-shirt and a pair of purple underpants decorated with the signs of the zodiac. I filed this observation away for future commentary.

"What did we do to ourselves last night?" Pete muttered as he surveyed the wreckage.

He stomped around the room, splashing his face in the sink, blowing his nose and swearing until the rest of us rose up to face the rest of our lives. The bagpipes outside provided suitable background music, squealing and wailing without pause. He opened the window, which let in a rush of hot air and unfiltered bagpipe shrieks.

"Bollocks!" Pete pulled on his jeans as he stuck his head out. "All the worst pipers in Lorient are down there and more are on the way. Let's get down to Mama's and get good and pissed with our mates and say goodbye. This is the last day, and tonight is the Porte de Peche."

Lash wasn't at Mama's that day, and I was afraid I'd never see her again. I had put together a few sentences in French so I could ask for her address and if I might write to her. Disappointment helped me down the watery French beer I drank with our Irish friends in farewell. That evening, the sun exhaled orange streaks across the western sky while Pete whirled his van through the cluttered maze of streets. Everyone was out for the last binge of the festival held at the old fish market, or Port de Peche.

People poured in from all directions while the salty aroma of grilled fish drifted through the streets. Pete parked on a side street and we wandered into the rapidly filling area set aside for the occasion. The Rue de Port de Peche was a long, broad boulevard lined with bars, cafes, restaurants, and brasseries, their doors flung open to let the blaring music escape. Outside, tables were jammed with customers.

A plywood stage with a cardboard sign announcing Dogs Among the Bushes, like every stage set up at intervals of about fifty yards, was covered with huge black speakers and sound engineers making a few last adjustments. Several crates of beer lay scattered between the black cords coiled on the stage. People engorged the festival area while darkness completed its invasion. The strings of red and yellow lights blinked on, casting everything in a Halloweenish glow. Rising columns of red-hot cinders enhanced this effect, swirling into the air from the grills.

We wound through the crush of people to the back of the stage, shoved our instruments onto the wooden platform, and pulled a few beers for ourselves. Pete reached over and helped himself to one while Tony and Mick pushed their way through the crowd to buy fish at a nearby grill.

Pete looked around licking his lips. "I could do with a proper bit of jiggy-jiggy; I haven't had it in weeks. There's plenty of it around. Last year, my God, I was sore for weeks after the Port de Peche."

Charlie shook his head. "I hope you won't forget a little something called love."

"Right, then, I'd love to find some jiggy tonight. Is that better, you sarcastic prat? Anyway, I wanted to ask you about something. I was thinking that maybe I could, well . . ."

"Drink all our beer?"

"Yeah, that too. But could I play with you lot tonight, officially, I mean? You know, play all the sets. I know most of your material already."

"Are you sure you want to?" asked Charlie. "I thought you wanted to lose yourself in fleshly pleasures. You'll have to hang around the stage all night."

"Free beer, mate. Free beer."

We soon found ourselves confronted by thousands of swaying, shouting people, a mass of bodies as far as we could see up both sides of the boulevard. We stormed into the first number, leaning close to the mics to be heard through the roar. Our section of the crowd fixed on us with intoxicated enthusiasm. The gang from Mama's even came to hurl friendly insults at us. We flew from one tune or song to the next without a pause.

After the first set, I slithered through the crowd to get at those grilled fish at a nearby stand, wondering how I could find words to capture the festival experience in my postcards to friends. Thousands of people were crammed into those half dozen blocks of Celtic music, roasting meat, and bedlam. They were carousing, kissing, shouting, and laughing under the orange lights, and of course everyone was drunk. Two working toilets served the entire area, which meant that the stench of human waste grew fouler as the night wore on. Dozens of wet triangles on the sides of the buildings gave evidence of the normal procedure. Bagpipes squealed from every direction, adding a reedy drone that fluttered over everything.

Long past midnight we heaved ourselves onstage to play a last set that was as unsteady as the audience. The dancing was more labored, the shouts weaker and hoarse, and eyes undulated in bobbing heads. A thin spray of rain squirted from the clouds, driving most of the crowd indoors. Finally, as the chaos wound down and the sound engineers pulled on their rain ponchos and began to break down the sound equipment, we retired to the nearest café.

Inside, we took a table by the big glass windows looking out onto the street. Outside, crowds of wet people running under their jacket collars to late night bars. More people trickled in, including the contingent from Mama's, in various stages of intoxication. As I stared idly out at the clumps of humanity, a crash on the table startled me fully awake.

It was Tony, unloading an armful of bottles of Breton cider. More people joined us at our table, including many we didn't recognize. One guy in a derby hat started playing reels on the Irish pipes while a chunky little woman seated herself on Terry's knee and covered his face in dry, pecking kisses.

Cider was spurting everywhere, and more people jammed themselves into the bar, pulled out their instruments, and played. When I heard someone flop onto a chair beside me, I tried to see who it was just as a woman placed herself on my lap grabbed me around the neck. My chair was angled so that when I turned my head, my face was under the woman's arm, which only made her hold me tighter.

"It's yourself, you old goat, you." A familiar Irish voice boomed over my head.

The woman on my lap got up and, with a smile and an apology in French, ran to a man at the bar. I was finally able to see that the newcomer was Martin, one of our roommates at Mamas. In spite of the cool temperature, he was shirtless and in shorts. His blue eyes twinkled under a mop of black hair.

"Ah ha, what did I tell you?" He turned to his companions at the next table and pushed me playfully. "Breaking hearts all over France, your heartless Yank. What would Lash think?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean! Women in your lap or sighing at you through windows while you're living it up in the pub, entertaining exotic ladies and flattering rich countesses. You should be ashamed."

"What do you mean, what would Lash think? What does she care?"

"As if you don't know. Everybody sees the looks you give each other. I'll tell you, she doesn't look at anybody else like that. She's always asking us lads when you'll be coming around to the pub. I think she's in love with you."

Everything in my life stopped for an instant. "Are you serious?"

"It's too late now, though. She's gone on holiday to Spain with her parents, since the festival's about done. Did I tell you that her family's filthy rich? Anyway, she's a bit disappointed. I'm getting a drink. Cheers."

"Hey, lads, have you heard?" shouted a voice from the doorway. "Have you heard the news? Come on, let's go!"

"What news?" bellowed back several more.

"Someone found a body outside. A dead body. Somebody died or was murdered or something terrible! Let's go have a look!"

Tables and chairs scraped on the wooden floor. Most of the people in the bar leapt up from where they were sitting and swarmed to the door. Pete sat back his chair and took a long drink from a cider bottle. "Another bloody ridiculous rumor to end the festival with. Well, I say bollocks to this. It's time to leave, mates. The festival's done, and now it looks like trouble may be on the way. I'm not going back home to England any time soon. I've got no job, no girlfriend, no home. We've been talking about traveling around and busking, maybe going to Germany. What do you say, lads?"

"I told you, I'm in," said Charlie without hesitation. "Let's go."

Terry frowned uncertainly. "I guess I can stay a little longer."

"Me and Mick are still on holiday, so where do you want to go?" Tony asked.

Pete slid a map out of his back pocket. "There are loads of places in Brittany where we can make money playing on the street. After Mick and Tony head back to England, we four can go to Germany and play there. Think of the beer, lads. Proper German beer after this pisswater here in France! Loads of money, too. Bloody loads. First off, Carnac isn't far from here, and they even have a beach. We can make money busking there. I say we head there tonight. Right now."

Charlie turned to me. "What do you think? You want to go for it?"

I knew this moment was coming. We had originally come just to play at the festival, but all of Europe was spread out before us. Pete had a van, and we could make money as we traveled. I hated my job back home, wasn't married, and didn't have any financial responsibilities to speak of. I could even send rent money back to the group house where I lived. There had never been a moment in my life, before or since, when I felt so utterly, wildly free. The entire world held out its big, warm hand to me. "How much do those bottles of Muscadet cost? Let's get an armload and get on the road."

The streets of Lorient were littered with garbage and intoxicated stragglers, and amber streetlights cast everything in a strange, otherworldly glow—the kind of glow you might see in a malaria patient, or hovering in the clouds over a landfill. As we drove, those lights dimmed behind us until all that was left was an orange halo on the horizon. Before us, silver clouds scraped across the face of the moon. The first stars we'd seen all week maintained their usual distance while beckoning us to follow their eternal and unerring direction.

**Godzilla In Washington**

Meeting my new musical partner was like witnessing Godzilla in mid-stomp on downtown Washington, DC. I arrived at the designated pub and found myself in a crowd of people looking up. I followed their gaze and there he was, in red leather pants and spiked green hair, playing the fiddle on the metal awning of the movie theater next door, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose, stamping out the rhythm with a maniacal grin. It wasn't quite the auspicious beginning I hoped for.

"Hey mate, is that you?" His English accent was unmistakable and somehow appropriate. "Come on up here, you bastard! I've been waiting for you for hours. Come on, then!"

The eyes fixed on him now swiveled around to me, and I felt that I was expected to provide some explanation. I had none. All I knew was that his name was Winston, he headed a band playing traditional Irish music, he was looking for guitar player to fill in for one who went missing, and that I was to meet him at Ellen's Irish Pub. I cleared my throat, unsure of how to address that gaudy person. "Is this the gig? Are we playing up there?"

Winston stared at me with a smile nudging the left corner of his mouth. "Are you bloody simple? It's next door at the pub, you tosser." He lifted his instrument to his chin and raised his bow. "But first let's have a good few tunes up here, right?"

As Winston launched into "The Dublin Reel," my heart fell. I was hoping to revive my stagnant musical career, and sitting in with Winston's band, Haggis, was going to be the first step. I heard them months earlier and they were hot, with a devoted following that showed up for all their gigs. If I could get a toenail in the door with Haggis, it might lead to something that might lead to something. But as Winston leapt on the not-so-sturdy awning while bits of rust showered onto the sidewalk, I saw that instead of igniting my own career, I would spend the evening watching Winston torch his.

"All right, if you won't come up here I'm going to have to come down there." Winston crouched down, tossed his fiddle and bow to me—which shocked me more than his outdoor dance recital—and jumped down, slamming the soles of his Frye boots on the sidewalk. His group of fans, mostly women in their twenties who appeared to be successful professionals, clapped and cheered while Winston righted himself with a lopsided grin. "Right, then. Let's go in and have a drink."

"Are you all right?" I asked. "Hey, that was a pretty dangerous . . ."

Winston grabbed his fiddle and bow from my hands, reached an arm around one young woman with short, dark hair and glasses, and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Here, mate, this is Connie. She's a lovely young thing, isn't she? Look at that round, soft bottom. Like an apple in the first flush of bloom, wouldn't you say?"

As the two of them looked at me, I was mortified to find that after Winston's introduction I was unable to prevent my eyes from focusing on the very part of the woman's anatomy that he brought to my attention. "Yes, very nice," I heard myself mutter through dry lips.

Further interrogation was halted when Winston pulled her close, mashed his lips to hers, and stood entwined with Connie in full make-out position. I decided that it was time to check out the stage and, with a deep breath, entered the pub.

I had been to Ellen's before, and was hit by the familiar scents of roasting onion bread—from the bakery in the back—and beer-soaked carpet mingling in the gloom. Ellen stood at the bar staring at a handful of playing cards and cursing to herself across from an older gentleman with thinning white hair and a black-and-white polyester sweater three sizes too small for him. She was north of sixty, short, and had the look of someone who had seen far too many rough nights. The empty shot glasses between them and their hardened eyes let me know that it would be healthier for me to introduce myself later, or perhaps not at all.

I made my way past the mismatched tables and chairs scattered around the plank floor to the stage, which was nailed together from plywood and covered by a greasy green carpet. Three wooden stools were perched on the stage behind three microphone stands. To one side of the stage, an ancient PA amplifier sat on an orange crate with equally geriatric wires spewing from the back, studded by electrical tape wound around hastily rigged splices. The wires meandered up and around the walls to indeterminate destinations that I hoped would turn out to be functioning speakers.

"All right, so you made it?"

A figure rose from a smoke-enclosed booth near the back and approached me with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a pint of Guinness in his hand. I recognized him as Tom, the banjo player. He was a muscular guy, with a massive head of thick hair, pink cheeks, a moustache that made him look like Errol Flynn, and eyes so dark they almost looked as if he used mascara. Those eyes hinted at some terrible tragedy in his life, and I wasn't surprised to glance over at his booth to see that he was sitting with two beautiful women. Something about haunted men with hidden tragedies was irresistible to women, and Tom oozed haunted and tragic. Being a bit of a cynic, I guessed that his aura was more a matter of genes than fate, but I wasn't going to begrudge him that advantage.

"I guess you saw Winston outside making an ass of himself," Tom said, squeezing my hand. "Might as well get the sound system in order. You brought a microphone, right? We've got everything else."

"Yeah, and a cord." I poked my microphone into the cradle on top of the stand, plugged my cord into the mic, and glanced at the amp. "No offense, but does this thing really work?"

"Sometimes." Tom squatted beside the amp and fiddled with the connections. "I don't know why I put myself through this crap."

A swirl of activity announced that Winston was approaching the stage. I wasn't sure whether the three girls with him were holding him upright or the other way around. He murmured and giggled with them, and then placed his fiddle on the stage, put a full pint of Guinness beside it, picked up an ashtray from a nearby table, and slid it beside the pint. "All right, lads, lets give 'em some stick, right? How's the system Tom?"

After some crackling from speakers that I couldn't see, Tom tapped his microphone. "Good enough, so far. We'll see."

After tuning up to Tom's banjo and making a few adjustments to the volume on the PA, we were ready to start. The place was already filled, and several customers shouted out good-natured insults at Winston, who returned their comments with profanities and laughter. After asking if I knew The Salamanca Reel and Joe Cooley's Reel, to which I responded in the positive, Tom leaned over his instrument and plucked a few triplets out of the banjo before catching fire and really cranking it out. I watched Winston's bow leap and flash over the strings of his instrument, placed the guitar on my lap, closed my eyes, and dove in. Winston really took off, rolling and trilling over the notes.

We ended the tunes with a drawn out chord, which was greeted by noisy cheers. Before the clapping subsided, Winston pulled his microphone down. "All right, thanks very much. We'd like to welcome our new guitarist tonight. He's doing a smashing job, wouldn't you say?"

That was the first I heard that I was their new guitarist. Before I could say anything, Tom turned to me. "You know "Raglan Road," right?"

Without waiting for my reply, he tippy-toed into the opening notes of that beautiful song. Luckily, I knew it well, and fingerpicked the accompaniment. Winston pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, blinked, then drew the bow across his strings and pulled the melody from that combination with such tenderness and subtlety that I could hardly believe it was being played by the same person who had, not half-an-hour earlier, been stomping and swearing on the movie theater awning next door.

But it was when he lowered his fiddle, closed his eyes, and began to sing that the transformation blossomed in all its astonishing suddenness. With sweat sliding from his scalp to his neck, he sang with the voice of an angel. Clear, pure, and overflowing with unfiltered sincerity, he sang that song of unrequited love as if it just happened to him that very afternoon and his emotions remained too raw for irony or bitterness. After a couple of verses, he brought the fiddle back up and played a solo of soaring, aching notes that startled all within listening distance. After the solo, he put the fiddle on his lap, picked up the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray at his feet, and smoked while Tom massaged out a sweeter succession of notes than I thought possible for a banjo. At last, Winston sang the last verse in a near whisper, and let the song go like a child letting go of an outgrown toy.

Before I—or the audience—could recover, Winston again lifted his fiddle to his chin and lashed into a string of swirling, lickity-split jigs that sent a shudder through the room. Unable to remain sitting, most of the audience sprang to their feet and attempted fired-up approximations of Irish dancing while Ellen and her card game rival hurried back and dragged chairs and tables from harm's way.

That was how our first night together began, and it seemed like that evening continued for nearly a year. We played two nights a week at Ellen's; a couple at a larger, more Irish-themed club uptown where we got the same response and many of the same audience members; and a few odd gigs at colleges, festivals, and other bars. All this happened during a period of the late nineteen-seventies when the people I knew held a fatalistic view of life that bordered on European. Almost everyone I knew smoked and drank, but possessed a fierce determination to have as much fun as they possibly could before it was out of their hands. I got caught up in the drinking culture, and everyone around me, except my family, agreed that my increased drinking was a good thing, leading to distinct improvements in my overall demeanor.

The problem with that lifestyle is that life tends to dribble by more rapidly than usual, and that ten-month stint with Haggis seemed like a couple of weeks. Winston moved in with a succession of girlfriends, each of whom ended up dumping him after they tried putting up with his drunkenness, blatant flirtation with his fans, and occasional burst of public displays like the one I witnessed on that first night. Tom took up with Joyce, one of Winston's ex's, and they moved in together and rarely left their apartment. Joyce's anger toward Winston, and whatever he had done to earn it, appeared to be a foundation of their relationship, because Tom became very cool toward Winston, and when Joyce came to our gigs she would sit with Tom far from the stage during breaks. I found myself going out with a lovely girl who lived in her parent's basement, and she would sneak me in after they went to bed. I say "found myself," because during that period when I was always at least half drunk, people and occurrences drifted in and out of my life without any effort on my part.

After ten months of playing in bars and drinking for free, it began to dawn on me that I was headed in a very dangerous direction. Looking at Winston and Tom, who had lived that life far longer, it wasn't difficult to see what lay ahead. Tom became sullen and inward, and even during gigs drank enough to kill a shipload of sailors. So many girlfriends threw Winston out that he was on the verge of becoming homeless. I lived in a small group house, and after Winston spent a couple of nights on our sofa, my housemates voted to bar him from future sleepovers. Ellen let him sleep in her pub, but only when the baker was working and could keep an eye on him.

One night Winston scurried up to me on a snowy sidewalk as I was walking to Ellen's. He was wearing only a T-shirt, underpants and those Frye boots. "Hey, mate, here, I need a bit of help."

"All right, Winston, come on. We'll go over to my place and get you some clothes. What happened? Where you mugged?"

"No, I lost everything to Ellen. We were playing cards and I wanted to win something back. She already had my money and my watch. And, bloody hell, she wouldn't let me win them back."

We turned and hurried toward my place, which was a few blocks away. I stopped and stared into his face. "What's wrong with you, man? You lost your damned pants in a poker game in November to an old lady? Are you nuts?"

"Mate, you don't understand." He turned his face away, and tears emerged from behind his glasses. "Everything is screwed. Christina is leaving, mate. She's leaving. I can't bloody take any more of this."

"What are you talking about? You mean that girl with the really long hair and big eyes? You're in love with her? Winston, you're in love with everyone."

"No, this is real. I really love her, mate. I'm in love. It really hurts."

His face squeezed itself together as a fresh gush of tears wetted his cheeks. At that moment I realized I had only seen the eccentric, flamboyant fiddler and failed to perceive the vulnerable kid that was the real Winston. After all, something drove him to act out the way he did. I knew a few things about him—his mother died recently, his father's relationship with him consisted of sending checks from a trust fund, and he had grown up living in many different parts of the world, none long enough to call home. He was a person with a great and deep pain inside, and losing his latest girlfriend tore the scab away and exposed the wound. "Come on, Winston. Let's at least get you some clothes, all right? We can talk about this and see what we can do. But I still don't understand why you had to gamble your clothes away."

"Because I'm a bloody moron, that's why. Whenever I feel bad I do something bloody stupid. I don't know why. I just do."

We showed up twenty minutes late for our gig. Most of our fans had gone home for the holidays, so we didn't recognize many faces in the audience. Tom shook his head without looking at Winston and played a few notes to help us get in tune. We started with jigs and sounded tight and lively. I hoped that Winston would pull himself together and get through the night.

A dozen inebriated young women trailed in, one wearing a wedding veil and a belt of bright plastic sex toys tied around her waist. A bachelorette party! To musicians, these traveling girl-parties are the most dreaded of visitors. One girl stumbled to the stage with a grin that betrayed her inexperience with alcohol. "Hey, my best friend's getting married! Woo hoo! Come on, guys, play her a song, okay? Can you play her something? How about, you know, something about, you know, the first night? In bed? Come on, you can do it! Please?"

"All right, love." Winston pushed his glasses up and began to sing "Maids When You're Young," a song about a young girl who finds her much older bridegroom a disappointing lover. We put as much gusto into it as we could, but the girls were oblivious to us. They staggered around drinking and hooting at each other. Several more girls shouted at us to do another song for the bride. Winston looked rattled. "I'm afraid we don't have more songs like that, but here's a jig called "The Bride's Favorite."

As we plunged into the jig, the girls hooted and hopped for a few moments until the bride-to-be lurched to a trash can in one corner of the room. Her hunched back and convulsive heaves announced that the bachelorette party was winding down, and her friends rushed over and guided her out into the night. Tom and I glanced at each other, but before we finished that jig a group of guys in their twenties wandered in, ordered beers, and planted themselves in front of the stage. They talked together in loud voices so they could hear each other over the music. Unfortunately, we could also hear them clearly, but couldn't hear each other at all. We gritted our teeth and made it to the end of that tune.

"Hey lads, would you mind moving over a bit?" Winston asked. "We're having a bit of trouble hearing ourselves."

"Right, oh right, sorry about that," said one. The group moved to one side and continued shouting at one another while we tried to play a song. Winston had a series of shots of whiskey brought to him on the stage and his playing was becoming careless. As Winston mangled the song, Tom glared at him, his lips tight.

Tom led us into a set of reels, and more guys came in to join the group already there. Bit by bit they shifted and moved until they once again stood in front of the stage. Their faces flushed with alcohol and voices bellowing, they were obviously having a great time, but we couldn't hear ourselves. Winston again asked them to move.

A guy with short blond hair and startling blue eyes turned his red face to Winston. "Hey, are you a Brit? What's that accent? You sound like a Brit! A goddamned Brit!"

Winston laughed and muttered something, hoping to make a joke of it, but the man was having none of it. "You're a goddamned Brit, aren't you? What in the hell are you doing in an Irish bar? Get the hell out of here, Brit bastard!"

Tom put down his banjo and rose from his chair. I got up too, ready to defend Winston, who I knew was already feeling vulnerable. Luckily, Ellen hurried back and escorted the guy to the door.

It was time to take a break, and I could see that Winston wasn't his usual cheery self. What was usual was that he was drunk, but it was taking an ugly turn. As he stumbled off the stage he grabbed my shoulder. "Here, mate, hang on. Let's have a drink together, right? You're my best friend, mate. The best friend I have left."

His eyes weren't focusing and he squashed his words together. "Maybe you ought to have a coffee or some water, Winston. We still have two sets to go."

Winston's face tensed and his body clenched. "Bloody hell, mate. I don't know what's going on in my life any more. What am I doing here? I should be at Christina's feet begging for forgiveness. Instead, here I am wanking away on the fiddle, getting pissed, getting slagged for being a Brit. I'm not even wearing my own clothes. I don't know where I'm going to sleep tonight after the gig." He raised one hand and closed it into a fist. "I've been a bloody idiot, mate. Bugger this!"

With a quick jerk, he turned and punched his fist into a wooden column beside us. The impact of his fist sent a thud through the room, but the column and its layers of bright green paint didn't budge.

Winston, however, sank to the floor, his face purple and his eyes so wide his glasses fell off. "Oh bloody hell! Holy Jesus!"

Tom appeared and stood over Winston with a smirk. "Nice one, Winston. Lucky that was your bowing hand or we'd be totally screwed."

I helped Winston to a table where I convinced him to sit down while I got some ice from the machine in the back. I brought back a small bucket of ice and plunged Winston's hand into it. "Come on, Winston, calm down, man. We'll figure out something to do later on. We've just got to get through this gig tonight. Can you still hold the bow?"

"Yeah, I think so. God, I'm a bloody idiot."

The next set was more perfunctory than the first because Winston was barely remaining upright while Tom and I covered for his weakened playing. Unfortunately, Winston continued to drink whiskeys, and by the time we took our next break, his eyes were half closed and his mouth dangled open. When we left the stage, Tom retreated to his booth while I helped Winston up. "Here, why don't we go for a walk outside? You could use some fresh air."

Winston shrugged me off. "I'm not going for a bloody walk, mate. I need a drink."

"Man, you're wasted. We only have one more set."

"Screw it, mate." He stood swaying, his face downcast. At last he turned to me and flopped an arm over my shoulder. "Here, mate, you've been a good friend. A good friend. You're a good man." He paused, struggling to focus. "I'm a bloody idiot."

"I know." I got him to sit down with some coffee and put his hand into ice again. While he sat slumped in his chair, I walked up to the bar for a drink and saw Christina. She was slightly heavy-set below the waist and slender above, with very long, gleaming hair and violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor's. Her strong features and intelligent expression made her undeniably attractive, and the sparkling silver earrings dangling from those smooth, rounded lobes added an air of elegance. I ordered a Guinness, keeping an eye on her and hoping she would remain out of Winston's sight.

When we returned to the stage for our last set, the place was crowded and noisy, and Winston showed more signs of life. He took a sip of coffee and gave me a wink. "All right, lads. The Salamanca, right?"

We flew into the tunes at a gallop, and the crowd responded with a whoop. Winston's playing stuttered and glided along with its characteristic panache, while Tom's injections of dissonant chords at crucial phrase shifts drove the tune with manic energy. My eyes scanned the perimeter, watching for Christina.

Winston shot me a smile and charged into "The Sailor's Bonnet," a wild reel that never failed to get everybody, including us, going. I felt like I was sitting a foot above my stool. Winston tore the tune up, slashing and sliding so fiercely that it nearly exploded. Even Tom was caught up in the excitement, closing his eyes and pushing into the tune with everything he had.

Then I saw her, sitting at a table near the back with a guy in a long ponytail and wearing a jean jacket. She sat watching us without expression. I turned to Winston and saw his eyes. He knew Christina was there.

I wished we could have made that set of tunes last all night, because I knew Winston wouldn't stop playing until it was over. Unfortunately, they roared to an end and the audience erupted. Winston turned, tossed his fiddle onto the stage, and smashed the amplifier full force with his bruised fist. The audience cheered as he hunched in pain.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I heard Tom groan.

I got up and bent over Winston. "Hey man, what did you do?"

"Oh, holy Jesus, I've broken my friggin' hand, mate. Oh Jesus, it hurts."

"Are you sure? Let me see."

Winston looked up, his face twisted and tear-soaked. "I can't take this. Why would she come here?"

A curious buzz ran through the room. I felt a shock of panic. "We've got to play, Winston. Can you do it? Do you need to go the hospital? Oh crap, what should we do?"

Winston straightened himself, jutted out his chin, picked up his fiddle, and started to play a slip jig. In the middle of the first phrase, his face went white, the bow dropped from his fingers, and he slid from the front of his stool and landed on the floor. That got a laugh from the audience, but the laughter stopped when they got a look at those glassy eyes and graying face. He held his bowing out in front of him, and it didn't take a doctor to see that it was broken. I glanced to the back of the stage and noticed Tom picking up his case and opening the back door. When he saw that I spotted him bailing out on us, he gave me a wink and a thumbs up, slid out the door, and closed it behind him. After that night, I didn't see him again for years.

A tall man with thinning hair and glasses jumped up onto the stage, knelt beside Winston, checked him over, and squinted up at me. "He's got some broken fingers and possibly a broken wrist. Call an ambulance. He's going into shock and he's had a lot to drink. Go, he needs medical attention now."

I ran to the bar and told Ellen to call an ambulance. A crowd clustered around Winston while I darted in and out of the pub waiting for the paramedics. It seemed like hours later when an ambulance pulled up with a screech and two big guys in blue uniforms leapt out. I led them to the stage, and they checked Winston over before laying him on a stretcher and carrying him out to the ambulance. I wasn't sure who was more in shock—Winston or me.

"Can I go to the hospital with him?" I asked one of the paramedics.

"Afraid not. You can follow us if you want."

The ambulance sped off into the night while the crowd moved outside. I looked over at the metal awning of the movie theater and noticed that it looked askew. My band, my friends, all scattered to the ends of the earth in the space of a few minutes. I felt like the ground slipped out from beneath me. Finally, I returned to the stage and packed up our equipment.

The next day I called the hospital, but they knew nothing about Winston. After a few more calls I found another hospital where he was taken, but he had somehow disappeared earlier that morning. Nobody knew where he had gone.

I heard plenty of rumors about him over the years—he was a pop star in Spain, he got married to a French girl and lived in Burgundy, he had six kids, he was working in a chip shop in Ireland, he had a heart attack and barely survived, he had grandchildren. But I never managed to track him down and contact him.

One night nearly thirty years later I was half watching the BBC on television, and I could have sworn I saw him. His hair was wispy and gray, his glasses thicker than ever, and he wore a suit. It was a story on some economic summit in London, and they were showing a group of economists going into a meeting. I only saw him for a few seconds, but the bolt of adrenalin that raced through my system didn't lie. It was sure that it was Winston.

It wasn't. But that moment of false recognition gave me a jolt. We are all on a one-way street. Everybody knows that it's true, of course, but at that moment the little scrap of knowledge always present, always taken for granted, reared up in all its glorious, inescapable, and invincible power. Like Godzilla in Washington.

**Freiburgitis**

After driving for two and a half days across France we finally pulled over about a hundred yards from the Rhine Bridge in Alsace near Colmar. On the other side of the river, a lone church spire jabbed skyward against a backdrop of blue mountains. The sun glowed orange as it eased closer to the horizon.

"Germany! I can't bloody believe this, mates—we're actually here." Pete raised his arms high above his head and leaned backwards to stretch. "I wish I could have a proper shower before crossing the border." His sunburned face was glossy with perspiration, and he wore only stained white shorts, battered sneakers, and the leather cap that never left his head.

"Yes sir, looking at you three I'd have to say we look pretty bad," Charlie said, crushing a cigarette on the gravel. "That's the last of my smokes, thank God. Those Galoise are killers. When we get to Freiburg I'm gonna find something decent. Maybe I'll start smoking those roll-your-own."

I dug through my pockets and came up with a woefully light load. "Here we are about to enter a new country and all I have is twenty francs, or about two dollars. Besides that, I've been wearing the same clothes for days. I'm going to have to pull a Queen Elizabeth and douse myself with perfume to cover the smell."

"Guess what else?" said Terry. "Today is Saturday. The banks won't open till Monday. This is typical of us. No money, filthy dirty, can't change money, and can't speak the language. Now, after six weeks in France, we have to limp over into the land of beer and don't have the money to buy any."

I climbed up and slid into the driver's seat. "I don't want to freak you out or anything, but there's always the possibility of actually busking for money. That's why we're here, isn't it? Living on edge while we're still young and all that crap?"

"I know that, but I'm a bit older than you and that edge is a lot sharper now," said Pete. "That bloody divorce took a lot out of me. We've been driving for days, busking, pissing it up all night, and never getting any sleep. It would be nice to wash up, relax a little, have some tea and a proper meal for a change. Doesn't look like there's much chance of that, does it?"

The city of Freiburg lay curled in the hills of the Black Forest, and the slender tower of its ancient cathedral rose into the sky to mark the center of town. As we drove through residential streets in the dwindling light, following signs for Zentrum, we dodged swarms of bicyclists. Trolley tracks tugged at the wheels, threatening to throw us off course. At last we parked near a medieval archway with turrets on either side that marked the entrance to the pedestrian zone. The air was scented with the aroma of roasting meat, and footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. Smaller streets radiated from the center, lined with pubs, cafes, and restaurants. A network of shallow gutters, or Bachle, ran down the sides of the streets gurgling with swift moving water. As we wandered we became willing recipients of the spell Freiburg cast over us. The stillness, the ever-present sound of water splashing in the fountains and Bachle, the students in their tight jeans, baggy sweaters and colorful scarves, and the handsome Gothic architecture subtly unknotted our nerves. I had come to Europe to get over a painful breakup with my longtime girlfriend, and ended up staying far longer than planned. When I looked up at the stone lacework of the cathedral tower, illuminated by floodlights, I felt a strange sadness at the thought of leaving, even though we just arrived.

"I hear these German girls are wild," said Pete. "Once we start playing, they'll be fighting each other to shag us."

My eyes struggled to look everywhere at once because the streets swarmed with tall, gorgeous women. "Damn, they're like goddesses!"

Terry stopped to listen to the faint sound of applause wafting through the air. "Let's check out the competition."

We followed the scraps of music until we turned a corner to see a crowd of about thirty people clapping along while a bearded and bespectacled busker strummed a battered guitar. Deutschmarks poured into the guitar case lying open in front of him. I turned to the other three. "I think we should get our instruments and show this town what real music is all about."

Pete rubbed his fingers through his hair. "I'm absolutely shattered, mate. We've still got some petrol, so let's find a campground and get a bit of rest so we can hit them full force tomorrow. We all stink and I can still feel the road knocking me about."

The others outvoted me and we started back to the van. I drove out of town, searching the countryside until Pete spotted the universal triangle symbol for a campground, which pointed to "Camping Lunisee."

"Camping Lunacy?" laughed Pete. "Sounds custom-made for us."

Charlie and Terry drifted into the camp office to register while Pete and I set up the tent. I checked out the facilities and laughed at myself for rejoicing over the cleanest toilets I had ever seen. After a hot shower, a shave, and a change into some fresh clothes, I felt miraculously revived. Soon we were strolling under the stars past the lake that gave the campground its name of Lunisee, or Moon Lake. We found an empty table on the terrace of the camp cafe and joined the groups of Germans in jogging suits who sat talking and drinking large bottles of beer. Pete lost no time in getting to the take-out window and chattering away in French and English to the woman there until she finally gave in. Pete returned with an armload of Furstenburg beers. "We're in luck! They take French francs here. Bloody 'ell, this is what I've been dreaming of for a month—a real, proper beer. Look at the size of them, too. Not those poxy little thimblefuls they dole out in France." He took a long pull, then gazed at the bottle with misting eyes. "This beer is beautiful, man, gorgeous."

The next morning a fresh breeze swirled through the tent, dispersing the stink of mildewed canvas and overworn socks. I was alone and guessed that the others had already headed over to the café. For a few minutes I lay listening to the wind. At last I crawled out of my sleeping bag to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. Outside, clouds drifted across the blue sky, windsurfers skittered around the lake, and families played with Frisbees or ate at tables by their tents. Pine-forested mountains ringed the lake. I spotted Charlie lounging in the sun outside the café, draped over his chair with a cigarette between his fingers, dressed only in a leather vest and jeans, his wet hair tied back into a ponytail. "Yes sir, the slug arises," he greeted me. "Sometimes I think you use sleep as a crutch for a deeper problem."

"Yeah, I sleep to escape from you."

"Pete's in the bathroom no doubt having one of those wanks he's always talking about. He'll burst a vein worrying about all these Nordic goddesses and trying to steer them away from me. Terry's washing some socks. Let's go into town and busk, 'cause we just spent all our French money. Now we've got nothing."

As the orange tiles and jutting spires of Freiburg peeked over the treetops before stepping into view, the sun was warming rather than hot. The wind buffeted my face as I leaned out of the window. I managed to grasp the moment, and couldn't suppress a burst of joy as I howled at the open sky.

"What was that all about?"

"Come on, this is brilliant! We're in Germany, we got a good night's sleep, showers, clean clothes, and now we're going into that lovely city to play music and hang out with beautiful German girls."

The streets heaved with people, and stalls bursting with clothes, fruits, and vegetables piled onto the walkways in front of the shops. We walked to the square surrounding the cathedral and wound our way on cobblestones carpeted with flower petals to the front. Then we mounted the three stairs up to the massive wooden doors. Charlie stopped and looked it up and down, his hands on his hips. "This is perfect."

Brightly painted baroque buildings surrounded the square with ornate arcades and crowded cafes. The gothic cathedral was built of pink sandstone and still betrayed its age in spite of the newer stones put in during restoration. In the very thick of the market activity squatted a fountain spewing out a slow stream of water into a round stone basin.

"I hope so," I said. "In a few minutes those people better come over here to hand us their money because all I've got to buy any food are two bits of lint in my pocket."

The flute lashed into a reel called "Lucy Campbell," and a few people paused to listen. Then the fiddle and bouzouki slashed into the tune flying note-for-note along with the flute. At last, Pete slid into the tune on the bodhran and a crowd began to form. Heads bobbed in time to the music, smiles emerged on face after face, and change jingled into the cap that lay between us and our audience. More people stopped to watch until we had a crowd so large that I wondered how many of them could actually hear us. We ended our first number and the volume from the cheers echoed through the square. We decided to play until we saw signs of disinterest, but the crowd only grew larger.

"I think we'd better stop," Charlie said at last. "We've got to leave 'em wanting more, and we shouldn't subject them to Pete more than we have to."

"I'm going to ignore your stupid comments because we've got a flippin' fortune here." Pete held up his sagging cap. "Some people actually thanked me while handing me their money! And they handed it to a bodhran player, Charlie—can you believe it? Not to some poseur flutist who fancies himself."

We busked at a few more locations where we received similar responses. Afterwards, we decided to split up to get a much-needed break from each other, and planned to meet at eight that evening at a disreputable looking bar we passed called "Das Delirium." I was relieved to be on my own and roamed the streets, allowing myself to be mesmerized by the fountains scattered all over town. After finding a bench in a square near the university I sat listening to the echo of the Fussgangerzone. Freiburg was a maze of tiny side streets lined with shops selling jewelry, puppets, or exotic clothing. Lured by an inexpensive restaurant in the basement of a Hertie department store, I treated myself to a meal of local venison with mushroom sauce, pepper-encrusted sausage, fries, and a salad of pickled vegetables. On my way out, I bought a bar of dark chocolate filled with hazelnuts, and with the first taste I was addicted. I fell more in love with Freiburg with every passing moment. Some magical quality in the cobbled streets, gentle fountains, and fragrant air led me to feel at peace in a way I'd never known before.

When it was time to meet up with the others I pushed open the Delirium's poster-plastered door. The walls, more smothered in posters than the door, looked like they had been built during the Crusades. Each thick wooden table was rutted with graffiti and sported a candle jammed into a wine bottle, an ashtray with plumes of smoke rising from it, and a large beer in front of each customer. Most of the people were young, with long, painted, or spiked hair, and casual to bizarre clothes. The barman, a massive guy with a bushy black beard and bald head, stood behind the bar doling out frothing mugs of beer.

"Over here!" Charlie bent over one table while he spread shredded tobacco on a slip of paper in his hand. "We asked the bartender if we could play and he said no problem, soon as Pete gets out of the toilet."

As we started into "The Foxhunter's Jig" conversation stopped and the previously earnest-faced Germans clapped happily along. The barman brought more beer—on the house—and we kept playing as the ancient Bierstube rocked with music.

That night I learned to take German beer seriously. It flowed down smooth and easy, but before I realized it, I was a rag doll in its grip. We kept going while people attempted to dance in the cramped quarters, and several young guys pulled up chairs, snatched instruments out of cases, and began to play along.

"Hope you don't mind if we join in, like," said a hulking Irish fellow who yanked a big black accordion onto his lap. He wore a purple sweatshirt and crinkly hair tumbled down his back. "You're not bad. But why are Yanks playing Irish music?"

A skinny, dark-haired guy with an enormous nose jammed a fiddle to his neck. "Do you know this one?" He fired off a tune I vaguely knew while I struggled to find the combination of chords to play along with him.

Between tunes dozens of people, most of them Irish, came over to talk and offer us cigarettes. Strangers pressed phone numbers and addresses into my hand, and all manner of advice on busking was given and forgotten. After a hazy period of more talk and more drinking, followed by a boisterous drive on the autobahn, I found myself climbing over the fence to the campground while dawn painted the sky a luminous blue.

Each morning for the next two weeks we hopped into the van, rolled into Freiburg, and busked around town most of the day. Later, we would take a break from each other, then play at one of the nightspots in town—Das Delirium, Der Auerhahn, Brenessle, or one of many other bars we got to know. We would invariably meet up with our new acquaintances and finish the evening with long, beery jam sessions.

Life in Freiburg stretched long past the time when we should have moved on. We had gotten a bad case of what our new friends called "Freiburgitis"—the apparently common disinclination to leave Freiburg, even for a day. This got worse when Charlie fell for Connie, a pretty university student, and started spending his spare time with her.

Eventually, the clear weather we had been blessed with was replaced by a ceiling of black clouds spewing out an endless stream of drizzle. The gloom and wet eventually made busking impossible, and we spent entire days lying in the tent or sitting in the van nursing beers. Our money began to run dangerously low, and after living on bread and cheese most days, I felt the constant hum of hunger in my belly.

Early one rare clear morning, moments before the sun touched the sky, I lay awake in the tent. The campsite was quiet except for Pete's snoring and a sharp wind that made the tent billow in and out as though gasping for air. I felt uneasy. Something was different that day. The air held a chill in it and carried the aroma of decaying leaves.

I crept outside. There I found Charlie sitting on top of the van in the blue light of dawn smoking a cigarette and staring toward the mountains while the wind grabbed the smoke and danced away with it. He held a bottle of wine in one hand and his cheeks were wet. "What are you doing up before the crack of afternoon?"

"I couldn't sleep anymore. Are you all right?"

"Come on up. I'll give you some of this Blauburgunder and roll you a smoke."

I climbed to the roof of the van and for several minutes we sat looking out over the glowing horizon. Heliotrope clouds drifted low, scraping the treetops on the hills before descending into the valleys. The first smudges of rust colored the leaves.

"Something weird is going on," said Charlie. "I feel like I need to get out of here or I'll go crazy. Does that sound nuts or what?"

"Not to me. I think we'd better get out of here before we end up frozen in the tent."

"All I can do is play that damned flute. I never got a college degree, don't have any interest in computers, nothing. If I can't make it as a musician, I'm screwed. That's all I have. I'll end up in some gutter, dead. I have no job skills, and no interest in anything but music." Charlie flicked his cigarette away and lit another one he rolled. "Do you realize that it's already the middle of September? We don't have one single gig. We don't even have a place to live, except in that leaky tent. One day we'll have to slink out of here and go home just to keep from starving or freezing to death."

"Then let's go." I slid off the van and hurried back to the tent. Pete was already sitting up, the skin under his eyes swollen. "Hey, what's the craic?"

"I'm just getting a jacket. How come you're up early for a change?"

"I told you I'm meeting that East German girl again, you know, Sabina, today on the Munsterplatz. Sabina's father is some professor who escaped from the east with a price on his head. When we're talking she acts like she's thinking of something else."

"You should be used to that."

"Piss off, mate, it's too early for your jokes. Anyway, I can hardly understand a word she says even when she speaks English. Her dad has some kind of special protection. She is a headcase, but look at her, mate! I could do with some of that. Anyway, what are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep." I pulled a blue turtleneck from my pack. "What do you think of getting out of Freiburg, at least for a while? We've been thinking about . . . "

"I was wondering when you'd come around to that." He sprang up from his sleeping bag. "To tell you the truth I wouldn't mind seeing someplace new. You Yanks have been in a trance ever since we got here. I'll wake up Terry. He's still snoring away."

We joined Charlie to watch the sun emerge over the hills and melt away the last clouds. After a short nap we showered, ate breakfast at the cafe, then broke down the tent, paid our bill from the fund set aside for that purpose, and bid farewell to the campground manager. Once in town, we made straight for the cathedral. As we walked down the main pedestrian boulevard past the shops, fountains, odd sculptures, and rushing water of the Bachle, I tried to absorb every detail, every image, so that I could hold it forever in my memory. Clouds rolled from the hills to darken the sky, and the vendors and shoppers on the Fussgangerzone turned their faces worriedly skyward.

At the Munsterplatz we busked on the cathedral steps as we did every day, but the crowd was larger than usual. We then busked all over the Fussgangerzone, pouring the money into our "getaway fund," as Pete called it. But the wind blew colder as we walked back into the Munsterplatz for one last look.

"We still don't know the best place to go," said Pete.

"Let's talk to Irish Tony," I said. "He knows all the right places to go; he's been a busker for years. I told you he said he was going to get in touch with that chain of Irish Pubs and get us some gigs."

At that moment Connie came strolling around the corner of the cathedral. She wore an oversized yellow jacket, her short brown hair was spiked, and a smile was forming on her usually earnest face. She always knew when we'd get into town and where we'd busk first. She put one arm around Charlie and pulled his face down to kiss him. As she drew back, her expression changed. She glanced at me and Pete, and then at me again, her face a question mark.

Charlie led her aside. "Ah, Helga, I've got a bit of news for you."

The two talked quietly together near a worn sandstone cathedral column. I opened up a bar of chocolate and hazelnuts and offered some to Pete and Terry. Helga's face trembled, and she wiped away tears with a pink handkerchief while Charlie hugged her. After a few minutes, she stood up straight and strode over to Pete and me. "I hear that you are leaving us," she said as she grabbed and pumped our hands. "I'm hoping not for very long. I have a friend who has been wanting to meet you. So, here she is now."

A young woman with long dark hair and a bulky red sweater rode up on a bicycle. She dismounted, pushed the mass of gleaming hair out of her face, then chatted with Connie a moment before Connie introduced her. I could smell the herbal fragrance of her shampoo.

"This is my friend, Helga. She works with me in my political action group."

Helga's presence pulled my nervous system so taut that I felt like I was wearing a corset. Her hair shone like polished walnut, hers brown eyes rested calmly beneath dark eyebrows, and her long, straight nose was instantly endearing. As our group stood talking, I couldn't get over my feelings of excitement. I noticed that Helga repeatedly glanced at me until she finally turned to Connie and said something in German.

"How about going off for some tea or a beer?" barked Pete as she took Helga's arm. "Do you like Irish music?"

Helga's look changed to one of confusion.

Connie whispered in my ear. "Get Pete away from her."

Charlie must have gotten the message, because he began to question Pete about the location of one of his shirts. Pete was taken in because his borrowing of our belongings was a constant source of contention. As Charlie and Pete argued, I swallowed my own shyness and asked Helga if she was from Freiburg, which was difficult because she didn't speak much English and my German was limited to the ordering of beer. She answered with an embarrassed smile that she grew up in a little town in the Black Forest.

"Where in America are you from?" she asked.

"We're from near Baltimore. Well, except Pete. He's from London."

"I see." Her eyes softened. "You are liking Germany?"

"Oh yes, very much. And you are in a political action group with Connie?"

"That's right, yes. I go to the medical school here."

"Medical school? You must be quite an interesting person."

"So must you."

She paused. "There's a jazz concert tonight that you might like to hear."

"I'll go," I blurted out.

She pushed back her tumbling hair. "But what about your friends? Are you not playing music tonight also?"

"Not tonight; we're taking the night off." Trying to suppress my elation, I turned to Charlie and made arrangements to meet them later at the Harlequin. Helga spoke briefly with Connie.

"So you're off with Helga, are you?" Pete's voice had it's usual perk, but something in his eyes was disturbingly dark. "Good for you. She's right tasty. Sorry about moving in like that."

"Yeah, what was that all about? I didn't expect you to turn into a rival."

He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it and turned away. "I wanted to give you an out."

"I'll take care of my own love life. By the way, aren't you meeting Sabina?"

"That's right!" He picked up his drum bag and hurried off. "See you at the Harlequin, and be sure to be there by midnight. We need to talk to Irish Tony. Remember, we're leaving tonight no matter what."

Helga and I wandered together through the cobblestone streets immersed in our halting conversation. Her face danced with different expressions, especially when she had to think in English, and her voice betrayed the musical lilt of the region. By the time we reached the jazz club I was already halfway in love with her. Barely aware of the concert—held in an old warehouse where we sat on a concrete floor surrounded by Alternativs—my eyes were on her through the entire show.

Soon I felt her arm on mine and she took my hand. The touch of her skin sent a thrill through my system, and before long we put our arms around each other. We moved outside to a wooden bench where we embraced and kissed without a thought for anything else in the world. All ideas about leaving Freiburg were forgotten as we kissed more passionately. Her hands ran up my neck and down my back, and I gave in completely to my emotions—the first joyful emotions I'd felt in years. The clean smell of her hair entwining itself in my fingers, her searching lips, and her sighs, aroused feelings I thought I'd never experience again.

"Oh, I am not believing this," she murmured. "I am so happy you came to Freiburg. I am so happy to find such a nice boy."

The bells clanged midnight, and I had to meet the others at the Harlequin. It was painful to withdraw from the closeness of her warmth, even for a moment. "I'm sorry, but I told my friends I'd meet them now. It's important."

"I am sorry." She gave me a long, deep kiss. "I don't want them to be angry with me. Is it possible to be coming too?"

"Of course."

We walked together down the dark streets listening to the muttering water of the Bachle. She rested her head on my shoulder and I held her close. I was completely intoxicated with Helga, and the world outside seemed unreal and unimportant. Feeling her hand on my waist and her hair on my cheek lifted me to an intensely heightened joy in being alive. She was real, and I couldn't think of leaving, no matter what anyone thought.

Somehow we made it to the pub that was half-hidden behind the movie theater under the sign of a dancing Harlequin. I took a breath to steady myself and kissed Helga one more time. We pressed past the row of backs at the long front bar until we reached the rear room, barely lit by amber lamps, where many local buskers, including Irish Tony, would often meet. The first person I saw in the gloom was Tony himself, sitting at a table with a pile of change and a cigarette perched on the ashtray in front of him. A few other buskers lounged about, including Charlie, Terry, and Pete.

"How are ya?" Tony greeted me in his raspy voice. Years of singing on the streets had taken their toll on his vocal chords. His thick black hair was tied into a tight ponytail and he looked up at me with his perpetually red-rimmed green eyes—humorous but with more than a hint of cynicism. His lean body was curled over the change in concentration.

"Tony's got a place in Switzerland he thinks we should check out," said Charlie.

I wanted to shift the subject. "Is it true you're going back to Ireland?"

"Yeah, I'm really pissed off with this life. After seven years I'm ready to go back home and settle down a bit. I've done a lot and seen a lot, but it wears you out. Especially now that things are changing. Back a few years, people were idealistic and loved music. Now, young people are only into money and stereo systems and cars and all. Material things. Buskers aren't so cool anymore. You came in on the tail end of the good times. It's not so bad yet. Anyway, enough of this philosophizing. As I was telling your friends, you should head to Biel, just a few hours from here."

He picked up a map from where it rested beside his money. "There're some buskers I'm putting you onto called The Squires. They do old song and dance stuff and they're brilliant. I have a feeling you'll get on with them, and Biel's a good town. They don't get many tourists, but you can make good money."

"Sounds all right to me," said Terry.

"Switzerland is the place to go—that's where the real money is. Germany's overflowing with buskers and it's hard to make a living. But you've done well to avoid cities like Frankfurt or Munich. Smaller places, like Freiburg, have less competition and are less jaded."

"What about the Irish Pubs? Do you know where we might find them?"

Tony sat back in his chair and blinked at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I was just talking on the telephone to the guy who books the pubs and he mentioned that they were all booked solid for the next month or so."

"So you know this guy?"

"Ian? Sure, for years. I can call him back and see if I can sort out something for you after that. I can even give you his number. He's a sound lad."

"That would be great of you."

"So Pete, how was Sabina?" I was buying time, trying to figure out how to tell the others I didn't want to leave.

Pete took a long pull at his beer and shot a look at Helga. "Oh, she was acting all stupid on me. You know, crying, laughing, mumbling to herself. Finally pissed off somewhere. Don't know what's wrong with her."

Tony tapped me on the arm. "Look, let me show you how to get there. Go down the number five autobahn, then once you cross over the Rhine into Switzerland at Basle, follow signs for . . . "

"Look, Tony, I've got to talk to these two about something important. Maybe we should stick it out here for awhile until we can get some gigs at these pubs. I'm not ready to go anywhere. Not now."

At that moment, a petite girl with short blond hair and eyes thickly lined in black staggered past the bar and into the back room. She wore a black skirt that barely peeked out from under a black leather motorcycle jacket. At last she turned to me with tears all over her face. It was Sabina. "You are leaving now, even tonight," she moaned between sobs. "I must now be able to tell you how I feel."

"What?"

"Now I must tell you how much I love you." Sabina choked back her tears. "I have loved you since I first saw you playing your music. Didn't you know?"

I felt like I'd been blindsided by a Chicago Bears linebacker. "Sabina, you don't even know me and I don't know you! I mean, we only met once for ten seconds . . ."

"I love you so much. Oh, please don't hate me." Giving in to her tears, she sank to the floor. "I can't live without you anymore."

"Friggin' 'ell!" said Pete, tugging on Sabina's arm to get her back on her feet. "I didn't know she was like this. She's out of her head."

Charlie's friend Matt, a thin guy wearing overalls, shoved his way through the crowd at the bar. He looked at me, his green eyes half hidden by a swatch of red hair. "Listen up, there's two guys going around asking about some buskers."

"We're off for the night," said Tony. "Tell him to look around the Munsterplatz tomorrow morning."

"No, they're after two Americans and their Brit friend. Some old geezer is going around town with a copper. The man says his daughter ran away to follow some busker and he's out to get his hands on the guy. She's underage, you see. Fifteen. Is this her?"

Tony jerked out of his chair. "You didn't tell them anything, did you?"

"I told them I never heard of them. But they're checking around everywhere."

"Bollocks, I knew this bird here was a headcase," said Pete. "But she's only fifteen?"

I bolted upright. "Hey, if her dad's looking for some guy, then that guy must be me! He's assuming I'm taking advantage of his daughter. Oh, this is just friggin' great."

Helga stared at Sabina. She then turned to me and fired off a look that stopped my heart.

"Helga, I don't even know this girl!"

"Listen," said Tony, putting one hand on my arm. "I'll show you a way out of here where nobody will see you. Let's get going. You'd better leave now."

Helga pushed her way through the people crowded at the bar.

"I swear, Helga, I don't know her!" I squirmed my way through to follow her. "This is all a big mistake!"

Irish Tony grabbed me on the shoulder and pulled me back. "It's no good, man. You won't catch her, and even if you did, she wouldn't listen to you right now."

"What am I going to do? This is crazy!" I looked at Sabina, who stood crying into her hands. "I'm sorry you're upset, but I don't understand."

"I am sorry," she squeaked. "I took some pills, and now my feelings are not able to hide anymore."

"Oh God. What did you take?"

"I'll sort it out for you if you'll listen to me for a minute." Irish Tony pushed me into a corner. The other patrons turned to observe, a few concerned, more amused. "You three have got to go right now. The Polizei will be here before long, so you don't want to stay here. You're attracting quite a crowd. I'm telling you, man, go!"

"But I've got to talk to Helga."

"Matt, keep a hold on Sabina until I get back, right?" Tony ordered. "We've got to get her straight before her father finds her. I want to get this sorted out."

Charlie dragged me to the back door while I wondered what happened so suddenly in the yellow light of the Harlequin.

"Keep quiet and follow me."

We hurried through the unlit alleyways between buildings, avoiding the streets entirely. At last the alley opened onto a street near the Fussgangerzone.

"We're near the van," whispered Pete. "How did Tony know where it was?"

"You'd be surprised at some things I know. I'm a curious bastard."

"Then do you know anything about this father and his police pal?" I asked. "This is crazy. I swear I barely know her."

"Listen," Tony interrupted. "You're going to have to get away for a while, trust me. You don't want any trouble with the police. I've heard about Sabina, and this isn't the first time she's pulled this. Another friend of mine, a juggler, had some problems with her too. Had to go to court so he split the country."

"What will I tell Helga? Holy crap, I don't even have her phone number or address or anything. I don't even know her last name!"

Tony pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, wrote something on a scrap of paper, and handed it to me. "This is the address of the Harlequin. Write to Matt at that address and he'll get Helga your mail. We'll take care of things for you. I promise."

Moments later we were careening through the maze of streets. Clouds sagged low over the town and rain brushed the windshield. After whipping through the deserted industrial area we sped onto the autobahn. The rain cut loose at the van like machine gun fire. The lights of Freiburg disappeared behind the hills while raindrops on the windows turned those lights into distorted blobs of color.

We traveled and busked through Switzerland and Italy, but when we finally returned to Freiburg weeks later, neither Connie nor Helga were anywhere to be found. Irish Tony had already returned to Ireland. After about a week of busking in the rain, making no money, and looking everywhere for Helga, we finally gave up. Winter was on its way and the other buskers in Europe had either gone home or were spending the winter in Greece or Spain.

It was a long, cold road to London and our flight back to the States, and it wasn't until many years later that I returned to Freiburg. Wandering alone through the Munsterplatz with a thick bar of dark chocolate and hazelnuts, I again smelled roasting Wurst, watched groups of laughing students trip through the cobblestone square, and heard the gurgle of the Bachle and the ancient bells of the cathedral. A group of buskers played next to the fountain, but I didn't know them, and to them I was just another passing tourist. I found myself looking twice at every pretty, dark-haired girl, expecting for one fleeting moment to find Helga. Somewhere along the road of life she must have gotten over Freiburgitis, but I never did.

**Three White Boys**

The first time The Summits filed into our rehearsal room I was too overawed to say a word. We were a pimply teenaged rock band that hadn't yet played a gig, but they were the Real Thing. Tall, well-dressed, in their twenties, and black. They were professionals. They had a record out that was getting radio play. They had credibility. They even had James, an agent/manager, who came in wearing a blood-red shirt unbuttoned to his navel to expose his big chocolate chest liberally strung with gold chains. How Jimmy, our guitarist and leader, convinced them to audition us to be their new backup band was a mystery to me.

James didn't dawdle. "I want to thank y'all for taking the time to get together with us. We just moved here to D.C. and need a band. I've got gigs lined up, so we need to do a lot without much time. Jimmy tells me you boys don't mind hard work, and that's what it's gonna take. This here is Reggie, Ralph, Al and Ben."

We shook hand with The Summits, each of whom exuded a different cologne. Reggie was a short, husky guy with bright eyes; Ralph had a huge Afro and was tall and lanky; Al wore a black fedora and sunglasses; while I figured Ben was the star because of his baby-face and athletic build. Al picked up a case and pulled out a saxophone. "I'm gonna let The Summits here show you a little bit of what they do, and then maybe you can play something for us so we can get a chance to hear you."

The Summits lined up before us, snapped their fingers in rhythm, and began to sway as one. Ralph sang in a bass so low and rich I wondered how such a lean body could produce it. "Oh now, hey Jude—hey Jude—hey Jude."

While he laid out the bass line, the others slid in with perfect harmonies—"Hey Jude, don't make it bad..." They swung around to sway in the other direction, fingers still snapping. "Take a sad song, oh yeah, and make it better."

They moved and sang with exquisitely synchronized movements in their Motown style version of the Beatles song, and I felt thrilled and embarrassed at the same time. They were so good I would have paid money to get into the audition just to listen, but also felt hopelessly young and amateur. There was no hesitation in their movements, no second guessing, no quaver in those voices. They knew exactly what they were doing, exhibiting the kind of supreme confidence that I could only dream about. When Al began a solo on saxophone that oozed like molten bronze while the rest of the Summits hummed in harmony behind him, I almost cried.

When they finished, Jimmy, Dave and I applauded, glancing at each other.

"All right, how about if you boys play us a little something?" James rubbed his hands together and smiled. "Play anything you like."

The Summits sat down and helped themselves to the cokes and beers that Jimmy brought downstairs in a cooler.

Dave and I were still in high school. Dave played bass and didn't smoke, drink, or take drugs, and slaved away at learning to play the bass. Paul McCartney was his hero, and he was determined to make it as a musician. Jimmy was eighteen, out of school, and lived with his dad in a brick colonial in the suburbs, except that his dad was always away in Las Vegas or Atlantic City, leaving Jimmy to be king of the house. Jimmy drove a '55 Chevy and had been a classic greaser until the first time he heard the album Are You Experienced? and underwent an epiphany. He grew his hair long, smoked loads of pot, and practiced the guitar like a fiend. He bought all of Hendrix's albums, a few by Johnny Winter, and spent his days and nights forcing his fingers to play what his heroes played. That obsessive slog paid off, because in just a couple of years he had become a monster lead guitarist. He played a cheap Kappa guitar and said he preferred it to any Fender or Gibson he ever tried. Being a legal adult, he drank Budweisers and smoked Marlboros. I could tell that, whatever his relationship with an unmentioned mother, it wasn't a good one. He always had some dopey but pretty girl in his bed—stoned out of her mind—but he felt nothing but contempt for women. Once, while talking about an upcoming party we had been invited to, I asked if he was bringing his latest girlfriend. He looked at me as if I suggested he eat cat food. "Bring that heifer to a party? I wouldn't take her out in public." I never understood why girls would have anything to do with him, but he never had problems finding them.

The Summits were waiting. Jimmy turned to Dave and me. "Changes, right? Two, three, four..." He closed his eyes and I could have sworn that little mustache of his bristled as he roared into the opening riffs of the Hendrix song we practiced a thousand times. Dave and I came in together right on the beat, our eyes on Jimmy's face, but Jimmy was already in another world, sending back barely intelligible messages from his guitar through the amp. His playing was as unflinching as the Summits' performance. His guitar wailed, wah-wahed, moaned, and flashed into a flurry of notes so fast and complex that the Summits looked at each other and nodded. Jimmy's head jerked back, his mouth opened slightly, and he really cut loose. His guitar wept, pleaded, and screamed while his mouth moved as if the sound was coming from deep inside him. My self-consciousness faded as Jimmy carried us. All worries about what the Summits or James might think of us fell away like nothing, and we lost ourselves in the music.

Jimmy turned to us, raised the neck of his guitar, and the raging storm dropped to a whisper. All that was left was that pulsing, relentless riff on bass and guitar with my drums whacking out the beat without deviation. Jimmy sang, though he wasn't much of a singer, and that riff slowly swelled. He kept singing, the riff kept building, until it reared itself up into an explosion that threatened to knock out the walls. All together we stopped, Jimmy played a short exit riff, and we came in again together for one last crashing chord.

James ran over and shook our hands. "Oh man, you boys are good! So tight! And you never lost that beat, that's the main thing. That beat was just right there, beginning to end, bass and drums together. Jimmy, you are incredible! Come on, do something all together—something you can all do."

At Reggie's suggestion we jumped into a blues shuffle jam. Al played a solo, and then one by one, the Summits took turns on the verses and came together in harmony on the chorus—Everything you do, you know I feel blue, but everything you do isn't true—it makes me blue. I never heard the song before, but it fell together without mishap.

After that we practiced every other night, and we three white boys often got together before the Summits arrived to go over difficult passages. It was tough work, but James was always there to keep us focused. The Summits didn't merely work on their harmonies and arrangements, but synchronized those with their dance steps, hand movements, and even the way they turned their heads. They had to work a lot harder than we did, but they were tireless.

Finally came the night of our first gig. James brought fake ID's for Dave and me so we could get into the club, though neither of us drank anything stronger than orange juice. Dave and I told our moms were playing for a teen club. James drove us all in his van down Georgia Avenue into Washington, DC. It was an all-black area, and some neighborhoods were still barely cooling off from the riots of the late sixties. Dave and I felt apprehensive, but didn't want it to show.

We pulled up to a nondescript joint called The Georgia Avenue Club. Clots of guys in big Afros and bell-bottoms were hanging around outside, and the interior was solid gray cigarette smoke. When the Summits sauntered in, they were greeted with complicated handshakes and slaps on the back. When we three white boys trailed in carrying drums and amplifiers, silence dropped like a rock. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed us through the smoke. I heard one guy at the bar mutter something about "those hippie crackers."

Ralph stopped in his six-foot-six tracks and looked around. "Hey man, these boys are with us and they're our friends. They're good dudes, all right? And damned good musicians. We ain't gonna hear one more word about them, got that? When you hear these boys play, that'll shut some of you brothers up." He then let out a big bass laugh and snapped his fingers. At once, the mood lightened up, people resumed talking, and nobody paid any attention to the white teenagers with their long hair and wispy sideburns.

We set up on a stage at one end of the club while a disco light rotated over our heads, shooting its glittery rays in all directions. The Summits got as much stage space as possible, which meant that Jimmy, Dave and I ended up squished up against the back wall. I was so nervous that I didn't know where to look, so after setting up the drums I sat and stared at Dave while he tuned.

After a brief sound check, during which James tried out the mics while The Summits stood in their brown and black jumpsuits on the side of the stage, the club turned off its own eardrum-crushing sound system. James rambled for a moment into a mic before finally announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, direct from the Motor City, The Summits!"

We white boys glanced at each other and started the riff to "Get Ready" while the Summits trotted onto the stage. As we repeated that riff over and over, they performed an elaborate dance-and-twirl routine that brought the crowd to the front of the stage. On cue, they slid to their mics and sang harmonies that soared over our gritty beat before twirling as one and returning to sing again without missing a millisecond. The crowd went crazy.

We flew through our repertoire—which included some Temptations numbers, a few R & B standards, and several songs the Summits wrote themselves. All the songs featured their intricate harmonies backed by our thumping beat. In the middle of each set the Summits took a short break so that Jimmy, Dave and I could do some of our material, which were mostly Hendrix songs and blues numbers. The audience was amazed by the three white boys, howling and clapping after our songs. By the end of the night, the race lines had been erased and it was just a gig.

We played a few more gigs in D.C. that were slight variations on that first. We got tighter and James grew more excited. As he drove us home, he talked about recording contracts, flying us out to Los Angeles, and getting into bigger venues.

Late August was approaching, and with it the gig that James kept his eye on from the beginning—the Summer Celebration Concert at Rockville Mansion that he said was going to be televised all over the country. Rockville Mansion was a big stone plantation house on the highest point in the county seat of Rockville, surrounded by rolling grass parkland and gardens. Rockville's more recent claim to fame is that it is the Rockville in R.E.M.'s song, Don't Go Back To Rockville—hardly the kind of slogan the city fathers may have wanted. The concert would feature a few acts, but would culminate in The Summits show. James always talked about his dreams for the band, but he worked hard and had a great product. The television appearance was going to be his coup, and as it drew closer, his eyes ceased to be in the present, but only on that date—August twenty-ninth.

When at last the big day arrived, James brought The Summits up from D.C. in his van while Jimmy drove Dave and me in his Chevy. The day was blazing hot and so humid I was covered in perspiration that had no place to go. I felt terrified when we rolled up and saw the mansion grounds ram-packed with people, and a huge stage set up at the front of the mansion itself, filled with lights, sound equipment, metal scaffolding, and electronic gear. To one side of the stage, television vans sat jammed together with big black cords running everywhere over the rain-starved yellow grass.

We followed signs to the performers' parking area, in the back, and as soon as we got out of the car we were greeted by men who carried our equipment to the stage for us to set it up while other men in green City of Rockville blazers led us through a back door and into the mansion. One of the men, a big guy in a flattop who looked like an ex-Marine, showed us to our dressing rooms upstairs while explaining that The Summits were being interviewed in the kitchen. I deduced from his comments that nobody was interested in interviewing the three white boys, which came as a relief.

My dressing room was the first I'd ever had in my life. It was a large former bedroom with a sloping ceiling under the roof and a view of the crowded mansion grounds and cable-littered stage. I even had a dressing table with a mirror surrounded by big light bulbs. All I brought with me were the white short-sleeved shirt and gray slacks that James bought for the white boys to wear for the show. I put on my clothes and stared into the mirror, wondering what people did in dressing rooms. I didn't have make-up, wigs, champagne, or groupies. Each of us had a separate dressing room, where each of us probably wondered what we supposed to do there.

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, let it loose, then tied it back, unable to decide which look to go for. At last I decided to leave it loose, long and flowing, because after all, it was the perfect occasion to do so.

After that fashion breakthrough, I sat on a wooden stool and watched the crowd while the sun lowered itself through cushions of red and orange. A girl was onstage playing an acoustic guitar nearly as big as she was and belting out country songs. She wore an aqua-blue, floaty mini-dress, and her dark hair tumbled down her back to her waist. Big silver earrings sparkled through the strands that fluttered back in the breeze.

The crowd was made up mostly of families sitting on blankets while groups of long-haired teenagers watched from the sidelines. The show was free, summer was winding down, and it was a perfect excuse for locals to get out of the house and feel like they were doing something. I leaned out of my window and saw more people streaming in. An air of expectancy tightened the atmosphere. I was still soaked in sweat. Looking down, I noticed that my hands were trembling.

Trying to shake off stage fright, I rolled up my jeans and t-shirt, stuffed them into a plastic bag, and walked down the hall to Jimmy's dressing room. He was sitting in the window playing his unplugged guitar and gazing out, also wearing his white shirt and gray slacks. A cigarette dangled from his lips. "I wish I had some dope with me. And look, there are a lot of sweet heifers out there. We'll have our choice of 'em after we play. I wonder how long we get to use these dressing rooms?" He turned to me. "How would you like your first lay in a dressing room after a TV appearance? There's something you won't forget, sport. Why don't you come pick one out right now? Hell, I'll do the talking for you to get it started, if you want."

"No thanks, Jimmy. I'm just trying to get hold of my nerves." I looked out the window and shied away with a wince. "Man, you see all those cameras and lights? It looks like the whole world is going to be staring at us."

Jimmy spat a stream of smoke around his cigarette, leaned back, and closed his eyes. "They're not going to be looking at us. They'll all be watching The Summits. Nobody cares about us—it's all about those guys. Let's just have a good time and snag a couple of sweet heifers when we're done."

Dave staggered in, his glasses askew and sweat forming big wet circles under the armpits of his white shirt. "We're on, guys."

We hurried downstairs to the front doors, which led to the backstage area. The lights onstage were black, so nobody could see us, but the crowd was buzzing. A few whoops rang out. A gang of those ubiquitous City of Rockville jackets helped us onto the stage. I got behind the drums in the dark, adjusted all the stands, re-tightened every bolt, turned my snare around, tightened the high hat screws yet again, and checked my sticks for cracks. Jimmy and Dave took their places. Big lights glared over the audience, which had grown so much that I couldn't see the end of it. I felt like we were at Woodstock. Taking one last, shaky breath, I tightened the snare drum again and watched the wings.

Jimmy turned to me, eyes wide, and counted out the opening to "Get Ready." Hoping I wasn't seeing things, I whacked my snare once to open the song. My drum sound exploded into the crowd and lights gushed over the stage. The guitar and bass came in with the familiar repeating riff, and a huge, roiling cheer filled the air. Over and over we played that riff, and the crowd started clapping along, creating an earsplitting din. The excitement flashed from smolder to flame.

Fireworks shot into the sky on either side of the stage, which startled me so badly I almost stopped playing—and then out they came, dancing and spinning in gold and red jumpsuits with big flared bells and long sleeves that hung to their knees. They danced, they snapped, they sweated, they sang with everything they had while we three white boys didn't dare let up an inch. The crowd was on its feet, howling and screaming, while more fireworks shot into the sky behind the crowd. Television cameras rolled and turned, photographers ran and crouched all over the stage with cameras glued to their faces. The big lights were on us, and I could barely see what was happening. I focused on Jimmy and Al, because their winks, nods, and hand motions let me know what was coming.

"Get Ready" went on longer than usual because Al took a long, growling sax solo while the rest of the Summits went through a series of moves that I'd never seen before. Jimmy took a solo, then turned and motioned to me to take a brief solo. While I played, I clutched my sticks so hard I nearly broke my fingernails.

When we ended, more fireworks blasted off on the sides and fountains of water shot into the sky while pink and blue lights whirled around them. The audience was going berserk and adrenalin spewed into my bloodstream so furiously that I could barely keep my head from flying off. Jimmy slashed into the opening chords of one of the Summits songs, and they stepped to the mics, swaying and snapping in those perfectly synchronized movements. I was able to take another breath and play without the desperation I felt at first. I even began to enjoy myself, and looked over at Dave, who turned to me with a goofy smile.

The whole crowd was dancing, and at last it began to dawn on me that our big show—the show that James had been obsessing over for weeks—was turning into a success. When The Summits did their version of Hey Jude, the crowd was theirs for good.

With another swirl of lights and more squirting from the fountains, we grooved into our last number, Ball of Confusion. We white boys kept up an intense rhythm while The Summits did most of the work. Each of them took a turn, from bass Al to high tenor Ben, pouring their guts into it, then meshing together in exquisite harmonies. The dancing, the spins, even the way they each bobbed one leg, never faltered. Sweat was flowing from their pores while our beat pounded and throbbed.

At last we hit the last note and held it out while fireworks exploded, water jetted into the sky, lights danced crazily over the crowd, and people screamed themselves into laryngitis. City of Rockville jackets hurried us off the stage and up to our dressing rooms. It was only when I closed the door behind me that I realized I was so sweaty I looked like I had jumped into one of the fountains. I washed off in the sink and changed back into my jeans and t-shirt. A knock threatened to break the door. "Come on, man, come on down the hall to Ben's dressing room. We're having a party." James' voice verged on hysteria.

When I got to Ben's dressing room, the Summits sat slumped in chairs, relaxing and drinking beer. James was leaping around in ecstasy. "This is just the beginning, man, this is just the beginning!"

I watched the others celebrate, feeling strangely detached from the experience. A musical journey can lead to unexpected places, and my personal musical dreams never included being a semi-invisible drummer for an R & B group, but it looked like that's where I was headed. It was a giddy and unpredictable ride, and James might be right after all—we might be destined for fame and fortune. I sure as hell wasn't going to bail out—now that I was caught, I was going to ride it as long as I could.

James called Jimmy into another room to have a private talk, so I decided to go outside and walk around. Most of the crowd was gone, and technicians were taking that monstrous façade down and packing it away in big trucks. Some men even packed our equipment into Jimmy's car. The night was breezy, with the first leafy scent of autumn barely sneaking into the mix. The pines and cypress trees that lined the edges of the wide swath of lawn in front of the mansion heaved and rattled. School would be starting soon—what would happen to my new career? Would I have to quit the band because I was still in high school, or would I drop out of school so I could keep going? I had a feeling that James and Jimmy were talking about that very question in the upstairs of the Rockville Mansion.

A group of kids my age stood around smoking cigarettes and laughing under a big pine as I passed. One girl with long blond hair and glasses turned and looked at me. She wore a blue and white flannel shirt and jeans, and was very pretty. "Hey man, aren't you the drummer with that soul band?"

"Yeah. How's it going?"

"You guys were okay, though I'm not really into that kind of music. Are you from around here?"

"I live in Kensington. How about you?"

She gestured with one hand. "I live three houses down that way. I figured I might as well come down since I wouldn't be able to escape the noise anyway. So, do you go to school at Einstein or Walter Johnson?"

We continued talking under the pines while her friends wandered off. We talked about our schools, how much we hated going back in a few days, and music. She was funny, with a sarcastic sense of humor.

A familiar honk trumpeted behind us, and I looked over to see Jimmy's car with the headlights on waiting in front of the mansion. "I've gotta go now. What's your name? Hey, maybe I'll come up again and we can talk and stuff."

"Sure, I'll give you my number."

When I climbed into Jimmy's car he made facetious apologies about interrupting me while I was "getting a piece of heifer." He was tipsy, and rambled on all the way home about James' big plans.

A week later we rehearsed, this time at James' basement apartment in D.C. I could tell that The Summits were growing fond of us, and Ben held up a Hendrix album. "Hey guys, I think we should start incorporating more of the stuff you do into our own sound. You know, that wild guitar sound, that psychedelic music thing."

"We could merge our kind of music and vocal arrangements and dance with what you're into," added Al. "It could be our thing, our unique sound."

James was still over the moon about the Rockville show. "Look guys, I'm working on setting up some recording dates. We need more material and need to tighten up the sound a little, but it's time. And I'm talking to some people I know in New York and LA. This thing is starting to take off. I've been getting non-stop calls since the last show." He glanced at Dave and me with a forced smile. "Of course, we'll have to arrange things around your school schedules. We'll work it out. We'll work out something."

On the ride home, Jimmy said that James had been hinting to him that Dave and I might want to think about leaving school and taking GED tests. The suggestion set off an internal alarm—James' plan sounded like my mother's worst nightmare. I decided not to say anything to her until the band had more concrete offers.

Two days later I got a call from a subdued Jimmy. James had been murdered in his apartment—the same apartment we practiced in two days earlier. The Summits were on hold indefinitely. Jimmy said Ralph was worried that they might be next. He didn't say why.

I couldn't talk to anyone outside the band about it. My mom was glad I was safe and out of that kind of dangerous situation, and other friends didn't get it. I think a few of them suspected that I was making up the entire Summits story.

Jimmy bought an old school bus and took off one day on a cross country trip. Dave and I talked about starting another band. A few months later I got a call from Al. I was amazed to hear from him, and asked how they were doing.

"It was pretty rough after James got shot. We were all in shock. We thought The Summits were all over. But I just wanted you to know we're doing all right. A couple of us and getting together out here in California with another group. Called The Commodores. They've got this great singer named Lionel. Good songwriter, too. We'll see what happens. Anyway, we just wanted to say hello, thank you guys, and wish you the best of luck. It's better for you to stay in school, anyway." He chuckled. "You know, we had some great times with you three white boys."

School was already underway and my time was filled with getting used to new teachers, making new friends, and re-connecting with old friends. I still had that Rockville girl's number, and one day I finally decided to give her a call.

**The Swiss Birthday Party**

After our van sputtered into the Swiss town of Biel-Bienne to expire in a cloud of smoke in front of a second hand shop, we stumbled out and made our way through a heavy downpour to the main drag where we found Le Cardinale, a large, smoke-filled cafe with high ceiling fans, photographs of the Alps scattered over the walls, and rows of crowded tables.

"It's all right for us to play," reported Pete, who had already rushed ahead to speak to the bartender. "Let's wake this place up. We'll need to make a lot of money fast to pay for repairs so we can get out of the cold to Italy, right? So let's go."

The only space with enough room was the checkerboard-tiled foyer near the doors. We had to stand far enough from the entrance so we wouldn't be knocked over when someone walked in, but also far enough from the customers that we wouldn't poke them with our instruments. Waiters sauntered about, people conversed quietly, and smoke swirled under the ceiling fans. When we started "Tom Billy's Jig," a few pairs of eyes lifted to see what the commotion was about. I was hungry and exhausted, but pushed the tempo harder to gain the crowd's attention.

The Swiss were a tough audience. Terry sawed away on fiddle, his tongue sticking out with concentration. Charlie huffed and puffed at his flute, and Pete kept time on the bodhran. I altered the rhythm on guitar and hurtled us into a reel, slashing out the chords without holding back. Conversations petered out and faces turned our way. We finally milked some applause and, after a few more numbers, called it quits. Charlie strolled around the room tossing the cap onto tables and playing until the people sitting there threw in some money.

Before we entered our next stop, the San Gervais, we ran through the rain to the doorway of a closed boulangerie to count our earnings. The cap was heavy with coins, and it seemed that our first few minutes in Biel would at least cover the cost of the trip from Germany.

"They don't believe in copper in this country," said Charlie. "Look at all the silver–no centimes or pfennigs here. I'm beginning to like this place already, except for the cold and rain."

The San Gervais was housed in a fourteenth-century building on a corner of the old town. Inside, it was crowded and smoky like Le Cardinale, but the decor was more basic, with whitewashed plaster walls, plain wooden chairs and tables, and a rougher looking clientele. Most of the patrons were young men already half-drunk, so quite a few pairs of eyes opened wide when we started playing. We played the same set as in Le Cardinale and the crowd came to life, pounding their fists on the tables and clapping along. Someone even sent us a round of beer.

"Sit, join us," cried one guy. He was thin, with a puff of brown hair and a multi- colored scarf that hung down to the floor. His companion, who had short, dark hair and an angular face, smiled and nodded as we sat. A waiter in a spotless apron and black Elvis hair floated to our table and spoke in a mixture of German and French.

The fellow in the scarf interpreted. "He wants to tell you that he likes very much your music. His name is Frank. Mine is Dieter. My friend here is Andreas."

We soon learned that Dieter recently moved to Biel from Zurich. "Biel is very inexpensive and close enough to other cities," he said. "It is also very relaxed. You can do what you want here." He explained that Biel marked the border between the German and French speaking sections of Switzerland, so some people spoke one language, others another. Most spoke a dialect peculiar to Biel, which was a mixture of the two.

Just as Frank brought another tray of beers, a girl appeared through the smoke with flashing green eyes, high cheekbones, and gleaming brown hair tumbling to her waist. She wore tight jeans and a brown leather jacket, and her earrings jingled as she sat beside Dieter with one hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were on Charlie.

"I'd like you to meet Suzanne," announced Dieter.

I thought I heard Charlie's heart pop out of his chest from the other side of the table. When Dieter got up to go the WC, Charlie took the opportunity to appropriate his seat and leaned toward Suzanne with a smile.

"Charlie's in love again," I whispered to Pete. "And with Dieter's girlfriend."

"Just what we need—a bloody love triangle, and us not in town two hours."

A door on the other side of an overburdened coat rack opened, sending the bell attached to it tinkling. Jackets and sweaters blocked our view of the newcomer. Dieter returned and pulled another chair up to the table, oblivious to Charlie's attention to Suzanne. I turned to my left and saw a short, slender man with thinning red hair and wire glasses perched over searching green eyes. He took off his black jacket, unraveled the purple scarf from around his neck, and shot his hand out to me. "My name's Albie and I'm glad to meet you; I heard you at Le Cardinale." He spoke with a dense Cockney accent as he nearly shook my arm off. "Your music is super. I've waited a long time to meet you."

Albie grabbed a chair from the next table and sat with his elbows on our table and his chin on his hands. His face had the expression of a practical joker remembering a particularly successful project. In spite of his size, I could see sinewy muscles beneath the freckles on his arms. Frank appeared and placed a beer in front of him.

"So you're Dogs Among the Bushes. I wondered how long it would be before you lot turned up here." Albie's voice was soft, but his accent looped even more than Pete's. "I've been waiting for weeks. You're just as good as I heard you were."

"How did you know about us?" asked Pete. "We've never been to Switzerland, and only stopped because our engine is banjaxed."

"First you answer one question. What part of London are you from?"

"My family's from Lambeth."

"Magic! I'm from the shadow of 'Beau Bells' meself." The two clinked glasses. "It's funny, running into another south Londoner all the way over here."

I rolled a cigarette, lit it, and focused my attention on Albie. "But you didn't answer our question. Why were you waiting for us?"

Albie answered with the half-smile that never left his face. "You should know by now that buskers live on gossip and take an interest in each other. Basically, we're nosey. You lot are new in Switzerland, so everybody's talking about you. I heard you were in Freiburg and figured Irish Tony would send you through here. He told me that you're following the sun to Italy." He settled back into his chair and drew a thin cigar out of his jacket pocket. "Why don't you tell me your story? I'll listen as long as I can stay awake."

I told him that we came to Europe to play at the Lorient festival in Brittany and ended up busking across France and Germany. We stayed so long in Germany that the chill of autumn crept up on us before we took notice, and we found ourselves forced to move south to survive. What I didn't tell him was that I had a girlfriend in Freiburg, and when she dumped me out of the blue one day, I wanted to get as far from everything German as possible.

Albie sat listening like a Buddha behind his curtain of cigar smoke. As Pete took over to finish the tale, Frank was already letting his customers know that the place was about to close. Suzanne and Dieter stood up and shook our hands. Charlie looked alarmed. "Hey, so we'll see you guys again, right? You'll be around?"

Suzanne gave him a smile. "Oh yes, we will see you if you're in Biel. Will you be staying here for long?"

"At least as long as it takes to get our van fixed. So we'll see you, right? Maybe here tomorrow night?"

Charlie looked like a stammering schoolboy as Suzanne waved and floated out into the night with Dieter.

"We'd better get going." Terry wrapped a red scarf around his neck. "We've got to go out and find a nice hole in the ground to lie in for the night."

"You lads don't have a kip?"

"We were too busy lashing into the drink to look for a place to stay," explained Pete. "Besides that, we're not exactly carrying bags of money around with us. We can barely feed ourselves and the van. In fact, because of that bloody van we're not going anywhere for a while."

Albie led us out into the brisk night air. "I don't think the Swiss police like tourists who stay out of their hotels and refrain from shoveling money into the economy. You're lucky you're here during a warm spell. It's going to get cold soon." He hesitated a moment, then started down the lane with a sideways nod of his head. "Come on, then, you can stay at my flat. There's plenty of room and it's right 'round the corner."

We didn't need convincing. He led us to a side street, pulled open a heavy wooden door next to a bakery, and ascended a squeaking wooden staircase. The landing was devoid of light, but the air was dense with the pungency of old onions. He then unlocked a door on the second floor and ushered us into his apartment.

The place was roomy but spartan, with only a couple of battered sofas, mismatched chairs, a once-elegant iron floor lamp, and piles of English newspapers strewn about. The breeze of our entrance animated a flock of dust bunnies, which skittered across the bare parquet floor. Albie switched on the floor lamp, throwing our shadows high onto the bare white walls. One shelf against the wall was crowded with carved wooden animals.

"I'm afraid we haven't a proper kitchen, but there's a crate of beer in the corner." Albie threw himself onto an orange sofa dotted with white stuffing that was straining to escape through rips in the fabric. "There are plenty of blankets and sleeping bags you can use in the closet. And don't worry, we have a bath and toilet."

"Who's 'we'?"

"I live here with my nephew, Steve. He's asleep, but nothing short of an earthquake can wake him."

Terry extracted four bottles of beer from the red plastic crate that stood in one corner. "How long have you been here?"

"Not very long. We used to live in Zurich, but that was too rich for our blood. We're moving out soon, spending the winter playing at a hotel in Interlaken, and they'll be putting us up. But do you think that all I do is busk and drink beer? No way, lads. I like to take advantage of what comes up. For example, I've always been interested in woodcarving, and you can make a few bob at it, too. A little more than an hour's drive from here, at Lake Brienz, there's a world-famous woodcarving school. I take a class there once a week. There are a few of my works on that shelf."

I picked up a carved bear from the shelf and examined it. "This is really nice work. He's got a sweet face. You carved this yourself?"

"Bloody right, I did. Took me hours." Albie took a last hit of beer, then stood up. "I'll leave you alone to get some rest. I hear you lot are pretty disorganized. Tomorrow I want to give you a few pointers."

We spent the next few days under Albie's tutelage in the fine art of busking. Each morning he woke us with a cheerful, "Where are you lot off to today?" Since Pete's van was still broken, Albie drove us to nearby towns having a market or festival, and got us used to starting every day with a plan of action. But we couldn't merely take advice, he told us. We had to come up with places to suggest to other buskers in order to be part of the network.

Over time we picked up some busking lingo, like the "edge," which is the crowd that gathers when you perform, and the "pitch," or performance, and the "bottle," or money collected. Many buskers staked out specific territories, and other buskers knew to be discreet when busking in those places. For example, a guy named Herman the German was known as the main busker up in Basle while another friend of Albie's, Arizona Red, played regularly in Neuchatel, a large town about twenty miles away.

Albie was a fountain of good advice on how to find the best spots. Town squares with a lot of foot traffic were prime real estate. Good acoustics, central location, and a spot out of the wind beside a main thoroughfare where we didn't block anyone became our goals when staking out our place. Albie made sure that his own group busked on the other side of town, and was so good at it that we never heard or saw their performances. Our days were long, and we kept bread and juice with us to fuel ourselves, managing to collect a decent amount of money each day. After busking in bars during the early evening we treated ourselves to Swiss specialties like fondue, raclette, or rosti, washed down with the light, dry wines grown on the shores of Lake Biel.

After we had been in Biel a little more than a week we made enough money to get our van fixed by a mechanic Albie knew. The day we finally freed it we drove to the ancient town of Solothurn and made a load of money at a morning market. The afternoon was drizzly and raw, so after we played I walked down to a little restaurant around the corner to have a bite to eat. I immediately spotted a familiar face across the street.

It belonged to Sabina, a girl Pete got mixed up with in Freiburg who, we later learned, was only sixteen. When word got to us that her father was looking for "some American buskers," we left town without delay. Now Sabina was hot on our trail, dressed in tight jeans and a frayed jean jacket, checking her watch as she walked at a determined pace past a row of shops.

I canceled my lunch plans, met up with the others, and we hurried back to Biel. The time was ripe for leaving and becoming overly so. Albie suggested that we all drive to their first gig of the season in Interlaken that evening so he could see us off and give us a chance to see The Squires in action. Charlie, Terry, Pete and I would start that very night across the Alps. Pete mentioned that he doubted anyone would follow us over the mountains at night, since sudden snowstorms made it dangerous. That was hardly encouraging information.

At six-thirty, with the van loaded and ready to go, our hosts emerged from their rooms in white ties and tails, their hair slicked back and top hats tilted to one side on brilliantined heads. "Ladies and gentlemen, we shall now board the limousines," Steve announced.

The other Squires waited outside. Mick was thirty-five, with a neatly trimmed dark beard and athletic build, while Steve was a decade younger, with long, curling brown hair and dreaming eyes. Soon our two vans rolled through manicured countryside as the sun dipped low in the sky and cast a violet light over the land. We passed villages with turreted towers, and chalets where rows of flags and pennants flapped in the breeze, particularly ones with the rampant bear of the Bern canton. Cows grazed in the pastures, and tree-covered hills hovered over us on either side of the valley. Smudges of autumn spread over the leaves and haystacks had sprouted in the fields.

Interlaken lay at the junction of two large lakes at the feet of the mighty Bernese Alps, which rose up behind the town in a shroud of fog. The lakes exhaled a mist into the air that made the streetlights glow with a pale halo. We drove over a bridge and past the train station where horse-drawn carriages lined the parking lot, the horses snoozing, their drivers chatting and drinking from steaming mugs of coffee. Gangs of young people with backpacks and parkas wandered the streets studying maps and guidebooks.

We parked beside a large Victorian-era hotel and followed the Swells to a side entrance. Moments later we found ourselves in "The Barbie Doll Country Music Dancing Bar." The club glowed with hot pink wallpaper, scarlet carpets, and red velvet chairs. A massive crystal chandelier hovered over the bar in the middle of the room. As an afterthought, a few wooden booths had been placed against the walls, which were decorated with posters of Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill to give the place an "authentic" country-western ambiance. A group of middle-aged men wearing expensive suits sat drinking cocktails in the booths. Albie and his mates tuned their instruments on a small stage near the door.

"Bloody 'Barbie Doll Country' whatever," Pete said. "Looks like an expensive whorehouse to me."

As the show started Mick and Steve stood at the back of the stage playing guitar and banjo respectively, and singing "By the Light of the Silvery Moon." Albie danced gracefully, his tuxedo tails flying as he twirled and tapped, his freckled hands stretched out, his expression joyous and confident. Steve danced in steps perfectly choreographed with his uncle's. After a few numbers Albie invited Dogs Among the Bushes to the stage, where we played a set of reels while the Squires took a cigarette break. Our performance was greeted by a burst of applause, but I wasn't sure if it was for us or for the announcement that beers would be half-price for the rest of the night. After our guest spot, we took advantage of the price reduction and ordered so many beers that our table was soon stacked with empty glasses.

Later, while the Squires packed up their instruments, Albie wandered outside to escape from the garish surroundings. Charlie sat slouching in his chair with a thin cigar hanging from his lips. I decided to go outside to see if I could see Jungfrau, the big mountain looming over the town. There found Albie puffing on a cigar out on the veranda and gazing up at a triangle of lights high above the town. "It's getting chilly out here, but I don't feel much like going back to Biel just yet," he murmured, half to himself. "It's a shame the weather's been so foggy since you've been in Switzerland. You're missing out on the scenery. The view from here is spectacular, but you wouldn't know it tonight. Still, I'm sure we can find something interesting to do, don't you think?" His eyes showed a light that tripped my internal alarm.

"We should probably get going—if we're sober enough, that is. You told us the drive over the Alps would be tough and we've had loads of beer."

"Come on then, don't be a wanker." Albie squeezed my arm. "We'll have a bit of fun and give you time to sober up. After all, this is your farewell party. But I'm not ready to say goodbye. Not quite yet."

"What do you mean?"

Albie twirled his cane and sauntered off down the boulevard. "This ain't a dress rehearsal, you know. Let's go look for a bit of fun."

"What about the others? They don't know where we're going."

"They can sort it all out. The hotel is putting up The Squires, so my lads can do what they want. Come on, let's get into some trouble."

While I tried to keep up with him, Albie told me about a wealthy Swiss woman he met that evening in the Casino. He improvised a story for her about being an English banker, then set up a date with her. "I can't very well tell her I'm a bloody busker, can I? I've known a few bankers, so I think I can brass it out if she asks too many questions. But, Jesus, I need some female companionship for a change. No offense, but it does get bit tedious being with the lads all the day and night. I need a bit of, you know, softness once in a while. I'm only human. It was a bit of close thing, us playing right next door to the casino. But I knew she wouldn't come into the club—she was busy giving away her money at the roulette table. Not all of it, I hope."

We stopped at a large white house surrounded by an iron fence overwhelmed by vines and flowers. The house was illuminated from within and sounds of laughter and piano music fluttered out to the street. Albie tapped the cane against his leg, looking the house over. "Here's a likely place for a bit of fun, don't you think?"

Before I could answer he opened the squealing gate and strode up to the door.

"Do you know these people?"

Albie rapped on the door. "They don't know us yet, but they'll certainly want to. Let's not keep them waiting."

The door opened and an attractive middle-aged woman, her dark hair piled on her head into an elegant column, peered out at us. Albie removed his hat and bowed. "Excuse me, gnadige Frau, but is this the party?"

"Party, party?" She stared at him and then at me with an expression of utter confusion. "Ja, hier ist eine Party, aber . . . "

"I'm terribly sorry we're late. We're the musicians. Our van broke down. But we'll perform for nothing and make it up to you. Isn't that right?"

The woman's perplexed face turned to mine. I didn't know what to say. "That's right, Albie. Here we are."

The woman looked at us a moment before embarrassment overcame confusion and she opened the door to let us in. It was apparently easier for her to give in to the intrusion than to explain that we had made a mistake.

I followed Albie into the house. The front room was carpeted with red and blue Persian rugs and furnished with ornate antique chairs and sideboards while the walls glowed with prints of paintings by Fragonard and Manet. Several people stood around an upright piano against a far wall singing a Swiss folk song. Next to the piano stood a table loaded with baguettes, slabs of meat, dozens of different cheeses, fruit, and bottles of Swiss and French wines. Candles scattered around the room provided the only light. Our reluctant hostess showed us the food and looked over at her friends with a feeble smile. A large, red-faced man in a thick white woolen sweater broke away from the group and lumbered over to investigate.

Albie greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand. "Terribly sorry we're late but we had to stop and help a poor woman who had been in an auto mishap. It seems she had injuries, but the doctors said she'd be fine. I need something to dance on." His eyes came to rest on a low table by the stairs. "This is perfect."

"I am not very sure . . ." The red-faced man followed Albie while other guests stopped singing to watch them.

After carefully plucking all the tiny wooden horses from the table, Albie removed the marble top and placed the top—bottom side up—on the middle of the living room floor. He stood on his new dance floor bowing to an apprehensive audience. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! First, my partner and I shall perform a ditty from the golden days of British music hall and I shall demonstrate a tap dance style developed by the legendary American, Bill 'Bojangles' Robinson. Maestro, please." He turned to me.

"I don't have my guitar."

"That's all right, here's a trumpet of sorts." Albie reached into his pocket, pulled out a plastic yellow kazoo, and tossed it to me. "Now something lively, if you please."

Our audience stood waiting.

"Don't waste time. Give us a blast on that thing."

There was nothing to do except play along. I squealed out a tune on the kazoo that started as a random improvisation but developed into a fractured version of "By the Light of the Silvery Moon." Albie stood poised a moment, his arms held out to his sides, his face down. Then he began to softly tap, with an occasional slide, on our host's marble tabletop. His dancing was subdued and intricate, drawing the audience closer. As I stumbled into "Silvery Moon," he sang along, still dancing, his face glowing.

I got dizzy humming into that plastic contraption and eyed Albie, waiting desperately for the signal to stop. Instead Albie turned to me. "Double time!"

With what strength I had left I buzzed out a souped-up version of the song while Albie launched into a wild routine—his feet chattering on the tabletop—that drowned out my deteriorating kazoo playing. He flew into a midair split, touched his fingertips to his toes, then dropped to his knees, arms raised triumphantly, glasses on the end of his nose.

Our hosts clapped energetically. "Bravo, bravo! Ausgezeichnet!"

I was still trying to replenish my oxygen supply when I heard pounding on the door. The woman glided over to open it and I recognized Terry's voice mumbling something about musicians.

"Oh, more musicians!" exclaimed the woman, clapping her hands together. "Come in please, this is very nice. And all for my birthday!"

Terry, Pete, The Swells, and a handful of intoxicated customers from the Barbie Doll staggered in and dispersed to help themselves to food and drink or examine the contents of the house. Our Swiss hosts stared at this fresh infusion of talent, and I expected at any moment to be hurled out onto the sidewalk. Instead, they accepted the situation and the red-faced man brought up more wine from the cellar.

I found Pete crouching behind a lamp in one corner drinking wine from the bottle. "What are you doing here? And what happened to Charlie?"

"Charlie, right, mate, don't worry about him. This is a lovely wine, this. Care for some? Anyway, he's with that bird Mona, or Suzanne, or whatever her bloody name is."

"What's she doing here? We haven't seen her since our first night in Biel."

"She said she was on holiday somewhere, just happened to be in Interlaken on her way back home, heard us outside, and thought something sounded familiar."

"So Charlie is with her?"

"Right. That bloke Dieter was with her, but when she started chatting with Charlie he pissed off somewhere." Pete took another pull at the wine and then handed the bottle to me. "I don't know what that bird's playing at, mate. If I were Dieter I'd blow her off, I would."

"Maybe he's not her boyfriend."

"She's a tart, a cheap little tart."

A commotion broke out by the door and in flew Charlie with an elated flush on his face. Behind him came Suzanne, her green eyes flashing. She wore a quilted jacket with Japanese designs on it, and her long brown hair glowed in the candlelight brushing across her lower back as she moved. I could see why Charlie was so taken with her.

"How did everybody figure out where we were?"

"Alcoholic intuition, mate.

Albie called to me from across the room. "We'd better put on a show again. We've got to justify bringing half the town here with us."

Charlie brought my guitar from the club for me and Albie managed to collect the performers around his marble platform. The Swiss group huddled around the piano like a wagon train awaiting an Indian ambush as one of their guests doggedly pounded out a medley of ragtime tunes. When he finished, Albie cleared his throat to gain the guests' attention. "Ah, before we perform our next number with the complete ensemble . . ." He coughed. "Yes, I'm afraid . . ." He coughed again. "Could I have some wine for my throat, please? It's as dry as the Sahara."

Pete winked at me and grinned. "He's a nutcase, isn't he? A real Londoner!"

Our hostess brought Albie a large glass of wine, which he finished in an instant, while the band assembled in a semicircle around the platform. The Swells eased into "Me and My Shadow," while Charlie, Pete, Terry, and I tried to follow. Albie and Tony danced with perfectly synchronized movements. One of the club patrons, a chubby fellow who earlier that evening claimed to be a Saudi prince, descended into the wine cellar, reemerging moments later with an armload of bottles of Chateau Pommard '74. He handed a bottle to each of the musicians to prevent any more throat problems from disrupting the proceedings.

In the middle of the number Charlie put down his flute and lurched over to the food table. As he methodically attempted to construct a sandwich I noticed that he was more intoxicated than I realized. Our companions continued to help themselves to food and wine while the Swells gave it everything they had, uncle and nephew spinning and tapping with perfect control.

From out of nowhere an Irish Setter rocketed into the room, legs akimbo. He slid over the uncarpeted spots of floor, barking as his plume of a tail smacked this way and that. The dog tried to get a sniff of everyone at once, wiggled with excitement, barked briefly at the band, then rushed to visit the buffet. The Swiss hosts laughed and clapped along to the music. A few moments later, Charlie paraded through the living room in the midst of the revelry carrying the dog in his arms, his dark hair hanging over his eyes, a crooked grin on his face and crumbs sticking to his lips. He marched several times through the room holding the dog, who obviously enjoyed the ride, and nobody seemed to notice.

"Bloody 'ell, I don't believe this," Pete remarked as we watched the spectacle. "It's like a bleedin' Fellini movie starring Charlie as St. Francis of Assisi."

As the song ended Charlie put down his canine pal and sat on the floor while the piano player started another ragtime tune. Charlie reached his long arms over and picked up his flute to play along, but in his condition he could only manage a series of squeaks. He then tossed the flute back into its case and listened, enraptured, to the piano. At the conclusion of the piece, Charlie rose unsteadily to his feet and slapped the man on the back. "Yes sir, that was really great, man, great!"

The pianist tumbled to the floor and lay on his side. I hadn't noticed before, but he had no legs, and he now rolled about straining to right himself while everyone else stood staring. Charlie looked as if he had been stricken by some form of apoplexy.

At last the host leaned over, pulled the piano player up, and propped him back onto the stool. Then the two began to shout at one another in Swiss German. The piano player beat his fist on the piano, trembling and refusing to look anyone in the face.

After trying to calm him, the host turned to Charlie. "You will please go now."

Charlie and Suzanne hurried out the door, Charlie gushing apologies, while the party continued as if nothing had happened. I got up to follow him, but Albie stopped me. "No good talking to him now. Let him walk it off a bit first."

The Swells did another number, the former club patrons handed out another round of wine, and Pete got into an involved conversation with the red-faced man. I found a chair in one corner and sat down to watch the unfolding catastrophe.

After about ten minutes Charlie and Suzanne returned and rejoined the party as if they'd never been asked to leave. The piano player played merrily along, everybody was happy, and wine continued to flow. Terry staggered over to me. "I told that man that Charlie is my friend, and if he goes, I go too." He turned and headed for the door.

"Hold on, Terry. Charlie's here—he's back."

"I don't care. If he goes, I go too."

He spun around, flung open the door, and careened off into the night, leaving the door wide open behind him.

The party was breaking up. The Swells put away their instruments, Albie placed the marble tabletop back where it belonged, and a couple of the bar patrons curled up on the floor to doze. Charlie loomed over the buffet table grabbing a few last bites of food.

"I guess it's time we bugger off, eh, mate?" said Albie, joining me.

"Terry already left because they kicked out Charlie."

"Bloody lunatic, he is. He won't get far."

"Shouldn't we go find him?"

"He might not like us looking after him, but I think you're right."

Albie led the way as we plunged outside into the gloom. The mist absorbed the sound of our footsteps so I felt like I was floating through a sea of steam. Before long we came upon a boulevard lined with drooping streetlights unable to illuminate anything except the fog surrounding the bulbs. I followed Albie's head, the top hat still perched on its thinning summit, as he turned down a wide street. A moment later I found myself next to the van.

Albie turned around. "You get in and follow us, right?"

"What are we supposed to do now?" asked Pete. "We can't see a bloody thing."

"I'll show you to the pass road over the Alps. You might want to spend the night somewhere before going over."

We climbed into our van, where Terry lay snoring in the back, and waited for The Squires to pull in front of us. When they did, Pete, at the wheel, steered out onto the road behind them. The red lights on the back of the Squire's van glowed like a pair of demon's eyes through the mist. As they picked up speed, Pete sped up also. The lights fell behind us until we found ourselves in a wide, flat valley. Those red lights hurried further ahead and we were able to relax a little.

Charlie, who was already dozing, jerked awake. "How the fark was I supposed to know that guy didn't have any legs?"

I closed my eyes and allowed the growling engine to lull me into a light sleep. I was aware that the van continued driving straight for a while, and then veered slightly toward the right. By the downshifting of the gears and roar of the motor, I could tell that we were driving uphill.

The van lumbered to a stop, and the sound of rushing water replaced the engine noise outside. As I reemerged into consciousness, the light flashed on and paper rustled next to my head.

"All right, pay attention," came Albie's voice. "You lot can kip here for a while—the coppers won't bother you and this fog is going to stick. It might even snow."

"Oh great."

He popped his head into the window, still wearing his top hat, and pointed to a spot on the map that lay across Pete's lap. We crowded together under the inside light to see. "Here, you're on this road towards the Susten Pass. After you go over the pass . . ." His finger traced a thin red line near the center of the map. ". . . you'll be going to the Gotthard Pass, then towards Lugano." Albie reached his other arm in and shifted the pile of maps. "Take this road around Milano, then this road through Verona . . . Vincenza, this way. You shouldn't have any trouble finding Padova. When in doubt, follow signs for Venice. In case you didn't notice, we were being followed."

"Holy crap. It must be Sabina—or her father."

"I took a little detour that threw them off. You may have noticed we passed through Brienz, and that's where I have my woodcarving class tomorrow. I'll spend the night there. Steve can ride with the others." Albie shoved his hand in to shake hands goodbye and jumped into his van. The red lights moved away, grew dimmer, and at last the fog swallowed them. Charlie, Pete, Terry and I found ourselves on our own again, and the after-effects of the party lowered us quickly into sleep.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of Pete swearing to himself. The daylight was weak and sickly, and the air was iron cold. The sun still hadn't made a dent in the fog. I forced myself awake.

"I got a cramp in my foot that's killing me and I'm freezing."

"You don't have to make such a load of noise about it."

"Talk about a load of noise, what about Charlie last night? Made a bloody spectacle of himself, he did. Mind you, it was hilarious."

"I'm glad at least you enjoyed watching me make an idiot of myself."

"Oh, I did, mate. I did."

We fished around for our bag of bread and cheese and I cut it in silence while the other two muttered and stuffed their sleeping bags into their packs. As we ate, the fog lifted slightly and the sweet smell of cow manure floated in through the windows. At last I could see that we parked behind a stone building with a mud-bespeckled whitewash over it. Outside, the invisible torrent of water continued while cowbells clanged and tinkled around us.

Pete drove for several miles, moving slowly up into the Alps. The sun burned higher and harder, chipping through the miasma until one spot above us showed a speck of blue. Patches of fog fizzled out revealing soft green meadows dotted with big-eyed cows, flower-bedecked chalets, and huge walls of granite in the distance.

"What the bloody 'ell is that?" Pete let the van roll off the road and into a ditch. "Bloody 'ell, I don't believe this!"

"What is the matter with you, you loony limey?" As I picked myself out of the tumble of clothes, bottles, and similar junk, I heard the engine stop, the emergency brake creak up, and Pete open the door and scramble out.

The road clung to the left side of the valley, rising past pine trees that ringed a sparkling lake. Far above, distant and silent, stood the Berner Oberland Alps, still cloaked in clouds. The clearing sky revealed massive rock bases, yellowish green bare slopes veined with streams and waterfalls, and up in the clouds, the ghostly white peaks.

I had never seen anything so majestic and unearthly. The Alps soared above the hills in the distance, gazing impassively down at the tiny efforts of man. I shook my head a few times and rubbed my eyes to be sure I was really seeing what I saw. "It's so beautiful I could cry. I thought those were just clouds, but they're mountains!"

Terry jabbed a cigarette between his lips. "I feel like crying too. Pete nearly knocked my brains out when he pulled into that hole."

"Don't you feel anything when you see that?"

"You know what Dorothy Parker said about the Alps? 'Beautiful but dumb.'"

We rocked the van back and forth until it heaved itself out of the ditch. The mist disappeared, revealing a panorama out of a Swiss tourism poster; pine chalets glowing in the morning light, lush valleys vibrant with autumn wildflowers, cows in leather collars with donging bells below their chins, and the snowy peaks above. We drove down an incline into the village of Inntertkirchen and followed signs for Susten Pass.

The road rose gradually through a land of green meadows, high mountains, and gushing waterfalls. As we ascended, alpine tundra littered with rocks and boulders that had tumbled down from the mountains centuries ago replaced the green meadows. Up in the high mountains, the beauty was windswept and desolate. No more farms or towns tried to survive above the timberline; only the road, a few shelters and an occasional concrete hut showed signs that people had ever been there. Around one of many hairpin turns I saw a turquoise lake below us at the foot of a long slope of snow.

Twists in the road became increasingly difficult, and snow began to spray from the sky. We had to crawl—the engine laboring loudly in first gear—around turns so extreme that the van could barely stay on the road. I kept my fingers crossed and muttered a few prayers for the poor overworked van.

Darkness spread over the Alps as we finally made our descent into the Ticino, Switzerland's Italian-speaking canton. The road slanted down in a continuous slope, unrolling through warmer air and a different style of architecture. The buildings were built from stone with orange-tiled roofs, and squared turrets topped Romanesque churches with an unmistakably Mediterranean look. The mountains rose steep and rugged on either side of the valley, with white rocks exposing themselves through the vegetation like bellies protruding out where a button had come undone.

Lights twinkled more brightly as darkness completed its invasion, and still the road wound down and down. Flowering plants crowded to the edge of the road, and as the valley leveled out, the road made a wide curve. On the right-hand side, the wall of mountains came to an abrupt end, drawing aside like a curtain to display the scene below. A million lights like shimmering white and amber coals encircled a huge lake at the foot of the mountains, where quivering sparks danced, reflected in the water through the warm night air. Outlines of mountains loomed against the starry sky, and red lights flickered on the summits like ruby sentinels. The stars sprawled across the sky, and vibrant man-made lights gleamed below. A train crawled across the center of the valley like an illuminated caterpillar. Here and there a clump of lights huddled, glowing and breathing, in the hollows of the hills. I felt like I was dreaming.

The van wound down into the city while we drove, mesmerized by the swimming lights. Masses of orange flowers hung from the trees. Crowded restaurants and cafes were strung along the road, their signs advertising trattoria, ristorante, birra, gelato.

"It's those lights on the sides of the mountains, isolated and bunched together, that make me wonder." Pete was echoing my own thoughts. "I can't help wondering who lives there and what their lives are like. It's lovely and strange at the same time."

"They're probably just hoping someone like us doesn't come along," said Charlie.

"I know what you mean. How many lives does each of those lights represent, and how long have they been here? All those lives, some young, some old. And think of all those who lived here before we ever set our eyes on this, and are long dead now?"

Charlie let out a hiss of air. "Oh yes, let's think about dead people. Every time I see something cool I like to think about death. You two are getting morbid. We shouldn't have gone to that Swiss birthday party. It's made you too philosophical."

"If anyone should be more philosophical after that, it would be you."

He pulled out his leather tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. "I don't remember much about it, so I'll leave it to you. Better not to dwell on things like that too long. I hate birthday parties. Marking time, seeing where you are, calculating how much time you've got left, telling yourself you're old, or you should slow down, or you should allow yourself to slide downhill. No, man, better not to think about it any more than absolutely necessary. I sure as hell don't. I'll just live until I drop dead and won't waste time scaring myself with birthday parties."

As I gazed at the carpet of lights and the dark mountains that stretched out before us, Terry turned to me. "Still feeling bad about Helga?"

His question surprised me. "You know what? I haven't thought about her in days. I guess I'll survive after all."

As darkness fell over Europe we crossed the frontier into Italy and drove long into the night through a land that, a few months earlier, none of us thought or even dreamed we'd ever see in our lives.

**The Court of the Princess of Rockabilly**

Dropping my bags on the porch, I dug through my pockets and at last yanked a clump of keys from the wads of tissue paper, matchbooks, and folded up pamphlets. The phone trilled while I poked at the lock with the key until I turned it, pushed the door open, and lunged at the phone. "What?"

"Hey man, it's Mark. You want to play drums in a new band?"

"A new band? I haven't played drums in years, and I just came in the door from being on tour with The Orphics. Just this second. We were playing up in New England."

"So what do you think?"

"I think you ought to talk to me about this later. You know I'm already in a band, right? And I in case you didn't hear, I just came back from a . . ."

"You're going to want to think about this one. What if I told you that Dave will be in the band, too?"

Mark and I played in several bands with Dave when we were in high school. Those were our "good old days," and as is the case with many intensely creative partnerships, it exhausted itself in short order. Afterward we each followed different paths. Dave established himself as one of the best pedal steel guitarists in the country. Mark had been out of the music scene for years. I played in an English/Irish folk band that was out promoting our new album. "Are you serious? What's been going on while I was gone? Is this some sort of reunion thing?"

"You've been telling me for the last couple of years about Martha Hull. We're putting together a band with her."

"What?"

"I thought that would get your attention. So are you in?"

I sat down in an attempt to keep the room from doing a Haymaker's Jig. A few months earlier I heard that a college acquaintance, Marshall Keith, was playing in a punk band called The Slickee Boys that was all the rage in the D.C. area. I was immersed in the traditional Irish music scene and hardly took notice that the fast, loud, stripped-down kind of rock 'n roll I liked broke through the haze of synthesizer bands that drove me away from the rock music scene.

So one night I decided to check out The Slickee Boys and drove to the Psychedeli in Bethesda to hear them. I walked into a jammed and smoky entry room and right into Marshall's chest. He was wearing a skin tight black-and-white op-art shirt and pants over his tall, gangly form, and his hair was sticking straight up and dyed pink.

"Hey, Marshall, it's been a while, man," I said, trying to hide my astonishment at his appearance. "I hear you're a rock star now."

"Oh yeah, right," he laughed. "Good to see you. I've gotta go get ready to play, but you should see the band playing now. It's Martha's new band, DCeats."

I had no idea who Martha was, but when I pushed open the doors to the main room, my eyes flew to her at once and didn't budge until she was off the stage.

She was short and slender, with a curly puff of hair and huge eyes lined with black mascara. Growling, shouting, and singing with such intensity that every other thought in my brain disappeared, she commanded complete control of the room. She prowled the stage, crouched, strutted, spat, reached her hand out to the crowd with those big eyes pleading, sang in that deep, throaty growl that sounded like it came straight from a wounded heart, then clutched her head and turned away while the guitar took a searing hot solo. The songs were short, fast, simple, loud as hell, and jammed with more hooks than Moby Dick's backside. Martha's lyrics told wrenching stories of betrayal, misunderstanding, and predictions that whoever hurt her so badly would pay dearly.

I surrendered absolutely. The band was minimal, with drums, bass, and guitar, but the songs and arrangements were tight and the instruments slithered around each other within a heart-quickening beat that slammed the Psychedeli crowd awake like a defibulator. By the time they squeezed everything out of us and them humanly possible, DCeats left the stage, and I realized I was standing a few feet from what was in my opinion one of the best rock 'n roll bands in the world and one of the greatest singers in rock history.

I was so drained from experiencing Martha and DCeats that I couldn't give The Slickee Boys the enthusiasm they more than deserved. They exploded onto the stage with hard-driving relentlessness—guitars churning, drums and bass pounding—while their singer, in a white tuxedo and red fez, leapt around the stage like some crazed escapee from the Senior Prom. Marshall and Kim, the other guitarist, hopped and spun as they played, a blur of op-art, scarves, and rubber chickens dangling from guitar necks. Their songs were funny, and just as memorable as the DCeats'—most of the audience sang or just hollered along with the lyrics.

My love for rock 'n roll was reborn that night. For the next year and a half I attended every DCeats and Slickee Boys performance I could get to, and even drove to the far reaches of Virginia to see them. I proselytized to everyone I came into contact with and dragged every one of my friends to see them.

So when Mark offered me a chance to actually play in a band with Martha Hull and my old band, I thought somebody must be playing an elaborate joke on me. It was too good to be true.

"Didn't you hear me? Are you in?"

A few days later I drove to a brick Cape Cod a few miles from where I lived and walked around to the back. A guy with red-rimmed eyes and a cigarette dangling from his lips let me in and directed me to the basement stairs. I walked down into a room with brown carpeting on the floors, walls, and ceiling, and it was filled with microphone stands, amps, and various bits of equipment and effects boxes. A smaller room off to the side had a large Plexiglas window through which I could see recording equipment. Mark was inside fiddling with a mixer. Dave loomed behind a pedal steel guitar helping himself to a can from a case of Milwaukee's Best. He was a big guy, and looked scary to anyone who didn't know him. His dark hair was combed straight back and he wore a chaotically colored Hawaiian shirt over his large frame. "Long time no see," he said, tossing me a beer. "There's a drum set in the recording booth. That's Johnny over there on bass. This is his house."

I shook hands with Johnny, a short, muscular guy with curly brown hair and expressive eyes, who welcomed me in a quiet voice. I heard a knock on the Plexiglas and saw Mark motioning for me to come in.

"I was just going over a few song ideas I've been playing with," he said as I entered. Mark was tall and gaunt, with thick brown hair sprouting over light eyes. I peered through the cigarette smoke at the drums. It was a double-tom set with a walnut finish and three cymbals. Perfect. Mark flicked on the tape deck and a driving rocker boomed through the booth. "Yeah man, I hope Martha will like this song I was writing. She'll be over any minute and we're trying to get ready. I've never actually met her. She was looking for a band, somebody mentioned our old band, and next thing you know I get a call from Martha."

"Did you ever hear her sing?"

"Never. You talked about her enough, though. I almost feel like I have."

The four of us drank beer and smoked, feeling a little nervous. After all, Martha was something of a star. She just released two singles, Feelin' Right Tonight and Fujiama Mama, that were getting a lot of airplay. She was being touted as "The Princess of Rockabilly," and as we listened to the records none of us could dispute that claim. She grabbed hold of those songs by the throat and tore them up.

At last we heard a rustling upstairs and footsteps coming down. Martha Hull, the "Princess of Rockabilly," was about to descend among us!

First we saw the white sneakers and tight jeans, and then a big leather bag she was digging through with visible agitation. She managed a cigarette between the fingers holding the bag while the other scraped around inside it. That familiar puff of hair and those big eyes framed in black hovered in concentration over the bag. "Damn, I can't find my lighter," she muttered. "I know I have it in here somewhere."

I almost laughed because I saw at once that she was nervous, too. After all, Mark, Dave, and I knew each other, but she didn't know any of us and came alone to see if we could work together. She may have been the Princess of Rockabilly, but at that moment she was the stranger, the odd one out, and obviously she felt it keenly.

Dave handed her a beer, Mark gave her a light, I made a lame joke about kidnapping her, and we all relaxed a little. Mark suggested we try playing her two latest songs because he and Dave had already learned them. I sat at the drums for the first time in years and automatically adjusted them to my specifications. My preferred angle and height of each drum and cymbal was hardwired into my brain from years of playing. I picked up the sticks, twirled them, played a few go-arounds, whacked the snare one last time, and was ready to go.

Mark and Dave played the opening riff to Fujiama Mama and Johnny and I followed. It was a straightforward 1-4-5 shuffle, and that one listen minutes earlier cemented it into my memory. We slammed to a stop and Martha, bent over at the waist and clutching the mic, let loose with the opening lines. We hit a couple more stops and slid into the song while Martha sang. We clicked from the first notes.

Loosened up by that first attempt, we tried Feelin' Right Tonight, which sounded even better. Mark, Johnny, and I laid out a solid, chest-thumping rhythm while Dave's steel swirled around the melody line. Martha smiled as she sang and glanced over at me with a wink. I felt a swell of excitement—a dream I never knew I had was coming true. We tried out a few other easy numbers, like Sea Cruise, Cellblock Number Nine, and Martha's trademark song, Burnout. I don't know how it was that five people who never played together in that combination before could sound so crisp and tight, but it happened, and it was intoxicating.

Milwaukee's Best was cheap and we had plenty of it. We listened to the song ideas Mark and Dave recorded, drank more beer, smoked more cigarettes, and talked. Martha came alive—joking, laughing loudly, and gossiping about people in the local rock scene we didn't know, but we laughed anyway. Mark and Martha sat closer and their eyes began to meet more frequently and linger longer. Dave noticed too, and his face was troubled. He glanced at me. I rolled my eyes. Then we both looked at Mark and Martha, who sat giggling and murmuring to one another, and caught each other's eyes again. Dave and I knew that a romance within a band was not a good idea, but we couldn't say anything.

Johnny's girlfriend Carol came down the stairs. She was a dark-haired girl with very pale eyes and a figure like a model. She and Johnny left, so Mark, Dave, Martha, and I wandered outside, surprised that darkness had already arrived.

I was feeling loose and beery and an idea came into my mind. "Hey, let's go to the Witches Path. It's not far from here. It's a path into the woods that leads to an old train bridge. It'll be fun."

"Witches Path? Yeah, sounds good," agreed Martha. "This will be our initiation into the new band. We'll walk on the Witches Path. Hey, doesn't that make me the friggin' witch?"

"Johnny's going to miss out." Dave said.

"We'll bring him next time."

I knew where the place was so I drove everyone in my car. It was only a few minutes away. A path led from the small parking area deep into the woods, past a marsh through an open area flooded in moonlight, and along Rock Creek to an old wooden railroad bridge. While Dave and I got into a discussion about Irish music, I looked back and saw Mark and Martha holding hands and talking with heads close together.

"That is not a good omen," growled Dave. "That kind of crap destroys bands."

"Who knows, maybe it will make for a tighter sound." I knew inside that Dave was right.

We scrambled up a gravel slope to the unused railroad tracks. There we stood looking down at the dark woods and creek below, then up at the wash of stars across the sky. "It's dangerous here," I said. "Somebody fell off this a couple of months ago and was killed. Guarding this place would at least give someone a steady job."

"Hey, let's call our band The Steady Jobs," said Martha.

We felt like kids again drinking beer deep in the woods, laughing, and talking about our new band. Martha told us that she was getting calls from clubs and record companies, so we had some serious work ahead. As we walked back to my car, Mark and Martha walked behind us, and this time they were making out. Dave didn't say a word, but even in the moonlight I could see his jaw working.

We rehearsed several times a week for the next few weeks, working hard to refine the chemistry we had. Mark and I came up with song ideas which we recorded and gave to Martha to add lyrics to. Dave wrote his own songs. Our arrangements grew more elaborate and ambitious and we went over the songs repeatedly, sweating in the summer humidity that seeped through Johnny's air conditioning. On Martha's advice we started going out to clubs together to hear other bands. She said it was a good idea to be out there and visible though we hadn't yet played a note together in public. It would create a buzz, and by the time we played our first gig, anticipation would be ratcheted up to the maximum. Every time we went into a club, people gathered around Martha while the rest of us sat at the bar drinking overpriced beers, listening to other bands, and waking up for our day jobs the next morning with hangovers.

The night of our first gig finally arrived. We were opening for The Insect Surfers, a popular local band at a club in a funky section of town, but most of the people jammed into the place came to see Martha and her new band. The night was hot and we felt pumped. I glanced out from behind the stage and saw dozens of people I knew, some of whom I hadn't seen in years. Nobody from The Orphics showed up to see us.

Before we went on, Martha hurried into the ladies' room and ten minutes later came out looking drained and exhausted. Without a word she made for the stage with the rest of us behind her. Someone in the crowd handed her a beer and on we went. The place was crammed and as soon as we got onstage ready to go, the place erupted with cheers. Martha trembled and held her stomach. Mark and Johnny looked at me with apprehensive grins while Dave sat stoically at his steel guitar.

I counted out the first song and the rest was a loud, sweaty blur. I knew we were playing too fast but it felt right. The crowd was at Martha's feet. People danced on the tables and chairs while others twitched and gyrated, eyes closed in ecstasy. Dave would occasionally give me a look over his glasses—my cadence counts were rushed and the songs were barely under control. Nobody else noticed.

After we crashed into the last desperate chords of "Burnout," chaos broke out. We tried to leave the stage while people grabbed us, hugged us, and poured beer over our heads. It seemed our first gig was a success.

Terry, a friend and fiddler player I used to play with, came over to shake my hand. "That was great. I haven't heard you play drums in years. Hey, this is my friend, Robin."

I said hello to the girl beside him. She was shapely, with honey colored hair cut in a modified shag and big green eyes turned down at the corners. There was something familiar about her, but before I could figure it out I was swept away by more fans who wanted to buy me beers.

For the next few weeks we kept up a rigorous practice schedule, and I would go to Mark's house in the evenings to help write more songs. At the same time, I was still in The Orphics, and one night I played a gig with them at a coffeehouse in Bethesda. Our sound system wasn't working right and a very pretty girl in a black t-shirt and jeans stepped in and examined the back of the mixing amp.

"Robin! What brings you here?"

She turned to me with a wave. "Terry told me you were playing here with The Orphics so I thought I'd come hear you guys. I love this kind of music. And by the way, I'm a sound engineer so I can help you guys out."

Within moments the system was working fine and we put on a good show for a packed house. Afterwards I talked with Robin and learned that she not only was a professional sound engineer, but apparently one of the best in the country. She worked with bands like Rush, Elvis Costello, and Nick Lowe. "But I really like the kind of music you do in this band. I wish I could work with bands like yours more often."

Before she left I asked how Terry was doing, and she let me know indirectly that they were only friends. When she gave me her phone number I hoped Terry knew they were "only friends."

The Steady Jobs received a flood of gig offers, and Martha said that several record companies were interested in us. Unfortunately, The Orphics were planning an extended tour. My other problem was that I couldn't get Robin out of my thoughts for an instant. Circumstances forced me to make a choice—quit The Steady Jobs, put any relationship with Robin on hold at best, and go on tour with my other band, or quit the other band and go with the flow. One night, while pondering these questions with the help of a large bottle of cheap red wine, I decided to call Robin and ask her advice.

She invited me to her place and we sat up all night, talking and drinking more and better wine. She was funny, possessed encyclopedic knowledge of subjects I knew nothing about, and although she claimed to be wrapped up in her work and uninterested in emotional or physical entanglements, she was very warm and empathetic. With a sublimely transcendent surrender to my own helplessness, I realized that I was falling in love with her.

That was it for The Orphics. The band that made me almost famous, that toured the country and recorded an album on a real label, was now the band that threatened to thwart my relationship with a woman who didn't want a relationship. That first night I saw DCeats and The Slickee Boys I knew in the back of my mind that my days with The Orphic were dwindling. A series of emotional phone calls, punctuated by tears, shouting, recriminations and more tears, ended our four-year stint together. I burned more bridges in front of me that day than I realized until years later.

The Steady Jobs played to packed houses, and even when we rehearsed people showed up to hang around. One guy who was a well-known cocaine dealer was also a big fan, and he liked to come over and listen to us rehearse and hand out coke to one and all. Music reviewers, friends of friends, other musicians, all wandered in and out. One night a distraught and inebriated Johnny told us that his girlfriend broke up with him after five years together—she didn't like the way his life was changing. He started drinking bourbon from the bottle day and night and kept himself "together" with the coke. Dave did coke regularly, and fell into a rising-falling mood pattern—either elated and full of fun, or morose and sarcastic. Mark and Martha moved in together and formed a solid voting bloc.

Robin and I grew closer and she offered to run sound for us. Although she was doing us a favor, the other band members responded with suspicion. Dave feared yet another two-person bloc and Robin's straightforward manner offended Martha, who had become accustomed to a more deferential approach. After a few gigs, Mark and Martha shocked everyone when they brought in another engineer—one who not only treated Martha like a princess, but who always showed up with some coke.

Robin was stunned by the way the band treated her, which put a strain on our relationship and on my relationship with the band. I began to drink more and was usually wasted by the time we got on stage. Like so many others before me, I harbored the absurd notion that drinking would help me deal with the conflicts in my life. In fact, it only added itching powder to the sores.

One night at the Psychedeli we did a sound check with our new engineer, who I felt wasn't doing a particularly good job. He was good, however, at dispensing compliments to Martha and Dave. After the sound check everyone in the band went out to the new engineer's van. I sat in the dressing room and drank vodka.

That night while the opening band played their last song we sat jammed together in the dressing room around a mirror that had just been relieved of its strings of white powder. Mark and Martha bickered in hissed whispers, Dave and the sound man sat giggling together, and Johnny was slumped in his chair like a mannequin on break. The new sound guy pulled out a plastic bag, chopped more coke on the table, and everyone took a snort. In an illogical gesture of frustration, I joined in. When the opening band burst into the dressing room, sweating and out of breath, it was time for us to go on.

We hurried out into the hot, packed room and pushed through the crowd while fans patted us on the back or slapped five with us. Taped music slammed through the room. All I could think about was the fact that Robin wasn't there, and my anger grew.

The previous drummer had used my drums, and when I sat down behind them, everything was askew—the cymbals were at the wrong levels, the tom-toms angled too far toward me, and worst of all, the snare was tilted all wrong. I couldn't play the drums like that and raced to fix the settings before we started.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Princess of Rockabilly—Martha Hull—and The Steady Jobs!"

I had to grab the sticks and go. Our opening number, "Simple Things," started on a pulsing chord progression with the pedal steel line soaring over it. I hit the snare with one hand while struggling to tighten it with the other. Martha came in with a lowered voice for the first part of the verse. The snare still wasn't right. Then she howled into the chorus and the band cranked it up. Martha was in rare form, stalking across the stage in her tight jeans and black-and-white striped sweatshirt, singing in a low growl before throwing back her head and cutting loose. When she got to the verses about being hurt and angry she strode right up to Mark and sang those lyrics into his face. Dave's eyes darted over at them and he frowned. Johnny was perspiring and his eyes remained closed.

I was barely able to keep the drums together as we played, and I could see festering problems between Mark and Martha rise up like a pimple on stage. When she turned away from the audience I could see real anguish in her face, and she wouldn't meet my eyes and smile like she usually did. Mark's face was hard, his lips tense. Dave's frown deepened into a scowl.

After the song Martha stomped over to Mark, her own face like stone. The two argued in whispers while Dave began the opening lines of our next song. He played too loud, his steel guitar screaming like a pack of ambulances. Johnny leaned back against his speaker cabinet and barely played at all. Martha walked to the front of the stage to sing, her eyes directed at Mark, who played perfunctory rhythm guitar.

Our set deteriorated rapidly. Martha murmured into her microphone. Johnny was half-conscious. Mark played as if he couldn't wait to get off the stage, and Dave turned his instrument into an eardrum-piercing sound effects machine. My drums slipped and dropped sideways and I couldn't tighten them. It was like a bad dream.

At last we flailed into "Burnout," which sounded more like fizzle-down. Martha was in tears and shouted the lyrics while the rest of us simply tried to get through it. At the point where the song climaxed and I was supposed to go into a dramatic drum go-round, my snare and floor tom both collapsed onto the floor and one of the cymbals fell over onto my lap.

Every fleck of frustration about the way the band was going roared up like a geyser—their treatment of Robin, who was the closest they'd ever come to the big time they dreamed about—the switch of focus from music to cocaine; the emotionally charged relationship between Mark and Martha; Johnny's descent into depression and alcoholism, Dave's resentment. I felt as if I had flung my career down a trash chute, and when those drums fell apart when I needed them most, the geyser exploded. I kicked over the bass drum, hurled the snare to the back of the stage, shoved the rest of the drums aside, and stormed off the stage. Instead of going to the dressing room I walked straight to the bar and ordered more beer. An old friend of mine who came to see us ran over to tell me that I was "great," and that he really loved the way I trashed the drums at the end. Most other people around eyed me nervously. I lost my cool, and in that scene, that was the worst offense of all.

Later, without a word, I gathered my drums, piled them into my car, and drove home. I didn't hear anything from the rest of the band and didn't particularly care to.

A week later Mark called and asked me to come over to his house. There, he and Martha sat at the kitchen table without looking at me and informed me that I was officially out of the band—they wanted to keep me in, but Dave was too pissed off with me and insisted I go. "That's all right, don't worry about it," I told them. "I don't want to be in the band anymore anyway."

Martha Hull and The Steady Jobs carried on a little while longer with another drummer. The band eventually put out an EP that went nowhere. Finally, Martha moved in with a new boyfriend one afternoon, and that signaled the death of the band.

As often happens when people are young, a couple of years later we were all friends again and did a reunion concert at the Psychedeli that drew a huge crowd. We sounded better than ever, but nobody brought up the idea of getting the band back together. It was better to leave that of our lives behind on a high note. Besides, the Princess of Rockabilly had already left the building.

**Playing For the War**

When I was a child, the Vietnam war seemed such an integral part of everyday life that the nightly reports and body counts blended seamlessly into the mix like weather or sports. I had no larger perspective on the world, and the war seemed like it had always been and would always be. It was something we did as a nation and would continue to do, perhaps forever.

Over time the war grew closer and more immediate. Older brothers of friends were getting drafted. My own brother barely avoided the draft. At first my parents explained the war to me using the same absurd arguments the government spewed out—we were fighting a life or death struggle against the evils of world communism—the line had been drawn in Vietnam and we had to make our stand there—if we backed out, the world would lose respect for us and the communist system would prevail—from Vietnam, communism would spread to Australia, Japan, and eventually to our shores—better to fight it over there than in Hawaii, Nebraska, or New York.

At first I bought into that explanation, and harbored vague fears that little boats filled with Vietcong in their big coolie hats would overrun the west coast. That would be the signal for the Soviet Union to attack our country and force us into their Empire.

As I got into my teens and draft age began to peer over the horizon, my friends and I would often talk about the war, and to my surprise, many of them belittled the justifications that had been drummed into me. Vietnam wasn't the battleground deciding the fate of the world, they said. It was a poverty stricken agriculture backwater. The Vietcong weren't evil demons set on destroying us—they fought to escape from French colonialism after the Second World War, and since America refused to alienate our French allies and help the Vietnamese, they turned to their neighbors in China and Russia. The South Vietnamese government wasn't a bastion of democracy—it was a corrupt dictatorship. We weren't the policemen of the world—we were the bullies of the world, inspiring fear and resentment. When I muttered something about the communists pouring out of Vietnam and spreading all over the Pacific and to our shores if we didn't stand and fight, my friends laughed at me. Are some barefoot rice farmers going to conquer the world and bring America to its knees? Or are we beating up on people who are simply fighting to remain independent?

Although I was taken aback, I didn't have any good responses to their skepticism. Even my parents gradually began to sense that they had been duped. It wasn't only the younger generation that was against the war. My grandfather, who lived with us, opened the paper every morning over his hard boiled egg and let out a string of profanities my mom couldn't silence. "I can't understand how we got ourselves tangled up in a war in southeast Asia," he would grumble between curses. "That's the stupidest damned thing this country has ever done. Bunch of goddam idiots!"

By the time I turned fifteen I still wanted to believe the comforting assurances of the government and my parents, but wondered if those in authority, who were supposed to know about such matters, could just be dead wrong. I was at one of those crucial crossroads you reach while growing up when you have to start thinking for yourself and face the fact that "most people" can be completely mistaken.

In that spring of that year I started playing with a rock band a friend of a friend had put together. The other guys in the band were a year or two older than I was, and the kind of wholesome, all-American teens that hadn't yet been swept up into the tidal wave of 60's anti-establishment rage. They had conventional haircuts, wore slacks instead of jeans, and liked to play sports. They hadn't a political thought between them. They played songs by the Temptations, a few songs like "Gloria," Wipeout," "Secret Agent Man," and surfing instrumentals. Nothing psychedelic or controversial. Many of my other friends were beginning to grow their hair long, smoke pot, and go to protest marches. For once in my life, my band mates were the straightest arrows I knew, and I found something comforting about being around them.

One day our guitarist's older brother Ray, who was in the Army, came to our rehearsal. He was a slender, good-humored Italian-American kid with dark eyes and a perpetual smile. "Hey, I got you guys a gig if you want it. You'll get paid fifty bucks each for a one hour set once a week. What do you think?"

We could hardly believe our ears. "That's great! Where is it?"

"At Walter Reed hospital. You'll be playing for guys coming back from the war. Some of these guys are right off the battlefield, and some of them are pretty messed up. You'll be cheering them up, and they need it."

We didn't have to vote on it. It meant fifty dollars each and a way to give back to those who had sacrificed so much.

Our rehearsals became more intense as we worked to get our arrangements down. We learned "My Girl," "Satisfaction," and several Beatles songs. Ray drove us to the first gig in his station wagon, and we all wore blue dress pants and white shirts. I was so psyched I was sweating. I still remember combing my hair before going inside, feeling the damp under my shirt and hoping it wouldn't show.

We set up in a cafeteria where long tables had been set up and loaded with sodas, cookies, pizza, cake, and colorful Welcome Home signs. A man in uniform hurried in as we set up. "Now, don't play too loud boys, all right? Keep it low volume. Some of these men have bad nerves. We want them to have a good time, but we don't want to overwhelm them. Do you understand?"

We thought we did, and set our levels accordingly. I had visions of soldiers in crutches or bandages coming in, chowing down on the treats that had been laid out for them, and having a good time with us.

When at last the men began to arrive, I saw with my own eyes what war really was. Those pitiful, shattered, men wheeled into that cafeteria with its florescent lights and cheery décor taught me everything I would ever need to know about the war in Vietnam. The man in the uniform signaled for us to begin, but as we played the opening riff to "My Girl," my heart was breaking.

What I saw was nothing like what I had expected, or what I may have seen in movies or television, but I'll never forget it as long as I live. What ripped my heart into a million pieces wasn't the missing limbs, hideously disfigured faces, or wheelchairs and bandages. It was their eyes. Their bodies were young, but their eyes were older than time, and what those eyes had seen, and I feared still saw, was light years away from that cafeteria. Those poor men didn't chow down, sing along, or have a good time. They sat barely moving, staring transfixed at unspeakable horrors in their minds that I thanked God a thousand times I was unable to perceive. One guy with half his face and both legs missing seemed to be watching us, but I knew that he didn't see us at all. He raised one hand from his lap for a moment, and the way it trembled sent a shock through my own system.

After two songs it was apparent that, if anything, our show in the cafeteria was upsetting the men, even at our lowered volume. Their minds and spirits were still with their comrades in the blood soaked rice paddies of Vietnam. Even at fifteen I could see that the cafeteria, the pizza, the teenaged rock band in their dark slacks and white shirts were too much, too incongruous, too incomprehensible. Those young soldiers had been living unimaginable horrors days or even hours earlier. Their best friends had been torn to shreds before their eyes, their bodies had been savagely destroyed, their blood drained into the mud, their spirits violated beyond what was humanly tolerable. Pizza, cookies, and pop music couldn't yet penetrate that nightmare to deliver any comfort.

That was our first and only gig at Walter Reed—the termination of our gig was perhaps the only sensible thing that had happened to those soldiers in a long, long time. I felt slightly guilty, like we had somehow been playing for the war ourselves. But I had seen the faces of war, and wished ever after that every politician should be required to see those faces and look at those broken men before casting a vote to go to another war.

Everyone in the band was shaken by the experience. Gone was the cheerful innocence that I once found so comforting. Two weeks later Ray was sent to Vietnam, and two weeks after that he was killed. The band broke up and we never saw each other again—our band and our friendships had also become casualties of the war.

**The Price of a Toilet in Oldenburg**

When people who travel abroad first meet and discover that common denominator, the subject that gets the conversation going full tilt is, inevitably, adventures involving toilets in foreign lands. Horror stories are hauled out into the light of day, groans and complaints shared, and an innocent bystander would be justified in thinking that those people laughing about strange toilets had slipped over the edge.

But while traveling, the biological imperative to excrete often forces one into unforgettable predicaments. In countries with near-obsessive concerns with hygiene, like Germany or Switzerland, the facilities can be so clean and private that you actually find yourself looking forward to those brief encounters. In other lands, that familiar have-to-go feeling is accompanied by the dread of knowing you must soon attempt the near impossible under combat conditions. While far from home it is easy to become morbidly preoccupied with strange toilets. Sometimes, even the best prepared traveler can find his or her day ruined by a bad experience.

Oldenburg, near the North Sea in northern Germany, is a pleasant, windy little city in a flat landscape frequently sprayed by rain. The cobblestone pedestrian zone is lively and features an unimposing fountain, but a tourist would search in vain for anything memorable.

While playing a series of concerts in Germany, my friend Charlie and I had several multi-night stints in Oldenburg's big new Irish pub. We stayed in a Pensione a block away in the upstairs of a bakery, so our room always smelled of fresh pastry. One bartender at the pub, Martin, was polite and helpful while Terry, the other one, was a big, lanky Dubliner with the droll accent and sarcasm that city is famous for. The manager, Seamus, was also a Dubliner, but he had lived in Denver for several years and treated us yanks like old pals. With his dense red hair and blustery mustache, he vibrated with enthusiasm in search of an outlet. His favorite game after the bar closed and he was outside of a few drinks was seeing how many steps in the stairwell he could jump down without breaking anything.

On our last weekend in Oldenburg before wrapping up the tour and heading home, the town was having its Stadtfest, or town festival. Seamus fretted that nobody would come to the pub during the festival so he printed up posters advertising our "Farewell to Oldenburg" weekend and tacked them up all over town. Then he got the idea into his head that Charlie and I should go into the center of town and play on the streets, handing out more posters to advertise the pub. Seamus was so excited about his idea that we didn't have the heart to say no, so at five in the evening Charlie and I found ourselves standing in front of a closed hat store in the pedestrian zone, playing under a shop awning to stay out of a steady drizzle. Everyone was rushing to get home so they could get ready for the festival that night, so we didn't get many people to even glance at our fliers. When the rain came down harder and we got fed up with promoting the pub, we retreated to our room to rest before our last and presumably unattended gig.

At nine sharp we got on stage and faced an audience that consisted of Seamus, Martin, Terry, and my wife Annette. Everyone else in Oldenburg was out at the Stadtfest, rain or no rain. There would be dozens of bands, food, beer, wine, games, dancing, and everyone in town would get good and drunk. Charlie and I played two songs and, after much fuming and biting of his lip, Seamus forced himself to approach the stage. "All right lads, I'm throwing in the towel. Let's all just go into town and get pissed like everybody else. If you can't lick 'em join 'em. I'm paying."

Having no desire to be licked but enthusiastic about not paying, we followed Seamus the four blocks into the center of town where he led us from stand to stand buying beers and shots of Roten Geneva. I didn't know what Roten Geneva was, but I discovered that I liked it. Seamus morphed into an increasingly fascinating character—laughing, calling out to passers-by he knew, regaling us with tales of his life in Denver, a near-death experience in Texas, and his stripper girlfriend in Florida. Martin and Terry became warmer and funnier as we drank. A few local girls who often came to see us play stopped by and we all stood around talking, breaking into song, telling more stories, and pouring down those little glasses of Roten Geneva that made everything seem so fun.

Then I had to go and find a toilet.

Lurching off after mumbling, "I'll be right back," I picked my way through the crowds until I saw a sign for Toiletten and entered a restaurant that was empty except for a half-asleep waiter slumped at a table. I entered the necessary chamber—which was, like all toilets in Germany, strenuously clean—took care of the issue, and staggered out again to join my friends.

Earlier, while reveling with my companions, I half-noticed that stands offering beer, sausages, candy, trinkets, and games changed in shifts—one stand would fold up and move to be replaced by another with swift precision, and those shifts would, of course, alter the festival landscape. It wasn't until I exited the restaurant and looked around that I understood the terrible ramifications of those shifts. Every landmark and point of reference that I noted to myself on the way to the toilets disappeared to be replaced by something I hadn't seen set up at a slightly different angle. It was as if some diabolical puppeteer manipulated everything from behind a curtain in an elaborate attempt to confuse me.

I set off in what I thought was the right direction, searching desperately for any recognizable sight. Everything looked the same—those well-scrubbed white buildings, the cobblestones, the beer stands—and I couldn't tell one place from another. Even in the center of town there were no statues, monuments, towers or churches to use as landmarks. The town fountain was placed so that everything around it looked the same. Oldenburg seemed designed to be generic and unremarkable, with every street like every other street. All I knew was that my friends were at a big metal van set up to be a bar with tables and umbrellas, but I saw dozens of identical stands with no one familiar in sight. On I stumbled through the crowded, noisy streets, certain that just around the next corner I'd see my friends and we'd pick up where we left off.

With growing panic I began to understand that I was utterly disoriented. I had nothing to help me find my way back and I couldn't even ask passersby anything more specific than "Have you seen some people I know?" At the same time, the effect of all those Roten Genevas began to kick in full force. The faces, the streets, the vendors began to swirl around me like a hideous montage from a Vincent Price movie.

That condition was not a mere short-lived unpleasantness—it wore on for what seemed like hours, and those Roten Genevas refused to let up. Gradually, I noticed the festival winding down, people hurrying home, the stands closing, and the lights going off. I was seized by the idea of getting back to our room above the bakery—Annette would have to go there eventually if only to look for me. I turned my nose in what I believed to be the correct direction and ploughed grimly ahead.

The sun began to stir below the horizon when, after my dozenth attempt to walk in the right direction, I ran across two policemen and asked for their help. I could only remember the name of the bakery and the Irish pub—I didn't even know the name of the street we were staying on. The policemen looked at me with concern—by that time I was exhausted, freaked out, and still drunk. I'm sure they discussed the possibility of taking me in. However, they didn't speak English and my meager German had deteriorated to the point where they no doubt thought it less bother to let me wander at large than try to communicate with me in the wee hours of the morning. One of the policemen pointed down a street, bent his hand to the left and repeated, "Geradeaus, geradeaus." I guessed that he meant I should go down that street, turn left, and keep going straight, or "geradeaus," thanked them, and tottered off while my heart pounded at my sweat-soaked shirt.

On that left turn I saw a familiar grassy ditch running alongside the road and realized I was on the right path at last! My lungs heaving, I tried to run. Light began to fill the world, birds began to twitch, and a few cars passed me. I was half-convinced that I was hallucinating when I saw the silhouette of my wife on the sidewalk ahead of me, but when I called out to her she turned. She was no hallucination.

By the time I reached her I was overwhelmed by emotion. Not only relief, but anger at what I had gone through, frustration about missing a fun evening with friends, embarrassment at how that came about, and an unsettling sense of my vulnerability as a mere biological being made up of flesh and blood. To my surprise more than hers, I crumpled down onto the sidewalk and burst into tears.

"Don't feel too bad," she said as she sat beside me. "Charlie disappeared, too. He hasn't shown up yet."

The next afternoon I woke up and tiptoed over to check Charlie's bed. It had been slept in but he wasn't in it. I saw a small puddle of blood on the pillow. He emerged from the bathroom with a swollen lip and red-rimmed eyes.

"What happened to you?"

Charlie rubbed his chin. "Terry and I went out to look for you. We stopped for a couple of beers and that damned Roten Geneva hit me like a hammer. I must have said something that pissed him off because he socked me right in the mouth. The worst part is that I have a feeling I deserved it." He looked at me with a sideways grin. "I hope you found a toilet, at least."

On our way out of town for the last time, we stopped off at the pub to say goodbye and let them know that we made it through the night alive. Charlie stayed in the car. The pub, however, was locked up tight and nobody was stirring inside. We couldn't even go in to use the restroom. After leaving a note, we drove through the windswept landscape and onto the southbound autobahn. The next time we planned to spend time in a place, we vowed, our first order of business would be to locate and map all the public toilets.

**The Best Gig Ever**

Musicians sometimes enjoying talking about particularly good gigs they've played in their lives. Some talk of having had the opportunity to perform in a prestigious venue like Carnegie Hall, others about big, wild audiences at festivals, while more than a few consider their best paying gig to be their most memorable. I don't often talk about my favorite because it is almost impossible to describe. It wasn't a high paying gig, the audience wasn't particularly wild, and it took place in a humble coffeehouse. But it was an experience so transcendent that I've spent my life since then hoping for something similar to come along. In fact, I suspect that hope is what motivates me to keep going, year after year.

When I was sixteen, I had already played music professionally in a couple of bands with older musicians. One of those bands came to a tragic end after our manager was murdered, and after that, depression led me to withdraw from the music world. That, at least, provided my mother with some relief because I was able to focus on school, but it left me feeling an inner distress that made it hard for me to cope with everyday life.

One day I got a call from Jimmy, who played guitar in that last band. He had gotten an offer for a gig and wanted Dave, our former bass player, and me to do it with him. "It's fifty bucks each, and all we do are two sets after some chick folk singer does a set. It's down at Saint Albans, a little coffeehouse next to the National Cathedral. What do you think?"

"I guess I can do it."

"Come on, it'll get us out of the doldrums. Life goes on, man. Anyway, it's this Friday, so it looks like we won't be able to get together for a practice. But hell, we don't need to practice, do we?"

I rode to the gig with Dave in a station wagon packed with speaker cabinets, amps, and drums. Our friend Mark, whose parents were so abusive that he ended up living from one friend's house to another, had just returned from a hitchhiking adventure up the east coast, and he came along, bringing his Fender Stratocaster guitar just in case. Mark wore a fringed leather shirt stitched with elaborate designs that he said a girl he met in New York gave him, and he chattered on about his trip all the way downtown. "I met so many cool people, man. And heard some really cool bands. It's hard going back to school after all that. But this will be fun. Maybe Jimmy will let me play a song or two with you."

When we pulled into the parking area for the magnificent Gothic cathedral that had been built centuries after that style reached it's apogee, we saw Jimmy leaning up against his 1955 Chevy smoking a cigarette in front of a small building. He wore a paisley shirt—though, like Gothic cathedrals, they had gone out of style a few years earlier—and a headband that made him look like a character in the musical Hair. He still had the wispy mustache and cynical expression I knew so well. The slanted amber light of early evening filtered through the intense reds and yellows of the leaves, coloring the atmosphere like stained glass. Fallen leaves lay heaped all around, infusing the air with the aroma of autumn.

"I've been waiting for half an hour," he said as we got out, crunching the leaves under our feet. "My stuff is all set up. But remember that some chick goes on first, so leave her some room."

The coffeehouse was in a stone chapel that looked as Gothic as the cathedral and was partially obscured by old oak trees. Inside was one room with a high ceiling, a stage, and a little balcony high up on a wall opposite the stage. A tall, skinny black kid with a huge Afro welcomed us and offered to help us carry in the equipment.

By the time we finished setting up, darkness had fallen outside, and candles on little tables provided the only light inside. Sandalwood incense perfumed the air and mingled with the smell of melting wax. A table offering coffee, tea, doughnuts, and cookies had been set up beside the entrance, and a crowd of kids my age filled the place, most of them students at St. Albans school. Rich kids, I thought to myself.

Dave set up microphones and adjusted the sound levels for Jan, the folk singer, before retreating backstage to fix something on his bass. Jimmy and Mark went outside to smoke, so I stayed inside to check out the singer. She walked out onto the stage under the lights, sat on the stool, and placed an acoustic guitar on her lap. The first thing I noticed was that she showed no signs of nervousness, and she smiled with genuine warmth at the audience, who greeted her with affectionate applause. She was slender, with long brown hair and an open, guile-free face. She leaned toward the microphone to thank everyone, and said that she would be doing songs she had recently written.

That surprised me. Although she was only about sixteen, she was already writing and performing her own songs. But it was when she began to play that she really caught me off guard. Fingerpicking the guitar with authority, she sang in a pure, expressive voice free of vibrato, forced emotion, or any other kind of artificiality. But most striking were her songs—rich with insight, clever phrasing, humor, and poetry that was as clear and natural as a waterfall. Those songs reflected, I thought, a rare and extraordinary personality. I could hardly believe my eyes or ears. Jan was a fully realized artist already, and perhaps, I thought, a genius. The lovely music, the beautiful person before me from whom it sprang, the candlelight, the warm aromas, all came together in a heady mix that overwhelmed me. My chest felt as though it might explode from sheer emotion, everything began to look different somehow, and I felt a sensation like warm honey pouring through my entire being. I didn't want it to end—ever. I knew then what it meant to fall into a spell, and it was a high beyond anything else I had ever experienced. Something inside me was changing, right then and there, though I didn't know what it was or what it might mean.

Those feelings grew stronger as she played. Each song was clear and distinct, and her voice filled my heart. I noticed that tears flowed from my eyes without my realizing it.

When she finished, I felt stunned. Jimmy grabbed my shoulder. "All right, we're on in fifteen minutes." He looked into my face with a smirk. "Hey, man, what's this? You look weird. Spaced out." His smirk grew. "You're in love, man. You're in love with that chick folk singer, aren't you?"

I followed Jimmy backstage in a trance. Jan was there, surrounded by admirers, flushed and smiling. She held a bouquet of roses. Without fully realizing what I was doing, I stopped in front of her. "That was incredible," I heard myself blurt out. "I've never experienced anything like that before. You've changed my life. I want to write songs. I want to be able to do what you do."

As soon as I said those words I felt like an idiot.

She looked at me with a face filled with joy, walked up to me, and gave me a hug. "Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing you play." She picked out one of the roses and handed it to me." Go ahead, your friends are waiting."

She swept out into the main room while I staggered over to Jimmy and Dave, who sat going over a list of songs Jimmy held in his hand. Mark stood nearby. "Hey, are you all right, man? Did you take acid or something?"

Jimmy smirked. "No, not him. He's just in love with that folk singer. He's all spaced out."

"No, I'm not," I said. "I don't know what I am anymore."

"You're a lunatic. Come on, here are the songs we ought to do tonight. Mark can sit in, too. It's mostly blues stuff. It'll be easy."

I barely paid attention to what he said. I followed them onto the stage, sat at the drums, and stared out at the halos of candlelight in the darkness. At last some lights lit up the stage, and the skinny black kid stepped onstage to introduce us. I couldn't hear what he said, but when Jimmy played the opening riff to our first song, I was with him. In spite of our long layoff, we sounded tight and smooth. Jimmy played with a sinuous, wiry tone, Dave's bass and my kick drum were perfectly synchronized, and Mark's rhythm guitar churned behind us. Dave sang with a control and depth I didn't know he had.

The band was clicking—we sounded better than ever, and without any particular effort on anyone's part. It's one of the mysteries of music how that happens. I didn't want to think about it for fear of breaking the spell. The audience cheered with amazement. I knew going in that those kids weren't used to having bands with any real professional experience at that coffeehouse, but we even amazed ourselves.

When our first set ended, I left the rose on my drums and floated out into the crowd. I was still enveloped by that transcendent feeling, and wondered for a moment if someone actually had slipped me some acid. But no, I thought. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink except a ginger ale I brought with me. I found Jan, still surrounded by her friends. This time it was her turn to compliment me. "You guys are fantastic! And you're a really great drummer, too."

"Thanks, but I'd really like to start doing something different. Jan, I just love your songs. It must be the greatest thing in the world to be able to write songs that really touch people like that."

She gave me a different kind of smile this time. "Come on, let's get outside and go for a walk. Let's walk around the cathedral."

The air was sharp and crisp, smoldering with wood smoke and leaves. We waded through the fallen leaves around the cathedral, where flood lights turned the buttresses, towers, and massive arched windows into a symphony of light and shadow. The two of us talked about our schools, our families, and our brief musical histories. She was an only child, her father was an admiral in the navy, and it was clear that she was not at all what was known as a "troubled teen." I don't think I'd ever met anyone who expressed such happiness with her life, such unequivocal love for her family, and so much appreciation for the advantages she had been handed at birth. "My parents are really supportive of my music," she said. "They're just the greatest. My dad is coming to pick me up tonight—maybe you'll get to meet him."

As we walked along the stone wall around the Bishop's Garden, I told her of my not-so-untroubled life. Mostly, I talked of my desire to write songs, which had been simmering for a couple of years, but had risen up like that big bell tower on the cathedral in my consciousness while she played. She slipped her arm around mine, and we walked close together in silence for several minutes. When we reached the archway leading into the garden, a light spray of rain fell from the black sky. She stopped, put her arms around me, and whispered. "Please, will you kiss me?"

Unable to believe what was happening, I leaned down and felt her lips on mine. We held each other closer, and I felt the warmth of her body. At last she loosened her grasp with a quiet chuckle. "I hate to say it, but it's really staring to rain now, and I think it's time for you to play again."

As if in some wonderful dream, I returned to the stage. We began with a couple of blues-rock songs. Out of nowhere, Jimmy turned to Mark. "Here, man, do something of your own. I can follow. Go for it."

"Let's just make something up." Mark stepped up to the center of the stage—the leather fringes of his shirt shivering—pulled the vocal mic closer, turned up his guitar, closed his eyes, and began to pick out a chord pattern that was strange and beautiful, using a Middle Eastern sounding scale. I'd never heard it before, yet I'd somehow known it all my life. I felt the breath of something unknown—Inspiration? Intuition?—fill my being. I put down the drumsticks, picked up the padded mallets, and softly tapped the edge of the crash cymbal, which produced a muted gong-like tone. Dave, too, closed his eyes, and his bass tricked into a pattern that was unusual, but fit perfectly into what Mark was playing. Jimmy's eyes rolled back, and he began to play a subtle, sitar-like run over what Mark and Dave played. Something was happening to all four of us.

Dave and I, without so much as a glance at one another, kicked in with power on my drums and the lower register of his bass, and I felt a rush. We had somehow, miraculously, achieved a musical mind meld, spontaneously creating something greater than any of us could have created on our own or together if we tried.

As Mark began to sing, we lowered our volume to leave room for the vocals. He sang of the beginning of a new day, new possibilities, if only we had the courage to grab them. The audience had risen to its feet, pressing as close to the stage as they could, listening, watching. I found that I had no need to think, or anticipate, or watch for cues—all I needed to do was release myself and go with it, ride it like some sublime, glossy wave.

The song shifted into a hard rocking raga-rock piece, then down into a delicate song so fragile that the slightest flub would shatter it. That never happened. After an instrumental jam that was a cross between Ravi Shankar and the Grateful Deal, the song swelled forward and returned to the original theme, only stronger and with more assurance. The audience found itself singing along with lyrics that were born in that very moment. I didn't see anything or even think. I lost myself in the music in a way that I have never been able to since.

At last, our communal song came to an end. The audience stood silent, staring. I saw tears in the eyes of many of them. Finally, the applause came, but it was unlike any applause I'd ever heard. It was a mantra that filled the room with an invisible light. We put aside our instruments and walked into crowd where we found ourselves being hugged by everyone there, one after another. Then they hugged each other. No one spoke a word. It was an all-encompassing bliss that we all shared. At last I found Jan, who stood with tears streaking down her face and that guileless smile. She embraced me, surrounded by our friends, all of us filled with a mysterious and nameless ecstasy.

It was time to leave. Jan led me outside into the world where a station wagon sat waiting with the engine running. A window opened and the grinning face of a man of about forty-five appeared. "All ready to go, Jan?"

"Daddy, I want you to meet a wonderful new friend," she said. "This was an amazing night, nothing like I'd ever known." She then turned to me, handed me a folded piece of paper, and kissed my cheek." That's my phone number. I live in Springfield, but you can come see me after school if you want. I go to the Washington School of Ballet.

"Ballet?"

"Yes, but it's also a regular high school. It's just a few blocks up Wisconsin. I get out at three and my dad picks me up at five. We can go get a coke or something."

"But Jan, I need to . . ."

She smiled with a touch of embarrassment and turned away slightly. "My dad's here. Call me, all right?" She gave me another kiss to the cheek and looked at me with a face shining with joy. "This was wonderful. I just love you, my friend."

She climbed into the car and they drove over the leaves and into the night, leaving me standing there holding the rose she gave me.

We somehow packed up our equipment and left, and during the ride home I was still in a dreamlike state. Dave, Mark, and I couldn't stop talking about what had happened. We agreed that it wasn't a song any of us had heard before, that none of us were tripping or even stoned on anything, and that we all simply knew what to play without any thought or planning. The others were as excited and baffled as I was.

As we drove the radio blasted out the triumphant final anthem from The Who's Tommy. I found myself again so filled with emotion that I wondered if I might float away.

I still felt like I was living in another dimension the next day, and called Mark and Dave. They felt the same way. Unfortunately, none of us could remember the song that transported us so profoundly the night before. It was like a cloud that formed into a vivid and fantastical shape before the winds come along to dissolve it into nothing.

Later that week I called Jan, and skipped a couple of classes to hitchhike downtown to meet her. She came out in a long brown cashmere coat—her gleaming hair spread over the shoulders and down her back—and greeted me with a warm hug. We walked around under the trees, continuing the conversation we had that night at the coffeehouse, and discovered that we both loved the older Jefferson Airplane albums and The Incredible String Band. We then stopped at a little snack shop where I met some of her friends, most of whom had also been at the coffeehouse. They, too, still felt a strange euphoria from that night.

Jan's dad arrived, and while he talked briefly with Jan's friends, she pulled me aside. "I just found out that we're moving to England. Dad's been called over."

"England? When?"

"A couple of weeks. I don't know if I'll even be able to see you again before we go."

"What? But we just, well, we . . ."

"I know. I feel terrible. Please call me tomorrow evening, all right? Dad is coming to pick me up from school from now on so we can get ready to leave. I'm not sure when I can see you."

A moment later, she was gone. I was left standing in that snack shop feeling the world fall away beneath me. That magical feeling had gone.

I managed to see Jan a couple of times before she left, though only briefly. The last time I saw her was when she was playing at another teen coffeehouse not far from the cathedral. She came with her parents, who were very kind to me, but who also took Jan home shortly after her performance. As they drove away, she looked at me through a window and waved, tears filling her eyes.

I barely got to talk with her, but at least I heard her play. She sounded even better than before, and her music still had that power to lift my consciousness into another level. But that last time, the joyous sensation was leavened by another feeling—one that has haunted me ever since.

The next day I managed to talk my older brother into lending me his guitar. I bought a book of guitar chords, some picks, and set forth on a new journey that would go on for the rest of my life.

**Obsession**

The first thing everybody told me when, at the age of twelve, I announced my intention to become a professional musician—and what I was forced to learn again and again from bitter experience—is that for every successful musician there are thousands of musicians possessing even greater genius who never get anywhere. It is virtually impossible to make it in the music world, and knowing who will is as predictable as knowing who will be whacked in the head by a falling meteorite. Most great musicians are obsessive about their music, but aren't particularly photogenic, they live in the wrong place, know the wrong people, and have no business sense. The ravages of fame and fortune are familiar to anyone who idly surveys headlines on gossip magazines while waiting in line at a grocery story, but a lifetime of unrecognized brilliance can warp a person in less obvious ways.

When I first met Mark we were fourteen. His father had been murdered in Florida, and his too-hastily remarried mother and stern stepfather moved the family to Maryland. On the first day of school Mark and I got talking, and he later brought me to his house to show off his stash of monster magazines. It was an exhaustive collection, all neatly organized in a special trunk. He told me he had a tendency to "get a little obsessive." I barely knew what that meant at the time, but he gave me a lifelong lesson.

Mark's mom and her new husband would get rip-roaring drunk every night, fight, tear the house up, and then go for Mark. After a thorough beating, he was generally kicked out and forced to fend for himself—rain, shine, or snow. In order to survive he crafted a superficially pleasing personality and a knack for manipulation to ingratiate himself to others. He frequently showed up at my window and asked to spend the night. The poor kid lived for weeks at a time like a stray dog, wandering from one friend's house to another hoping to get a meal or a place to sleep. He always looked slightly emaciated, and his dense brown hair grew over his shoulders and down his back. Most of his clothes had been given to him by friends by friends and didn't fit.

He lost his interest in monster magazines after living with two real monsters, and re-aimed his obsessiveness at playing the guitar. He saved up money from working odd jobs and bought a 1964 Fender Stratocaster. While his parents crashed and hollered upstairs, he locked himself in his room and practiced. He listened to the great guitarists of the time—Hendrix, Jeff Beck, Clapton—and started writing his own songs. All through junior high and high school he practiced during most of his waking hours, even bringing his guitar to school and playing scales in the back of the classroom. After scraping up the money for a tape recorder, he spent his free time recording his own songs. By the time he was a senior he had written hundreds of pieces of what he called "cosmic dream music."

Mark miraculously got through school with good grades, and during the summer he hitchhiked up and down the East Coast. Whenever he returned from his adventures he invariable had fallen in love with a girl along the way and obsessed about her—writing letters, calling, hitchhiking to visit her—until the girl couldn't handle the single-minded intensity of his interest. What he had to show from those broken relationships were dozens of new songs.

Mark was always in love, always tormented, and always on LSD, speed, or the latest hallucinogen. But he never stopped practicing and writing. He left home and lived with various friends over the years, and we played in several bands together. I found his preoccupation with music admirable, and his songs were unlike anything else I'd ever heard. I started to think that he might be a genius. We wrote songs together and formed a country-rock band called Sleaze, along with David Van Allen, who later became a well-known master of the pedal steel guitar.

Sleaze went through several incarnations over the years, and Mark became locally known for his songwriting and expressive guitar playing. However, he could never break through to the larger world and remained a local phenomenon. When Mark hit his mid-twenties he began to worry about his future. He got a job working for a lab cleaning out monkey cages and, frustrated by lack of real success as a musician, he stopped playing. He and his girlfriend holed up together for four years, working all day then obsessively studying astrology at night.

When another friend and I finally pried him out of the house to help record our friend's new band, we started a chain reaction in Mark's life that led to him taking up music again with a vengeance. Punk rock had swept away the synth-rock bands and stripped rock 'n roll down to bare essentials, which was just what Mark needed to inspire him. When we had a chance to join a "punkabilly" band with the great singer Martha Hull, we both dropped what we had been doing and jumped on a wild ride that took us perilously close to fame and fortune. After the band fell apart and the ride screeched to a halt, Mark married a woman who promptly dumped him and dragged him through a grinding divorce.

He responded by drinking more, writing more songs, studying the tarot, and working overtime at two low-paying jobs. When my band, Dogs Among the Bushes, found itself in need of a bassist, I asked Mark if he would consider joining us. Celtic folk-rock wasn't his music, and bass wasn't really his instrument, but I thought it would get him out there playing again. I doubted he would take me up on the offer, so I was surprised when he jumped at the chance. He never felt comfortable with our music or the bass, and I could tell because once he figured out a bass line for a song, he never varied it from performance to performance.

The Dogs had played in Europe in the past, and I contacted an agent in Germany who began setting up a four-month tour for us. At that point, Mark was forty-one, divorced, and what some called a "functioning alcoholic." He worked day and night, lived in the basement of a friend's house, and spent his few off-hours recording songs and drinking vodka.

A couple of months before our tour he met a twenty-two year old girl and fell for her—hard. He talked about her non-stop, wrote songs for her, and repeatedly dismissed the age difference. She was flattered by the attention, but I knew she had no serious interest in a man so much older. When she made an off-hand remark about him being "stuck in a rut," he decided to prove himself by quitting his jobs the next day, buying a new car, and offering to run away to South America with her. Alarmed, she broke up with him, flinging him into a depression so deep that he didn't get out of bed for weeks.

That was unfortunate, because the band needed him to help prepare for the tour. He drank, he chain-smoked, he cried, he called me in the middle of the night to tell me that something inside had "broken." I knew that, at age forty-one after a crushing divorce and now a failed romance with a much younger woman, he was in the midst of a classic mid-life crisis. Younger woman, better car. Next, I guessed, would come a new obsession.

That guess came true with all the vengeance of the Lord. One evening he called me up, insisted I come over, then sat me down and told me that the Holy Spirit had entered his heart and that he had finally accepted Jesus Christ as his "personal savior." It was only two weeks until our tour, and I saw dark premonitions appear on the horizon. I had the feeling his new obsession was going to be trouble.

Mark didn't help at all with the earthly preparations for our tour—making phone calls, getting together press kits, CDs, posters, and photographs, or researching insurance and tax information we might need. He preferred to take care of what he called "the spiritual side" of the tour. It turned out that the bulk of his spiritual work involved reading the bible over and over again, going to every Pentecostal church service within a hundred miles, and driving around looking for "signs" from The Lord. By sheer coincidence, those signs kept leading him to his former girlfriend's neighborhood to keep an eye on her and protect her from "demons." I worried, half-facetiously, that The Lord might next instruct him to "cleanse the sinners" and deposit their bodies into shallow, unmarked graves.

I flew to Europe early and spent a week in Amsterdam looking for a van to buy for our tour. It was grueling work trying to find a used but serviceable van in a foreign city and then take care of insurance and registration. When Mark and the rest of the band arrived and I picked them up at the airport in our newly purchased Volkswagen Transporter, Mark gave all the credit to his "spiritual" work and didn't thank me for my efforts, since I was merely a vessel of The Lord's will.

During the first weeks of our tour Mark was unusually subdued, generally sitting in the back of the van memorizing the bible and grinding his teeth. I became increasingly aware that he was observing the rest of us. As long as I'd known him he had always been a talker, so his silence was disturbing.

One night at a gig he sidled up to me during a break and whispered that the other members of the band were "surrounded by demons," and needed to accept Jesus before it was too late. Another member was being "used by Satan" and had to be watched very carefully. I later overheard him telling another band member that I was "falling under the influence of dark forces." It was obvious to him that God had arranged for him to join our band for the express purpose of leading us to Him, teaching us about God's Word, and at last getting us to accept Jesus as our personal savior, too.

I reminded him that I'd put in some time observing him, too—through his phases of astrology, tarot, and drugs—and none of them seemed to make him happy or a better person. He answered that this was the "real thing." "You can see how I've changed," he insisted. "I've been transformed by The Lord. Everyone can see it." I didn't have the heart to tell him that, if anything, he was more the same than ever.

In the German port city of Greifswald we got to know the manager of the club we played in, who happened to be an attractive young woman who had been going through some rough times. I watched Mark employ the same pick-up tactics on her that I'd seen him use hundreds of times before his conversion, and for decidedly unspiritual reasons. He claimed that he had no carnal interest in her at all—he was there to help her find The Lord. He looked quite pleased with himself when she agreed to go out for a picnic on the beach with him. When they returned she rolled her eyes and muttered something about him being a "holy prude." I had to give him credit—he really was trying to save rather than seduce her. The problem was that she preferred to be seduced.

He repeated this behavior in several towns where we spent time, zeroing in on attractive but troubled young women, cozying up to them before springing The Lord on them. He also grew more frustrated with our music when he realized that nothing in our songs glorified The Lord, and as he told me, any music that leaves out The Lord is dead and meaningless. As our tour came down the home stretch, Mark felt emboldened, preaching at us incessantly in traffic jams on the autobahn or while we were lost on tiny country roads. One night as we sat overlooking the Rhine he harangued me until I literally had to run from the Good News before I lost my temper. Another night in a hotel he filled a bathtub with water in which he planned to "baptize" us, and begged us to allow him to save us. "It's only a little water and a few words and it's over—you're saved." He almost got a sock to the chin when he tried to drag one band member—one who he felt had been getting a bit too comfortable with Satan—into the bathroom.

Mark's holy fervor created a corrosive friction that brought the unsaved elements in the band closer together and eager to do Satan's bidding—fire Mark. This became cemented into our plans on the night a tire on the van went flat and, while the rest of us dragged ourselves out into a rainstorm to change the tire, he stayed inside praying. Predictably, he credited his prayers for the new tire when we got back on the road.

After the tour he moved in with a German girl—attractive and troubled, of course—who was twenty-two but looked sixteen. The rest of us returned to the States and began looking for a new bass player. When Mark returned home after his girlfriend grew tired of his evangelical hectoring, we informed him that he was no longer in the band. It was an emotional meeting, and Mark gave us the same kind of look that Moses must have given the Chosen People when he found them worshipping a Golden Calf. "So you all went sneaking around behind my back and plotting to get rid of me! After all I've done for this band, and all I've done for your eternal souls..."

"You moved in with that chick in Germany," I said. "We need a bass player, you know."

"While my back is turned. I see Satan's hand in all this." He leapt to his feet. "I see demons all around you! I feel sorry for you—all of you!"

He then proceeded to deliver a thunderingly incomprehensible denunciation of our perfidy that was a cross between Jeremiah and Revelations before he finally withdrew in a chariot of self-righteousness.

I didn't see Mark again for fifteen years. I finally ran into him at the funeral of a mutual friend's mother, where Mark had been asked to play guitar on a song our friend had written. I hardly recognized him in a suit with his gray hair and stooped shoulders. He hugged me when I arrived, and told me that he hoped that Jesus had been with me all those years. Before getting up to play he said, "I haven't played a note since that last gig in Germany. I'm too busy studying scripture. I'm kind of obsessive about it."

He fumbled through the song and I felt terrible. After all those years of brilliance he could barely get through one verse. Then, as the song built momentum, he stood up straight and his eyes brightened. For one glorious moment, he cut loose a guitar run that made the entire congregation gasp. He looked around self-consciously, his shoulders slumped, and he stumbled his way to the end of the song.

Somehow, for a few seconds, the genius in Mark asserted itself. And for once I did pray, and I prayed for Mark. But I doubt it was a prayer he would approve of.

**A Few Tunes in the Pub**

At eight past seven on a Friday evening, Chris Whitman slid his car between an idling taxi and a hotel van to pull up at the arrivals area of the airport. As he stuffed his tie into his pants pocket, he spotted a familiar figure, dressed in a long coat and tweed cap, who stood clutching a knapsack and fiddle case. The figure waved, darted toward him, and the passenger door flew open while a green canvas knapsack crashed onto the back seat. The acrid stink of cigarettes blew in with the cold air.

"Bloody 'ell, mate, I could tell it was you by the way you were driving!" That familiar voice hadn't changed. "'Kin 'ell, whatever happened to you, mate? You look like some bloody tosser selling life insurance!" Simon grabbed Chris by the neck and kissed his cheek. "Couldn't help meself, mate. It's really good to see you. So you're still married, still working at that little office?"

"Yeah, still married, still working." Chris was amazed at how little Simon had changed. A few strands of gray had slithered into the reddish hair around the temples; maybe one or two new lines had formed in the cherubic, freckled face. His hair still reached his shoulders and he was lean and muscular. Most of all, he radiated a childlike simplicity that hadn't been scratched by the years of drinking, traveling, smoking, and living on the edge. "Simon, it's great to see you, too. How was your flight?"

"Don't remember much about it, to be honest. I was out of my head most of the time. Spent a few hours in the airport pub getting well pissed before the flight, then whacked back a load of duty free on the plane. I don't like flying. Anyway, I ended up passed out in my seat and woke up with my head on some old bloke's shoulder! Drool dripping down my face! You should have seen his face when I opened my eyes and looked up at him!"

Simon erupted into laughter while Chris maneuvered through the mass of traffic toward the freeway. "You must be worn out. I'll take you home and you can rest."

"Rest? What are you on about? I didn't stop overnight to rest, mate. I came over here to have the craic with you before flying on to my niece's wedding. You know, play a few tunes, whack back a few jars. Just like the old days. I never get to see you, mate, and I'll be leaving in the morning, so I want to get a good eyeful while I can. Looks like you could use a few tunes and a piss-up yourself."

"We'll stop by at home at least for a while and I'll show you your room. Maureen wants to say hello."

"I bloody bet she does. Look, I know I can be a bit much, but I'll try to tone it down, right? Don't want to upset things. Will your little girl be there?"

"Joyce is spending the night at a friend's house." Chris didn't tell him that Maureen insisted on keeping their daughter away for Simon's visit.

"Ah, that's a shame. I love kids, mate. I'd love to meet your daughter. She's four isn't she? That's a lovely age. Really lovely. Oh, I'm dying to meet her. So look, mate, I told you on the phone that I was in Spain for six months, didn't I? It was bloody fantastic. Me and my mate Ian played every night in a bar in Malaga, right on the coast. Sleeping all day, up all night, bloody fantastic. And the food, my God."

Chris spent three years traveling and busking through Europe with Simon and had lived that life. He knew that behind the stories lay dire insecurity, self-doubt, periods of poverty, and even boredom. Back then he never got enough sleep, subsisted on bread and cheese, and could never form a relationship with a woman, though beautiful and fascinating women came into their lives every day. After years of constant travel, nightly drinking, short-lived romances, and general exhaustion, Chris returned home to put together a more stable existence.

Simon, on the other hand, still reveled in his bohemian existence. He rented a garret in a small Swiss town, but spent most of the year on the road anywhere from Iceland to Greece. "How's your life been going? Must be a bit of all right, yeah? I mean, you've got this nice car, a house and all. You've got a bit of garden too, right?"

"We have a yard . . ."

"A garden! You with a garden! Well, I never thought . . ."

"Maureen doesn't allow smoking in the house. Sorry about that."

"Right, right."

To Chris's relief, Maureen greeted Simon with a hug. Although Maureen's family was Irish, her long dark hair and brown eyes led many people assumed that she was American Indian. She hid any signs of trepidation and had a steaming pot of tea and three cups waiting on the kitchen table.

"You're still looking tasty as ever, love." Simon said. "Nice to see you again."

"It's good to see you, too."

Simon took off his coat and sat looking around with a grin. He wore a wildly colored Hawaiian shirt. His arms were brown from the sun and hard muscles stretched beneath the layer of freckles and red hair.

"This is lovely, this. I mean, it's nice to have a proper home and all. Lovely copper pots and pans all hung in order of size, maple cabinets. All kinds of things for chopping and cutting. Maureen, you've really done a lovely job here."

"Thanks, Simon, but Chris had a lot to do with it. Anyway, you must be starving."

"No, we just had a big meal on the plane. Ah, I can hardly believe it. It's nice to see my old mate married to such a lovely girl as yourself. I knew that as soon as he met you I'd have to start looking for a new partner."

Maureen lowered her eyes. Chris squirmed.

"I'm sorry to blurt out these things. I just say what I feel. Yes, this is lovely. Look, I'm really happy for you."

Maureen refilled his cup. "Thank you Simon."

"Is that Joyce?" Simon leapt from his chair to the windowsill and picked up a photograph of Joyce dressed in a red dress in front of the Christmas tree. "Oh, she's lovely, isn't she?"

"Thanks."

"She's beautiful." Simon stared at the picture then placed it carefully back on the windowsill and returned to his seat. He leaned forward. "Now Maureen, I want to ask you so I don't put any pressure on Chris. This is my idea, right? Would you mind if Chris and I went out for a bit down to the pub? Just to have a jar or two and a chat? Maybe play a few tunes. We won't stay out late."

"I was expecting something like this . . ."

"I'm sorry, Maureen, sorry. Never mind then. It's nothing against you, not at all. I just wanted, you know, to have a chat with Chris. Man to man." Simon's face flushed as he stared into his teacup. "It's hard, me not being married. I mean, to really open up and all in front of a woman. Anyway, you're right. We should stop in tonight."

"I mean," Maureen said, "that I was expecting that you two would like to catch up on old times. It's about time Chris took that guitar of his out of the closet for an airing. It's no problem."

Simon looked up, his expression so filled with delight that Chris had to laugh. "Oh, that's lovely Maureen. Thanks very much. A few tunes in the pub would be great. Later on, or tomorrow, you and I can catch up."

In a cozy booth in the outside terrace at The Galway Bay, Chris and Simon savored their creamy pints of Guinness. It seemed to Chris as if the intervening years had never intruded. Simon told tales of his adventures, the characters he met along the way, and the musicians he played with. The part he played in his stories was generally the goofball who got locked out of his hotel room all night or lost his way and drove to the wrong pub, the wrong town, or, on one occasion, the wrong country.

"So what do you think, lad?" Simon pulled his rosin stained old fiddle out of its case.

Chris glanced at his guitar case under the table. "I talked to the owner already. He's cool with it. I just don't want to embarrass . . ."

"Ah, don't you worry, Chris, you'll be fine. Besides, I play the fiddle, so everybody will be looking at me anyway. Just joking, mate. It'll come back to you. You couldn't do any worse than some of the silly prats I've played with lately."

Simon placed his fiddle case on the table, pulled out the bow, and tightened the horsehair. "Come on, Chris. Just stick the case in the aisle. It won't be in the way."

Chris finally placed the guitar over one knee. Simon took out the fiddle, jammed it under his chin, and drew his bow back and forth over his strings, rapidly adjusting the pegs while Chris tuned quietly, afraid to look around at the few curious people watching them and nudging each other.

"All right, mate, let's give it a go." Simon drew the bow across two strings with a long vibrato. "Ready? 'The Concertina Reel' three times, 'Old Copper Plate' four. Ready? Three, four . . ."

Simon flew into the tune, the notes sliding and stuttering, the bow flashing, and his face rigid with concentration. The old reel sang through the suburban pub, a fiery dose of the spirit that the place had long tried in vain to generate. It swept away Chris's diffidence. He closed his eyes and improvised a bass line, driving the music with his chord inversions.

Chairs scraped on the floor as people turned to listen, and a few ventured closer to watch. The notes raced, leapt, and danced, and as much as the fiddle soared, growled, or erupted into cascades of trills, grace notes, and rolls, the guitar was right there with it, riding that energy, driving the rhythm.

As the last note hummed to a close, the customers erupted into applause, shouting and looking at each other with flushed amazement. Two more pints appeared on the table along with two shots of Jameson whisky.

Simon tossed back his shot. "F'kin 'ell, mate, you haven't lost a thing. Where have you been all these years?"

He started into a jig. Chris slammed back his whisky and joined him, entwining chords through the music rather than banging at it like most guitarists. He half expected sparks to shoot from his nerves and out through his skin.

More pints appeared while Chris and Simon plundered their store of music. Simon sang a song, then the two sprang into a string of reels. Encouraged by the crowd, they played on into the night, the delicate interplay between their instruments astonishing them more than their listeners. Chris felt the alcohol rush to his head. It seemed to fuel rather than diminish his energy. At last the two took a break and after shaking a few hands and answering a few questions, they relaxed with two fresh pints.

"Chris, you old bastard, you've still got it. That was bloody brilliant!"

"I never thought . . . I mean—I can still play. And you, man, you're a demon with that fiddle. Better than ever. I can't believe this."

Simon lit a cigarette and leaned forward, blowing smoke out to one side. "Listen, mate. Nobody can play that thing like you do, and I've never played with anyone I connected with like this. Never. It's absolutely magic."

"I know, I know." Chris was trembling.

Simon gazed into his Guinness while his cigarette smoke rose toward the sky. "Things are getting a bit weird for me these days. My last partner left to go back home to his carpenter job in Ireland. I've got gigs but nobody to do them with. Long story short, I'm thinking about getting out of this life. The music life, I mean. And now, when I see your life with Maureen, a beautiful daughter, all the things I've missed out on by spending my life running around like a madman . . ."

"I can come back over."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can come play music with you again."

"What are you on about?" Simon took a pull at his cigarette. "You can't just go running off . . ."

"Listen, Simon! I can take a leave of absence from my job. I've got lots of vacation time built up. I've still got a valid passport in my dresser. All I need to do is throw a few clothes and a sleeping bag into my old knapsack, buy some strings for the guitar, and I'm off!"

"You're out of your head, mate. You don't want to go back to all that. I know you've romanticized it in your head, but it's a bloody rough life. Maybe you should get a coffee or something."

No, I'm serious." Chris didn't feel drunk. In fact, his thoughts seemed clearer than they had ever been in his life. He could explain everything to Maureen. She'd understand. He could make money playing music, send most of it home . . . but how long could he stay? "I can come over for awhile. Maybe until you find somebody else. Maybe a month. Come on, Simon, it's only a month. Maureen would be cool with it. She's always telling me I should get into music again."

"What if she doesn't want you to go?"

Chris swallowed a good part of his pint. "I'll just do it anyway."

Simon stared. "You'd do that?"

"You'd better believe it. Damn it, Simon, I've been wasting my life. I have to wear a tie at work—can you believe it? A tie! It's all such crap."

Simon glanced at three attractive young women sitting at the bar. One, a blond in jeans and a green sweater, smiled at him.

"Bloody 'ell, I could do with a bit of that," Simon muttered with a wink. "Look, mate, I don't want you throwing your life and your marriage away just because we got pissed one night and had a few tunes. You've got everything I wish I had now that I'm getting on in years. You've got a little daughter . . ."

"Don't worry, I won't throw anything away. I know what I'm doing."

"All right, all right." Simon stood and took a deep breath. "You think about it. I'm going chat up these birds. With any luck I'll spare your sheets tonight."

What if they wouldn't let him off work? What if Maureen freaked out? What about Joyce? He had bills to pay in the next month, but Maureen could take care of them. Some bills were complicated . . . "Damn," Chris mumbled. "There's always some problem."

Chris felt alarmed at the web of dependencies he had woven for himself: his wife Maureen, their four-year-old daughter Joyce, his job, medical and dental plan, car insurance, mortgage payments, IRA and money funds, college funds, various warranties, maintenance schedules, checklists, and interlocking strands of relationships, memberships, credit cards, shoppers club cards, websites, email accounts, library cards, professional acquaintances, bills, and taxes. All intricately tethered to—and dependent upon—his backside remaining firmly planted behind a desk in front of a computer.

He took another drink from his Guinness, and the realization hit. He was thinking too much about it. Trying to work out every detail, consider every angle. He sat up straight. No, he wasn't going to worry about it, agonize over it, take a vote from everyone else in his life and let them decide what he would do. He was going to decide, and anybody who didn't like it could worry about it.

Simon returned to their table with two more Guinnesses. "Bloody cheek."

Chris looked up, startled from his thoughts. "What happened?"

Simon lit a cigarette. "They blew me off, they did."

"Why?"

Simon showed him a strangely twisted smile. "They were all friendly about the music. Loved my accent and all that. But when I hinted around about getting together later or something . . ."

"What did they say?"

"Ah, nothing, really. Come on, lad, let's drink up."

"Come on, Simon."

Simon exhaled smoke through his nostrils. "They blew me off, mate. Said I was too old. Too old! I wonder what day we got too old? They said they didn't like smokers. I'm hearing more and more of that these days. It's not like it was back when you and me were getting pissed all over Europe. I never realized at the time . . . ah, bollocks to 'em anyway. They're probably underage with fake IDs. Are you still set on coming over? Can you really do it?"

"Yes Simon, I've decided."

Simon rushed around the table and hugged Chris. "F'kin ell, mate, this is my dream come true. I can hardly believe it meself. Magic! Come on, then, let's drink up."

Chris was too drunk but drove anyway while Simon told him about the gigs coming up in Croatia, Slovakia, and Slovenia: all countries where Irish pubs were beginning to appear. "We'll be pioneers, mate. I might fancy settling down there too. It's dirt cheap and the women, my God, they're gorgeous!"

Chris's mind was awash in competing images. His heart pounded so hard his hands throbbed on the steering wheel. He pulled into the driveway, cut off the engine, and the two sat in silence, taking in their future. "I should never have gotten myself in so deep," Chris finally said, "that I couldn't get out. It's like I've been dead inside."

"There aren't many can play like you, Chris. Believe me, I know."

Chris turned his face toward his window, closed his eyes, and whispered. "I've been an idiot."

"All right, mate. I was an idiot, too. Thought I should settle down. But now you're on the right track. It was meant to be."

"It's my life, Simon. My life."

"So we'd better get some sleep, right? I'm bloody knackered. Show me the way so I don't knock over some expensive vase and wake up the missus."

When Chris staggered into the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, he found Simon and Maureen talking about the history of Switzerland. Through a mouthful of toast, Simon described with great relish how, during the siege of Murten, the Duke of Burgundy's proud army was annihilated by citizens who climbed over the walls and slaughtered their dumbfounded attackers.

"That's why I have a flat right on the main street of Murten," he said between chews. "I like that spirit. And a lovely top of the morning to you, Chris. Better eat up, mate, 'cause I've got to get to the airport. My little niece is all grown up and needs her old uncle's blessing."

Chris sipped at a mug of coffee. He felt numb as he half-listened to his wife ask Simon about his niece. They were still talking as he retreated to the bedroom to get dressed. When he emerged, he found Simon standing by the front door with his pack and fiddle, listening to Maureen's story of how Joyce once dressed up in a princess outfit and ran down the street and into a house where a group of elderly neighbors were celebrating a birthday. Maureen and Simon laughed together as she described Joyce parading back and forth before the fawning octogenarians. Chris felt disjointed and barely able to think.

Simon slapped him on the back. "I can't fly to Chicago without the plane under me. Thanks so much for everything, Maureen. Chris here is one lucky lad."

While they drove to the airport Simon muttered and fumbled through his pockets. "Right, there's the bloody passport . . . now where's the visa? And, where in the bloody 'ell did I put my—oh, there it is."

Chris couldn't speak. His mind wasn't rushing with ideas and visions. In fact, he couldn't think at all. When they reached the airport, they sat without speaking. Simon pulled his knapsack and fiddle case onto his lap, his lips tight. At last he turned to Chris. "Thanks a lot for everything, mate. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Your wife is really lovely. You've done well, mate. You've done well."

Chris turned to Simon. "Thanks, Simon. So have you."

Simon rubbed the sleeve of his coat over his face and laughed. "Sorry, mate. I guess I've got to go."

He reached over to hug his friend, and Chris held him for a moment. At last, Simon grabbed his bags and, with a wave and a thumbs-up, hurried out into the cold toward the departure doors.

As Chris watched, he told himself that Simon was a figure out of place, out of time. After all, Simon had no family, no reliable income, and he barely managed to scrape out a living under the radar in a foreign country. For an instant, Chris saw a middle-aged bohemian in a rumpled overcoat and tweed cap who played music that nobody listened to hurrying through the crowds of bustling passengers with their sleek winter jackets and gleaming luggage. He could almost convince himself that he was watching a lost, almost pathetic figure disappear into those crowds.

Chris closed his eyes as cars and minivans swirled around him. A sharp rapping on his window startled him.

"Hey mate, I'd better get your address in case I lose it. And I'll give you the address at where I'll be for awhile."

Chris lowered the window. "Where are you going?"

`"Remember I told you I almost accepted a different gig? I'm going to take it. I'll call them as soon as I get to Chicago."

"You mean you're getting a regular job?"

"You won't believe this, mate. They asked me to join a Riverdance touring band that's going to the mysterious East. Can you imagine me playing in Riverdance? I've got to learn the tunes, go to Hungary for rehearsals, then we tour in Bulgaria, Ukraine, Russia, maybe even China. Can you believe it? Me pissing it up in Red Square or along the Great Wall? What a laugh! Anyway, wish me luck, mate. I'll see you. Give Maureen and Joyce my love."

Chris found himself alone in his car, and an unstoppable wave poured through his being. What he felt was far greater than mere sadness or regret. It was a feeling that squeezed and squeezed until tears filled his own eyes and poured down his cheeks and onto his clothes. It was several minutes before he could start up his engine. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and instead drew out the red and gold tie he stuffed into it the day before. He carefully folded it, placed it on the seat beside him, put the car engine into gear, and drove toward the highway that would take him home.

**Galileo's Hood**

The first time I performed on the street to actually avoid starving to death was in Padua, Italy. I was traveling around Europe with three friends—Charlie and Terry came over with me, and Pete was a hard-drinking English guy we met at a music festival in France. Pete had a van and was afflicted by an extravagant case of verbal diarrhea, talking non-stop through France, Germany, and Switzerland. Luckily, that affliction helped get us invited to crash at strangers' houses, to parties, and to play the occasional gig. We played in pedestrian zones by day and bars by night, making enough money to keep ourselves in wine and gas. Another busker told us that Italy was virgin territory for street performers, so while stuck in a week-long rainstorm in Switzerland watching our money disappear and our stomachs shrink, we studied our maps to plan an escape.

Padua was close to Venice, which we figured would be the juiciest busking peach in Italy. Charlie―who two weeks before our trip fell out of a third floor window and left the hospital just in time to make our flight―wanted to see the frescos by Giotto in the Scrovegni Chapel. Petrarch, Donatelli, and Galileo also lived and worked in Padua, and we all know what happened to Galileo. Brimming with the vague sense of purpose we felt when journeying to a place we actually knew something about, we crossed over the Alps from the fastidious, logic-driven Northern World into the inscrutable, laid-back, tradition-soaked Southern World. The architecture ranged from magnificent to dreary, with graceful churches mingling with tacky postwar apartment buildings. Some villages we passed were so venerable that they seemed embedded in the crust of the earth, while our own century's technological litter of telephone cables, electric lights, and cars poked up like momentary pustules. The autostrade from Milan to Verona was a congested mess of factories, power lines, prefabricated shopping malls, dingy apartment buildings and gritty pollution, with the occasional glimpse of an olive grove or graceful villa. The road was clogged with trucks, and for long stretches, northern Italy was little more than an endless string of Clevelands.

By the time we got to Padua it was nearly midnight. European cities are like oysters—pearl-like antique centers surrounded by ugly shells of modernity. We spent an hour buzzing around the city like an insect looking for an opening, but every time we thought we found a street leading to the center, a clever complex of one-way streets spit us back out again. At last we gave up and drove into the countryside to spend the night. The scent of unwashed males made the atmosphere in the van a bit too fruity, so we decided to sleep outside. We found a grassy spot by the creek in a small park, with several willows grouped together, where we couldn't see the lights from the surrounding buildings.

The next morning I opened one eye to see fog hanging over the park and an elderly woman walking her poodle trying to ignore us. The poodle, however, gave us a look that he might give a particularly ripe fire hydrant. We bundled up our damp bags and trudged back to the van while a group of children playing nearby stopped to shout at us and laugh.

Our tires had been slashed and a side window smashed in. It was the work of a instant to ascertain that our communal bag of money was gone. The four of us were stuck thousands of miles from home, penniless in a country we never before visited and knew nothing about. Standing in that little residential neighborhood staring at each other, we realized that we were literally starving on the streets of a foreign land. I felt a strange, existential sensation.

"Bloody bleedin' 'ell!" Pete shouted, swiping at the broken window and cutting his palm in the process. "And I was hoping for a bit of a vacation down here. We don't have any money, no food, nothing. What the bleedin' 'ell do we do now?"

"Be glad we still have our instruments," I pointed out in an unappreciated attempt to see the bright side. "Otherwise we'd have to beg, or just lie down and die in the park."

Staggering under the weight of our backpacks and instruments, we picked our way through the swarming roads of Padua to the signs marking the boundaries of the pedestrian zone. We wandered through an area where the sidewalk was torn up, leaving dirt and concrete scattered in small piles, and then down a winding cobblestone alley. The buildings looked far older than any others we had yet seen in Europe. Most were pale ochre in color, with rust stains dripping like streaks of sweat down the sides. Clothes hung overhead from iron balconies and clotheslines strung over the narrow lanes. A sweet aroma of wet stone, cheese, and flowers filled the air. I was dizzy with hunger.

The walkway spilled onto the broad Piazza della Erbe, surrounded on all sides by beautiful Renaissance buildings. Each had its own arcaded walkway with elegant arching doorways. The ground floors of many buildings contained shops and cafes. Near the center of the piazza stood dozens of carts piled with fresh produce, while behind them, ruddy-cheeked women chattered full volume in the rapid-fire cadence of Italian. In the center of the square rose a magnificent renaissance structure with a food market on the ground floor. The upper floor looked like it might have housed an art museum. We later learned that it did.

The air was dense with the pungency of basil and the sugar of peaches. Water formed gridworks of puddles around the worn cobblestones in the square, and hundreds of pigeons stalked with bobbing heads as they searched for bits of food—entire flocks taking off together while others swooped in to replace them. Old men stood reading newspapers or shouting at one another at close range. I eyed the pigeons, many of whom appeared to be quite plump and succulent.

We walked under a low archway that led to another piazza, Piazza della Fruitti, where dozens of white plastic tables sat near a row of cafes and restaurants. Exhausted, we decided to busk under the archway because everybody who wanted to go from one piazza to the other had to pass under it. A cramped pizza shop stood behind the nearest grape-laden cart, tucked away in the arcade, and I fixed my eyes on that shop.

Charlie started into a reel, The Wise Maid. He played the first part alone, and the singing tones of his flute danced through the echoes of the ancient stones. The second time through, Terry on fiddle, Pete on bodhran, and I, on bouzouki, plunged in, adding our own sounds to that place that saw and heard so much over the centuries.

A crowd formed immediately. The women of Padua stood tapping their feet and smiling as they held their bags of produce, the kids watching wide-eyed and clutching their mother's skirts. Several thousand lire notes appeared in the hat, and the crowd continued to grow. Even a pair of tiny old ladies, whose heads barely came up to Charlie's belt buckle, stopped to listen. After we played for about ten minutes to a generous crowd, we bolted into the cafe to shove something into our stomachs. We divided up the money with jittering fingers while waiting for the little pizzas to warm, and ended up with more than twelve thousand lire each.

"Not bad for a load of bloody derelicts who have to sleep in the park," Pete said as we relaxed a few minutes later at an outdoor table. "If it weren't for getting robbed on occasion, we could get rich around here in a few weeks time."

I opened my "Let's Go" guide to the section on Padua. "Look at this, right here. You won't believe this."

Charlie looked up from rolling a cigarette. "Some rare insect flattened between the pages?"

"There's a hotel nearby, right over there, where rooms are six thousand lire a night. That's four dollars."

The proprietor, Silvio, was a small, dark-haired man in his forties wearing a loosened tie, white shirt, and baggy black trousers. After a brief game of charades at his front desk, Silvio showed us to our room at the top of a narrow staircase. Before he left, he jingled the bunch of keys in his pocket and pointed to his watch. "Please, we close, meed-a-night, okay? Meed-a-night."

That afternoon we lounged in our hotel room popping fat grapes into our mouths. Outside, the old buildings glowed in the southern sun. Our beds stood in a line on one wall, with a crucifix over the door. Against the opposite wall leaned an ancient wooden dresser with a cracked marble top, and an aged porcelain sink slumped next to the door. The ceiling was high and the peeling walls had been painted a deep green decades earlier. To us it was a palace.

Our days in Padua drifted by under a scorching Italian sun. We rose early each morning to busk in the piazzas during the daily market, strolled a few blocks to the vast and ancient Basilica del Santo, played for the tourists, then retreated from the midday heat to shower, write letters, or doze. Eventually we'd sleep for a couple of hours, along with everyone else in Italy. At four o'clock every afternoon, the people of Padua roused themselves to pour into the streets and piazzas, dressed in their finest, for passeggiata, or the afternoon stroll. The harsh temperatures of the day sweetened into fresh breezes that carried aromas from the restaurants and take-out shops that opened their doors to entice the crowds. We would go out for a bite to eat and sit on a wooden bench under the arcades to busk and watch the crowds. Girls passed with their dark hair fluffed up and miniskirts hugging their hips. Eyes flashing, a dash of pink on pouting lips, they strolled onto the piazza in laughing groups, casually oblivious to the attention they attracted. Their male counterparts strove to cultivate an attitude of disinterest.

The Petrucchi Café, just a few blocks from our hotel, was a famous watering hole for everyone who was anyone in Padua for centuries, and Charlie found himself drawn to that neo-Classical masterpiece for its unobtrusive service, air conditioning, and dirt-cheap whiskey. He spent hours sitting at a corner pretending to be a turn-of-the-century wastrel squandering the family money. Terry started hanging out with a student at the university who sold him pot. Pete and I were determined to rise above our hand-to-mouth predicament, and struggled to maintain a vigorous busking schedule.

One implacable wall we rammed into early was the problem of meeting girls. We never had any difficulties north of the Alps, but in Italy, language wasn't the only barrier. We weren't Italian. Their families didn't know our families. We wore jeans and appeared to have lower standards of grooming. The girls we ran into liked our music, found us momentarily entertaining, but ultimately they decided that we were strange and a little scary. Pete formed a theory that their grandmothers remembered how many pregnant Italian girls were left in the wake of the American army during the war, and frightened their granddaughters with tales of our fertility.

One Paduan who liked us without reservation was a homeless alcoholic named Frank who staggered up to cheer us on every time we played. "Play your music for the people, Charlie!" he cried out, holding up a half-empty wine bottle. "Charlie, play your flute for the people!" Afterwards he would offer to take our passports to an unspecified location for safekeeping. To his perpetual disappointment, we never took him up on the offer. Pete laughed at him every time he tried. "Your friend Peter is too rough," Frank would mutter to me. "He is too rough."

A side effect of busking through Europe was that we didn't see the places we visited through the eyes of tourists—we were always looking to where we could make money. We all but ignored the touristed spots, preferring to go after the tourists themselves. We lived in a nether world between tourists and residents without being either. On the day we finally took the train to Venice, the place was heaving. The sun was hot and unrelenting, and the smell of dead fish from the canals overpowering. We busked for hours in several locations for the hordes, but the only money we made was one nickel grudgingly tossed into our hat by an American nun. One nickel! We couldn't spend it or even exchange it if we wanted to.

As summer eased into autumn, the locals began to view us with a concern that bordered on outright suspicion. The normal tourists had returned home to work and school. Life in Padua resumed its centuries-old rhythm. We read the hints of curiosity everywhere—why were those long-haired English-speakers in their jeans and t-shirts still hanging around, still busking? Don't they have homes to go back to? Don't they know summer is over and everyone needs to go back to where they belong? Why won't they leave?

Eventually, those vibes began to get to us. The weather was getting cooler, and up north it would be soon be too cold to busk. We hoped to get gigs in Germany, and after being robbed once, we felt nervous about being so far from London, where our open tickets allowed us to catch a flight home whenever we finally had to leave. However, when we found out that the big Padua wine festival was about to heave into action, we decided to stick around to pick up a last few thousand lira. Pete walked down to get us a gig on the festival stage, and as he usually did, he talked and talked until the organizer cried "Uncle" and surrendered a twenty minute slot just before midnight.

When I got to the Piazza del Santo on the night of the festival, Charlie and Terry were sitting glassy-eyed on a step in front of a wine shop. Pete hurried over with two girls in tow. "Here, I just met these lovely Irish girls," he said, flinging one arm over the blonde's shoulder. "This one's Angie. That's Marisa. They're on a work exchange program with a load of other Irish people."

Marisa's face was framed by walnut curls, and her green eyes were emerald flames. She was short and her body compact. If I had seen her passing me on the street, I would have stopped and stared at her until she was out of view, and then mentally savored that image for the rest of the day. She looked me over once before latching onto my arm and leading me into the midst of the festival, peppering me with questions about our journeys.

Shadows tumbled across the piazza, where rows of wine stands formed meandering walkways. Groups of revelers stood sampling the wines local vintners brought into town. At one end of the piazza, sound and light engineers rigged a large stage with lights and speakers. Strings of lights dangled from the trees and poles that surrounded the square, while the venerable Basilica glowed like a vast cluster of golden beehives in the sunset. Artificial lights flickered on as we entered the festival area, guiding people who streamed in from capillary lanes feeding the piazza. We sat on the marble step of one of the shops on the square to watch the festival build up momentum.

During a lull in our conversation, Marisa suddenly clasped her hands around my neck, pulled down my head, and thrust her tongue into my mouth, nearly choking me as I reeled with astonishment. She rubbed her hands up and down my back, my head, everywhere, her tongue still darting over my teeth and gums, and straining for my uvula.

After I recovered from the shock, I responded in kind, and for several minutes we entwined ourselves together in the shadow of the grape shark. Then she broke free, panting hard. "I want to rape you," she gasped. She fixed me with a look that meant business, and enveloped my ear in her lips while my blood temperature shot up.

She slammed the right buttons, and I feverishly searched my mental map of the town for some park, alleyway, or bush we could retire to in order to resolve the situation. I already knew that Silvio wouldn't let her slip into my room. "Oh God, oh God!" We squeezed and caressed each other in the whirlpool of people.

"Marisa, maybe we should go somewhere else."

Marisa clutched me with hot, undulating desire, but the fact that I hardly knew her made the situation feel so comical that I had to laugh. I couldn't help thinking that, for the first time, I might finally do what friends back home no doubt assumed I had been doing all along. She attacked my mouth again with increased vigor, and her hands worked toward my nether regions like serpents inching toward their prey.

"Let's go find a nice bush somewhere." Passion was overwhelming the humor of the situation. I had had enough, and my hormones demanded serious action.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Come on, mate, we've got to play. We need this money. You can carry on with this later."

"Damn!" Throbbing, I reluctantly got up and followed Pete to the stage. Marisa kept one arm around my waist. As we walked, I felt a sore spot at the back of my throat. My sinuses sprang a series of leaks, and my head started to pound. My body felt hot and drained. I knew immediately that I was dealing with a serious flu. Ever since I was small, the symptoms attacked swiftly and without mercy. When I turned to look at that beautiful Irish girl with her dark, tumbling hair and emerald eyes filled with lust, I cursed the cruelty of fate. I'd be lucky to stay conscious for the next half hour. "Marisa, you'd better take some vitamin C."

It was a sorry-looking band that made its way onto the stage of the Padua wine festival—Charlie struggling to put his flute together, Terry with his glazed eyes and stoner grin, Pete with a frown, and me woozy with fever. Swirling spotlights bathed the crowd, and the roar of welcome that rose to greet us echoed and dissipated through all the streets, boulevards and alleyways of the ancient city. I blinked through the lights at the vast horde of Italians that stretched across the square. Then I glanced over at Marisa, who watched offstage shouting good-natured insults.

Terry lifted his fiddle to one microphone and flew into an impassioned set of reels. The crowd howled and I jumped back from the noise. Charlie bumbled over the first few notes before getting into a groove.

The crowd went crazy, stomping and clapping along with the tunes. People danced in circles, and some in the very front pounded their fists on the stage. Miraculously, we made it through the first number without mishap. Before the applause let up, I launched into a jig. Our confidence renewed, we started to enjoy ourselves.

"Go for it, mate!" Pete shouted as he did a little dance of his own.

I heard the fiddle droning out of tune. Before I knew what was happening I stumbled backwards and landed hard on my rear end. As if on cue, Pete stopped playing and started swearing at me.

The audience clapped, but without much conviction. I felt too weak to get up, but Charlie staggered over to the microphone. "Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen of this lovely city, where I have been rejected by a beautiful woman. Yes, but it is only what I deserved. So this one is for my lost and only love, who captured my heart, marinated it in vinegar, roasted it over a fire of thorns, stomped all over it with cleated boots, and handed it back to me in a plastic bag without so much as a rubber band to close it properly. Now I require only two things more. Fresh horses and more whiskey!"

He tottered forwards, backwards, and collapsed.

The moon peered over the domes and towers of the basilica while Pete dragged us off the stage with a string of profanity so ornate and intensely felt that I nearly cried.

"These two are useless," I heard Marisa tell Angie as I tried to stand up. I watched with watering eyes as they disappeared into the crowd, feeling despair and relief at the same time. No discussion was required at that point. We had long outworn our welcome, and after that farewell performance, we couldn't be out of there fast enough. I started to understand how Galileo must have felt.

Sylvio stood waiting in his bathrobe at the hotel, his hair disheveled and his hands on his hips. As we filed despondently in, he tapped at his watch. "I tell you, meed-a-night, meed-a-night! Where you are? We close! Do not you hear?"

He calmed down considerably when Pete paid him and the rest of us grabbed our belongings and dragged them downstairs into the lobby. "You leave now, yes? Okay, you leave. Goodbye."

Several hours later we pulled over on the road up to the St. Gotthard Pass to watch the pink fingers of dawn touch the snowy tops of the Alps. The ache of hunger stirred in my stomach. The air was chilly, and we dug deep into our packs to find sweaters and jackets for the long, long road ahead.

**A Party North of Baltimore**

Over the long course of my musical life, post-gig celebrations have reflected changes in that life with stark accuracy. When I was a kid my parents drove me to the gig and back, and I would lie awake all night reliving the experience over and over. In my twenties, post-gig festivities often continued for days in a blur of drinking, partying, holding court at all-night diners with the band, waking up in unknown places under mysterious circumstances, and barely surviving the inevitable life-altering hangovers. Over time, the revels shrank until by the time I reached my forties I simply packed up my equipment, drove home, and headed straight for bed.

When I was seventeen I played in a country-rock band that didn't get many gigs. Most were in coffeehouses where we'd play for a few dollars. Dave, our bassist, was always trying to scare up work for us, and one time he landed us a peach—playing the national anthem at a regional karate championship just blocks from my house for a hundred dollars each.

As we rehearsed our version of the Star Spangled Banner, we felt that it needed a special something to give people their money's worth. We put together a country-rock version that sounded vaguely facetious, and after some deliberations, agreed that tacking on "The Caissons Go Rolling Along" followed by an injection of the Looney Tunes theme would add some fizz to the solemnities.

When the night of the karate championships finally arrived, the hall was jammed with martial arts fans, and while the crowd swelled and hummed we waited in our corner for the signal to begin. At last a voice echoed on a squeak of feedback over the PA system—"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our national anthem."

Silence dropped over the crowd like a karate chop, and as they stood, the organizer waved to us. Our tongue-in-cheek dressing up of the national anthem suddenly didn't seem like such a clever idea after all. With trepidation that bordered on despair, I counted out the rhythm. The pedal steel swirled and whined, the drums and bass pounded, and the guitar was a wall of distortion. We had no choice but to press on while the crowd stood stoically through the ordeal. When we lurched willy-nilly into our surprise ending, they continued to maintain their patriotic stance. Even during the Looney Tunes I noticed only a few jaws grinding. They were a tough bunch.

The organizer paid us immediately and hurried us out into the windy parking lot before anyone could use us as practice dummies. We were at large in the great big world with a hundred bucks each in our pockets. While the other band members trickled home, Mark, the guitarist, and I felt restless. The night was young and we didn't have school the next day. Surely the world held some adventure for us. "Hey," I said. "Why don't we go up and visit Liz in Massachusetts?"

Liz was a girl I met at the beach that summer, and with her wavy walnut hair, sly smile, and dark eyes she was impossible to forget. The brief time we spent together surprised us both with its hormonally charged atmosphere, so after exchanging addresses we began an intriguing correspondence.

In those pre-cell phone and texting days—when parents could and often did monitor phone calls—the seemingly antiquated habit of writing letters was common in the teen world. A letter gave the writer an expansive forum in which to unselfconsciously chatter, digress, joke, ruminate, and confide secrets without being interrupted or observed. Once the letter was mailed, of course, there was no possibility of going back to excise passages that might be too candid, and that's what injected a spurt of adrenalin into the bloodstream when the letter dropped irretrievably into the mailbox.

Liz wrote her letters on heliotrope paper with pictures of horses on the top, and they always smelled of sandalwood. She wrote in large, rounded letters, but without that dreaded circle—or worse yet, a heart—over the "i." After her opening greeting, which was usually a wry commentary on my last letter, there was a bit about what she imagined I was doing, a section of news and gossip from her school, complaints or anecdotes about friends and teachers, her hopes for the immediate future, more humorous comments, and an effusively affectionate close. Each letter was a package of Liz that was far more revealing than she could have guessed. No text message or email could be as sensual and electric as a letter like that.

Her letters left no doubt in my mind that she would welcome a surprise visit to the private school her parents dumped her into, and the money from the gig could pay our way. Mark said he was game for anything. The trip would take all night, and the fact that we had no transportation almost slammed my idea shut. Hitchhiking in the dead of winter was out of the question.

However, Dave, our bass player, not only had a car—which was why he ended up taking all our equipment home—but he was the kind of person who could be coaxed into anything with a little persistence. We walked to his house, circled around to the back basement window, and peered in to see Dave sitting with a bowl of popcorn watching television. I tapped on the glass and he leapt up to open it. "What the hell are you guys doing here? My parents are asleep and I'm trying to watch 'Revenge of the Swamp Creatures.'"

"Forget that, man," said Mark. "We got invited to a big party just north of Baltimore, but we need a ride. It's gonna be great, all night, with loads of bands and chicks and everything."

"But I wanted to see 'Revenge of the Swamp Creatures,' and I'm really tired."

The use of the past tense on the word "wanted" let me know we had him. "Come on, man, they'll show it again. But this party is once in a lifetime. You took in the equipment, right? So you can sleep on the way up and I'll drive. We'll wake you when we get there."

After some groaning and eye-rolling, Dave grabbed his coat, keys, and wallet and crawled out the window to join us. "This better be good if I'm missing 'Revenge of the Swamp Creatures.'" Mark and I slapped five with our eyes.

By the time we got on Interstate 95, Dave was already snoring in the back of his station wagon. When he finally roused himself with a snort, dawn was beginning to flush the New York City skyline. He sat up and banged his head on the inside light. "Where in the hell are we? And where's this party?"

"We told you Dave, north of Baltimore. It's some town in Massachusetts."

Dave demanded that we stop at the next rest stop. I wasn't entirely surprised when he took the wheel but continued heading north. "Now I'll never get to see 'Revenge of the Swamp Creatures.'"

We bought a box of doughnuts and hot chocolate at the next rest stop, and stayed awake by keeping the radio on a fuzzy but reliable station that played the same few songs over and over—"Heart of Gold," "Poor Pitiful Me," "American Pie," and our hometown hero Nils Lofgrin's "White Lies."

As light began to fill the world, so did a thick downpour of snow. The cold was brutal. By the time we arrived in the village where Liz went to school, we were nearly delirious from lack of sleep. We pulled into the icy parking lot of a church and fell asleep sitting up. Snow coated the car like breading on tempura chicken as we slept, and we woke up a couple of hours later enclosed in a frozen cocoon. Dave let loose a string of Anglo-Saxon-isms that would have made a stevedore proud. "I can't believe I gave up 'Revenge of the Swamp Creatures' for this. What the hell are we doing here, anyway? I assume there's no party."

Mark slung his arm over my shoulder. "He wanted to visit his girlfriend. You can understand that—it's for love. It's romantic, isn't it? Like one of our songs."

We dug out Dave's car by hand, then drove to a nearby doughnut shop for breakfast. "They have school today up here, so Liz will still be in class. Since it's a private school, we can't just go strolling in. We'll go tonight, but we'd better be careful."

Dave snorted again. Until that day I had no idea that he knew Anglo-Saxon or was even capable of snorting. "Oh, great plan. You tell me some lie about a party, drive my car all night into a blizzard, and now we have to sit around freezing our tails off until tonight. You didn't even tell her we were coming, did you? Good thing I happen to have my Monopoly game in the car. We're going to need it."

Seven games of Monopoly, three dozen doughnuts, and several gallons of hot chocolate later, it was time to make our move. We were greeted at the school entrance by a map of the campus. "That's Liz's dorm, the one right in front of us," I said. "Come on, let's check it out. This is going to totally freak her out."

Dave cut the engine. "I'm not going anywhere. If we get caught in a dorm in a private school for girls, we could get in a lot of serious trouble. Especially me, since I turned eighteen last month."

"Suit yourself. If everything's cool, we'll come get you."

Only a couple of students were out tromping through the snow, and with our long hair and thick coats we could pass as girls from a distance in the dark. We hurried as fast as the snow allowed and tried the door. It was unlocked. "Okay," I said, "her room is two-twelve, so that's probably on the second floor. Let's run for it before anybody sees us."

I stuck my head in, listened, then held my breath and ran to the stairs. We leapt up three stairs at a time, dashed down one hallway, and stopped, out of breath, at the door to 212. I had to hold back a laugh. "I can't believe this. We must be insane."

Mark rapped at the door and a face I hadn't seen in months peered out at us with eyes that swelled to the size of basketballs before spinning like fruit on a slot machine. Her hair was longer and shinier than I remembered, her skin like cream, her lips juicy, and when her eyes stopped spinning they glowed like embers behind her black-rimmed glasses. The overalls she wore couldn't hide the shapely form beneath.

She grabbed my collar, jerked me inside, pulled my face to hers, and let me know that our surprise visit was very welcome indeed. Mark slipped in and Liz kicked the door shut behind us. "Oh my God, I can't believe this! You're insane! I love you!" She flung herself at me with renewed energy and nearly knocked me to the floor.

Just when I thought she was going to suck my tongue out, another female voice emerged. "Is this the guy you've been telling me about? Who's the other guy?"

Liz turned, her arms still holding me tight. "This is him, and that's his friend Mark. You guys, this is Linda."

Linda was slender, with a mass of curly blond hair and a thin face. She also wore overalls. Her face burst into a smile brighter than a summer afternoon and she took hold of Mark and hugged him close. "Oh, thank you for coming. Thank you!"

I felt like I'd slipped into a dream. Sitar music buzzed in the background and smoke from the sandalwood incense was dense. The two beds swarmed with stuffed animals and the walls were crowded with psychedelic mandalas and posters of rock bands. Mark and I found ourselves locked in a room at night, in a snowstorm, with two beautiful girls who couldn't keep their hands to themselves. For a few moments the universe split wide open before us and I almost forgot about Dave shivering in the car outside.

At last Liz let go and danced a jig with Linda. "I can't believe this, oh God, this is amazing! You can't believe how dull and awful this place is. There's absolutely nothing to do, nowhere to go, everybody's a moron, and now you guys show up like angels. Come on, you're staying here with us tonight! Nobody will ever know!"

It was at that instant that I felt myself entering a new and wonderful world. Dave no longer existed. I may have swooned. Unfortunately, it was also at that moment that a large fist pounded on the door from outside. "Elizabeth, Linda, open this door immediately!"

Ecstasy morphed into terror. The joy in those girls' eyes froze into panic. I was hurled from a world of bliss and into a bad comedy routine as Liz shoved me to the back of a closet and Linda stuffed Mark under a bed. "Don't make a sound and don't come out till I tell you," Liz gasped.

Those moments in the closet were some of the strangest I had experienced in my life, but they didn't last long. The door flew open, an arm shot in, and a grip like an elephant trap slammed around my arm and shot me out into the light where I was confronted by a white-haired little man in a suit. His eyes were twin flamethrowers and his face a red-hot frying pan. Mark dangled on the end of his other arm, looking more amused than frightened.

"You young ladies don't leave this room; I'll deal with you later," barked the man. "As for you two hooligans, I'm taking you to the police."

Thousands of terrible possibilities raged through my head as he towed us out into the swirling snow. Arrest, incarceration, Dave back in existence and frozen to death in his car. Mark was nonplussed. "I guess you guys don't take any snow days up here," he said in a calmly conversational tone. "Everybody's already here."

"You be quiet!" The man dragged us into what appeared to be his personal residence, with Persian carpets, antique furniture, and Impressionist prints on the walls. A grand piano stood in the center of the living room. "Now you two, don't you move! Not one inch! I'm going to call the police. Don't move."

I stood, afraid to even shift my weight. Mark sauntered over to the piano and stroked the curve in the body. "Man, this is a beautiful piano. Beautiful." Before I could say anything, he sat on the bench and played a bluesy run. "Listen to that, man. Sounds like a cathedral."

My heart coughed and gagged, but I couldn't breath. "Holy crap, man, are you nuts? That guy's gonna kill us."

Mark let his head go back and he closed his eyes as he began playing one of his new songs. "The cops can't do much, and they can't arrest us for playing the piano. Man, I can't believe the sound on this thing."

The man returned, flames continuing to spew from his eyeballs while smoke gushed from his nostrils. "You two are really in for it. The police are on their way."

Mark kept playing. "Sir, you have a beautiful piano. I've never heard anything like it."

The man stomped over and slammed the keyboard cover down on Mark's fingers. "It's unlikely you ever will again, not in prison. Now you two listen up! I hope you're proud of what you've done. Your two young lady friends are confined to their room for the rest of the semester. This entire campus is now surrounded by the police, and they'll be watching every move you make. You won't see them, but they'll see you, all right. You leave this school, this town, immediately, and never, ever come back. If you don't leave right now, the police will place you under arrest and I'll make it my business to have you put away for a long, long, time."

Mark and I glanced at each other. The man's voice had subtly changed. That threatening tone was less certain. He again grabbed our arms, led us to the door, and pushed us out. "Remember, the police are all around. You'd better get out of here right away. Your lady friends are locked into their room, so you can't go running to them."

We plowed out into the snowy blackness while the man watched from his doorway. Mark turned to me with a smile. "Hey, you don't really believe the cops are around, do you?"

"He said they . . ."

"Why would they come out here in the middle of the night in the snow and hide behind bushes? Think about it. The cops probably told him they had real criminals―or doughnuts―to catch. He must think we're idiots."

I didn't want to admit that I was, in that particular instance, an idiot. "I guess we'd better go anyway. What else can we do?"

"Yeah, Liz and Linda probably really are locked in their room. I'm sorry we got them into such trouble."

I felt a flush of shame. "Me too. It seemed like a good idea. It was fun for a few seconds, but then it turned weird."

When we got to the car, Dave was huddled under his floor mats on the front seat sleeping. While we climbed in and told him what happened, he started up the engine. "Well, this is just great. You guys spend your gig money to drive up here all night through a snowstorm and spend five minutes with a girl before getting thrown out and getting her into trouble, we haven't gotten any sleep, I miss 'Revenge of the Swamp Creatures,' and now we have to drive all the way back in a snowstorm with nothing to show for all this. We have another gig in two weeks, and this time I'm staying home after it's over. I'm gonna watch TV, I'm not opening up any windows to let anybody in, and I'm definitely not getting talked into going to any more parties just north of Baltimore."

**Back To the Stone Age**

As Colin and Ian sped past the black smear of industrial cities along the Number Two Autobahn, the former German Democratic Republic seemed little more than a string of concrete eyesores drenched in a leak nobody ever bothered to repair. Gargantuan Stalin-era housing projects, with a tangle of corroding power lines and antennae over and around everything, stretched over the horizons. Badly maintained roads shambled in four directions where the tiny, dilapidated cars of eastern Europe chugged along through the rain, coughing out streams of smoke.

On tour with his musical partner Ian after the fall of the Berlin Wall, Colin felt like his guts had been shredded all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. He and his wife and had been having problems, and emotions exploded on the morning he left. She told him that if he left she would start divorce proceedings before his plane left the runway. Pride, rage, and a long-cherished desire to jumpstart his music career hardened his resolve, and as he climbed into a cab trying to ignore her threats, her face was implacable as granite. He regretted leaving as soon as the plane left the ground, and couldn't focus because his mind was imprisoned at home and his heart felt like a thousand electrical shorts popped and burned inside it every moment. The longer he stayed away, he knew, the worse things would be for him when he returned.

As they drew closer to the Polish border, the countryside opened up and the cities fell behind them. Their rental van rattled along on a cobblestone section of autobahn that hadn't been repaired since Hitler was in charge, rousing Colin's simmering headache to a boil. The two found themselves in the lush, sweeping Oberlausitz region, a land where the intense clarity of light combined with the rust and scarlet October leaves to thrust its visual music into their faces. Colin could see the tops of a few spires peeking over the horizon. Then a city rose, sedately and gracefully, into view. Towers and turrets sprang from walls perched on a bluff while sheer cliffs dropped to the Spree River where it wound around the base of the town on its journey across eastern Saxony. He roused himself from his brooding. "It looks like a fairytale city."

"Nobody back home has even heard of it. I know I didn't. Man, it's a real gem."

"Not if you were on your way to the prison."

"Oh, yeah. 'Yellow Misery.' These easties turn pale when you even mention the name 'Bautzen.' That guy in Nuremberg thought we were crazy to come here."

They rumbled off the exit ramp onto a road that led past steep-gabled brick houses with teeming gardens, over the Spree, and into the city. There they crossed another bridge to the old town. The city walls were an expanse of golden stone fitted perfectly to the hilltop. Above the walls loomed the towers, even more massive than they looked from a distance. The town was alive with people hurrying to destinations on foot or on bicycles. The only other cars were diminutive Trabants and Wartburgs.

Ian steered through the gray medieval streets until they reached the highest point in the city, where he parked in an ancient square surrounding the soot-blackened Gothic cathedral. Arcaded streets boasting brand new shops without much in them lined the perimeter of the square. The cathedral was a mass of stone with a tiled spire that began as a fat round tower and rose to a skinny four-sided point in the sky. Colin tried to imagine how political prisoners and dissents must have felt when they caught their first sight of that spire. What terror must have filled their hearts when, as they rattled into town locked into whatever train or truck brought them to that far-flung outpost, they first spotted it stabbing over the horizon.

"We'll check in at the Irish Green Island—it's supposed to be right on this square. I got the names of some people there."

The Irish Green Island was indeed green, with the outside walls painted a bright olive green, and the interior walls, ceiling, and carpet a deep Kelly green. Gleaming brass railings and burnished walnut tables had been arranged inside with geometric precision, while young women wearing black Guinness T-shirts rushed about, bringing trays of beer to the morning customers. Colin and Ian walked straight to the bar, which was festooned with a vast collection of whiskeys displayed in glass cases. A short, stout young woman with curly blond hair, startling blue eyes, and a toothy smile greeted them. "Ich heisse Anja," she said as she reached over the bar and squeezed their hands.

Ian had studied German in school and was thus their rather lame translator. After straining to understand what Anja said next, he turned to Colin. "She wants to know what we want to eat and drink. It's free for us, since we're the band."

"But we don't play until tonight."

Anja helped them out in English. "Oh yes, for you Soren, the owner, says all free. Breakfast, coffee, beer, what you like."

"I was just wondering how people who supposedly have no money can afford to hang out here," said Ian as Anja rushed off with their order. "For that matter, with these gigs of ours, where does all that money come from?"

"That's a good question." Colin said. "Makes you wonder, eh? From all I've been able to gather, there's one obvious answer."

"What's that?"

"Stasi. Sure, these people look normal enough. Point is, they are. Half the people in East Germany were Stasi informers who got paid off before the Wall came down. And after, too. That's what I've heard, anyway."

After breakfast the two walked down the main street leading from the square to their hotel. The air was sharp and breezy as people strode along the cobbled streets—young people strolling in groups, older people carrying shopping bags, workers in blue overalls hurrying to wherever they were going with stubby cigarettes hanging from their lips. The buildings were caked with pollution but behind that stood the gracious architecture of Germany's baroque period. Gabled buildings, those cobblestones, and the soaring profile of towers gave Bautzen an air of abandoned elegance.

At last they stopped at a building with heavy black shutters and long, narrow windows. Over the doorway hung a sign in old German script: Weisses Ross. After checking in at the desk with a burly man who kept a squawking parakeet in a cage on the chair beside him, they ascended a wooden staircase with a dirty pink runner. The walls were paneled in dark wood and the light was dim. They wound through a creaking labyrinth of stairways that twisted in unexpected switchbacks, along gloomy hallways with mismatched sofas, then down a short stairway to another level where they cut around a corner to a door stenciled with the number 33.

Colin opened it to reveal a room with three low, narrow beds covered with yellow bedspreads, a purple carpet so thin that shards of flooring showed through, and a table with a stained yellow tablecloth set next to a smeary window overlooking the street. The walls were cracked and patchy, and the ceiling—framed by pipes coated with layers of aged paint—had one bare lightbulb screwed into the center. The corners gaped with even larger cracks, and the center of the ceiling bulged ominously. Ian tapped at the plaster. "I wonder if this place is still webbed with listening devices."

Later that afternoon, refreshed by sleep and hot showers, they returned to the square to check out the pub again and set up their sound system. No wind disturbed the air, which was laced with the signature East German stink of sulphur. As they approached the Irish Green Island, Colin could hear music and shouting explode from the windows, which emanated a warm amber light. Inside, the blast of heat, cigarette smoke, and noise shoved him backwards. A seething mass of grinning, laughing people had jammed themselves around the bar. Anja, washing glasses behind the far end of the bar, looked up and waved to them with her toothy smile. Another young woman, with short dark hair and a trim athletic figure, worked the beer taps.

Colin watched her movements with fascination. As she poured beer after beer from the variety of taps—putting aside some to settle, topping off others, slipping paper doilies around the stems, then lifting several full glasses at a time and placing them swiftly onto waiting trays—she kept up a running debate with the people clustered around the bar and had them laughing at her apparently droll comments. She had sly, humorous eyes and a half-smile, and handled her thirsty customers with ease. Her skin was smooth as cream, and a sprig of dark hair fell over one eye whenever she leaned over to get a glass from under the bar.

At last she handed out the various beers and ales and hurried over to Colin and Ian with the half-smile still nudging her lips. Colin noticed a spray of freckles over her nose and cheekbones.

"Zwei Guinness, bitte," said Ian, holding up his thumb and forefinger. "We're the band for tonight."

Ruth's dark eyes abandoned their mocking expression and she pushed back the errant sprig of hair from her face as her smile softened. Colin felt severely aware of his thinning hair. As she returned to her taps, she turned and smiled again before getting back to work.

Ian lit a cigarette. "She likes you. This may be your chance to start a new life."

"In case you've forgotten, I'm married."

"In any case," he said, blowing out a stream of smoke and raising his eyebrows, "there was so much chemistry between you that I nearly had to jump out of the way."

"She was being polite."

"Ah, see? Methinks you protest overmuch. Even now you can't take your eyes off her, can you?"

Colin turned to him, embarrassed because he was right. "Don't try to get me into any more trouble."

Ruth appeared with two large mugs of Guinness, which she placed on coasters before them. She watched as Colin took his first sip. "Schmeckt gut? Is good?"

"Ja, ja," he answered, stumbling over the simple German word.

She blinked at him twice with a smile, then ran back to her station.

Ian let out a low hum. "She does seem to be looking after her new friend, doesn't she? She gave you the special double blink. Somebody told me it's a thing they do here in eastern Germany. It's like saying 'I like you, let's be friends,' something like that. But she gave you an extra one. She wants you, man."

"I don't know why you're set on wrecking my life." Colin had to admit to himself that he felt agitated by her attention. It wasn't merely flattering; she was attractive and Colin found the subtle flirtation exciting. "You're just trying to wind me up. When should we talk to this Soren guy, anyway? We still don't know what time we play."

The two squirmed through the crowd toward the stage, which was set into one corner of a densely packed room separate from the bar area, and set up the speakers and plugged everything in. About twenty young people partied around them. Several cavorted drunkenly around a table, two couples lay half prone on a bench conducting oral examinations of one another's tonsils, a few others shouted to friends, and all seemed intent on emptying as many bottles of champagne as humanly possible.

One young woman with blond hair down to her waist stood up and revealed that beneath her, a man in his late thirties slouched with a drunken grin. He had coarse dark hair, thick eyebrows, and was slender but powerfully built. His pale eyes, feverish and bleary, surveyed the room. When his eye caught Colin's he jumped up with a shout, holding a champagne bottle aloft with one hand. With the other, he pinched the woman who had just gotten off his knee, then curled an arm around her waist and kissed her on the mouth before staggering over to the stage. He dropped an arm around Ian. "Hello my friends! I am Soren! You are the band! Eat, eat! Drink, drink!" He clutched Colin's arm and looked into his face with pleading eyes. The hot scent of perspiration and wine radiated from his body. "You too! Eat, eat! Drink, drink!"

Soren leapt onto a chair with a frothing bottle of champagne, howled, then guzzled from the bottle. Most of the champagne spurted onto his cheeks, and his friends roared with laughter.

Ruth appeared, wincing as she dodged the flailing limbs of her patrons, and presented Colin and Ian with two more beers. She squeezed Colin's arm, and then ducked back into the crowd with her empty tray.

Ian leaned over Colin's shoulder with a grin. "She's got the hots for you, and when these East German girls get the hots for you, you'd better play ball."

Many in the crowd began to dance to the taped music, including Soren, who grabbed another of his girlfriends, this one a shapely dark-haired girl in a shimmering white miniskirt. They danced together gingerly at first, then, as the music grew louder and more rhythmic, their movements became exaggerated. Soren thrust his hips aggressively in time to the music. Soon everyone was watching Soren and his friend, but the two were oblivious to everything around them. Soren closed his lips around hers and they remained that way, dancing and thrusting in a strange, lewd ballet.

Ian chuckled. "And to think it's only five in the afternoon."

Soren lurched through the mass of people to the bar, returning triumphantly with another armload of orange-labeled Veuve Clicquot. As the music gained momentum, Soren leapt and clapped his hands. Moments later, in a moment of exuberant inebriation, he unzipped his fly and reached into the resulting gap to express his enthusiasm. His friends leapt up to restrain him, coaxing him into pulling his zipper back up.

"That Soren is quite a specimen. He must have been some bigwig with the Stasi who got paid off big time after the Wall fell. Ruth isn't too happy with his antics."

Colin looked over to where Ian gestured and saw Ruth glaring at Soren. Soren spotted her too, and turned away.

Ruth wouldn't leave Colin's thoughts for the rest of the day, and when he and Ian returned that evening for the gig, he saw her through the tangle of people.

A thrill rippled through his body. She stood at the end of the bar and her eyes glowed like full harvest moons reaching out to envelope Colin in their light. Her skin was flushed and pink, and her chest heaved slightly when he caught her eye. A deep green silk blouse floated over her slender body, and a very short black skirt hugged her hips. Golden earrings flashed just above her shoulders, and her hair was radiant and full. She lowered her face and smiled at him. Conversation fell to a murmur. People between them parted for her. Colin was aware that they were watching, but couldn't pull his eyes away from hers.

She moved close and smiled up into his face. Her emerald green eyes, glistening and fragile, seemed enormous as they surrounded him with their warmth. A hint of oriental blossoms suffused the air as her body heat released the fragrance.

"Hello." Her face was expectant. Those nearby nudged each other. Colin realized that Ian hadn't been the only one to notice their mutual attraction, and gossip would fly through the town like a virus.

"Hello, Ruth. You look nice tonight. Really nice."

Her smile grew wider as she placed one hand on his arm. "I've been looking for you. Tonight, you play music, yes? I want to hear you. I'm not working this time." He could feel her breath on his throat.

Soren grabbed Colin from behind. "Come, play your music for the people!"

Colin pried his eyes from Ruth's with a mix of regret and relief and staggered through the crowd, his mind as disordered as his steps.

Ian handed him a beer from the stage. "Focus on one thing at a time and you'll get your grip. Just think about this—First Snow. Key of D. Starts in waltz time, goes to four-four, then switches to A minor."

He started the first song, squeezing the pipes until they sang through the sound system. Colin stroked the pick over the first chord and flowed into the feeling of the music. It was so easy and instant that he laughed in spite of himself. The music became a time machine, and he recalled the feelings that first inspired the song. After years of hibernation it had reawakened. He plunged into the heart of the piece while the years dropped away like dried mud.

As I stand here in my life

I see my past cut as by a knife away from me

Now a memory

It's true that with every day

I think more about yesterday and not today

Or even tomorrow

As the song ended Colin was stunned by the applause. They lashed into their second song, and he and Ian sang together. It was a song of defiance and Colin threw himself into it completely, belting out the words and moving his body to the beat.

Visions from the mind of greed

Choke the land and crush the seed

Who are the ones who sign us over to them?

An exuberant froth of joy rose within Colin's being. During his solo in the middle of the song, notes soared from his fingers without any effort. When the solo ended, the crowd erupted into cheers. He could hardly believe what was happening.

After they stopped to take a break a group of young people in a booth near the stage waved them over. The two crammed themselves into the booth while their fans chattered at them in German, hoping eventually they'd catch on. Ruth appeared, her face aglow. "You were fantastisch," she gushed. "I can hardly believe. I think—thought, yes—but now I hear and, oh, it is very, very good!"

The people at the booth squeezed together and Ruth slid in beside Colin, half-sitting on his lap. The room throbbed with noise and body heat, cigarette smoke drifted into his face, and he couldn't understand a word of the conversation. In spite of that their hosts smiled and nodded at him, as frustrated as he that they couldn't communicate directly.

Ruth spoke with them then turned to Colin. "They would like to buy some, oh, I don't know what you call it. Little bottles."

"Little bottles? Of what?"

"It's like a game. You see."

Another waitress brought a tray covered with tiny bottles of amber liquid. Ruth handed them around the table, and at her signal, they all beat the tops of the bottles on the tabletop.

"I've seen this before," said Ian. "It's a drinking game they play here. We're in for it now."

Ruth gave a shout and they all stopped. "Fertig, los . . ."

Everyone unscrewed their caps, then waited. Ruth said "Ja," and they all placed the top of the bottle between their teeth. At last, she raised her hand, and everyone threw back their heads and drained the sweet liquor. When they were done, Ruth arranged the empty bottles in the middle of the table.

"Good?" she asked with an impish smile.

Ian poked Colin's side. "I hope you think it's good, because by the end of the night we'll have these bottles stacked halfway up to the ceiling. Not much of a game, but they take their partying seriously."

Ruth and the others fell into a discussion. Colin was happy enough to listen to the unfamiliar tongue, sip at his Guinness, and contemplate Ruth's closeness. The sides of their thighs pressed together under the table and their shoulders touched. Neither moved to make more room for themselves. Colin felt enchanted by the musical quality of Ruth's voice. He always thought German was a guttural language, but it had a mesmerizing lilt when spoken by a beautiful young woman. Her voice was as clear as a softly tapped bell.

Another round of little bottles arrived, and another, and they repeated the ritual. Ruth slid lower on the bench and rested her head on Colin's shoulder. Emboldened by drink, he stretched his arm over the back of the bench behind her and she snuggled closer. The warmth of her body calmed and excited him simultaneously. However, roiling beneath that erotic prickle was a sick feeling of guilt. Instead of letting Ruth know that he was married, he knew he was lying to her by omission. It was wrong, and unfair to her, but he told himself that he was far from home and hadn't yet crossed a line of no return.

As the night wore on alcohol tightened its grip. Ruth was deep in conversation with her friends while a smirking Ian argued with a serious looking young man glaring from behind a full beard and tweed suit. Ian winked at Colin. "This guy's a nutcase. Wants to bring back Marxism. Thinks this pub is decadent. Of course he's here anyway, drinking and hanging out."

One of the other waitresses whispered to Ruth and she turned to Colin with a sharp intake of breath. "Anja had to leave so I must work. I'm sorry." She blinked twice, squeezed his arm, and got up and hurried to the bar.

At last Colin and Ian stumbled out of the booth while the crowd encouraged them with loud cheers. Ian sang with eyes closed, his face a blazing red. Colin slammed into the chords and Ian responded with solos that nearly careened out of control. From that song they grooved into a Celtic boogie and the place was jumping. Colin alternated between pounding away at the guitar and barking out harmonies and was having a ball. When he looked over the crowd at Ruth, her face was radiant.

After the night was finished, Colin felt exhausted and exhilarated. He was doing what he loved most in the world, doing it in Europe, and the appreciation from people he had never met before gave him a high more heady than any drug could offer. For a few moments he forgot that his marriage was hemorrhaging and allowed himself to wallow in that feeling. Warm and loose after so many beers, he followed Ruth to say goodnight. What really directed his steps was a desire to say something more, though he didn't have any idea what that might be. He allowed myself to be drawn to her when he knew he shouldn't. She was taking orders from a tableful of large men in dirty overalls and turned to him. "You come tomorrow, for Fruhstuck, for breakfast?"

Colin hadn't thought about tomorrow. "We have to go to our next gigs. Do you work tomorrow, too?"

She groaned. "Ja. Immer. Always. So you will come back soon to Bautzen?"

"In about a week and a half."

"I look forward to seeing you again." Her eyes softened.

Colin felt a jolt of uncertainty. "I look forward to seeing you. I really do."

She blinked three times, shrugged, then gave him a huge smile as she rushed back to the bar.

The next day Colin and Ian left town in a fierce downpour. Changes raced through eastern Germany that had been unimaginable a mere two years earlier. Inside those shuttered houses, in those lifeless, seemingly deserted villages, people grappled with newfound freedom, stretching themselves to the limit to find ways to think, imagine, and live. The old ways were no good, the old skills useless. Changes that took decades in the west had to be completed in months. Inside each head, in all of those houses, a new life was taking shape, and each life had to place itself into a new framework. The people in the east had to learn to see themselves as a part of a world they had never before known.

Meissen was a once-lovely town built on a hill overlooking the Elbe River, but a world war and forty years of communism left it gray and disheveled. A castle-topped hill rose from the center of town, and the road winding up to the summit was lined with world famous porcelain shops. The pub, another new Irish establishment with tall round tables and stools surrounded by walls crammed with Guinness posters, sat beside a bridge that led from the residential area to the old town. Their show rocked the place and they stayed up all night with locals who were keen to talk to English speakers.

The rest of the week slipped by in much the same way. They lived in a haze divided between intoxication and the resulting hangover. Colin was on autopilot. He knew he should have called home, working out a way to resolve his differences with his wife, but his conscious efforts were directed toward driving, playing, drinking, and that nagging infatuation with Ruth. One gig was in a shabby but friendly little club in Chemnitz, an industrial city where the factories had been shut down, their blackened corpses heaped up around the fringe of town. The center of the city was an oppressive concrete nightmare, but the shops were bright and open. People carrying bulging shopping bags thronged the streets.

At the gig that night, an old man in a tattered coat staggered over to Colin while he stood at the bar. "You and your democracy!" he spat out. "You want us to get rid of communism for so long, ready to bomb us to ruins, back to the stone age. Now you win and communism is gone. We are poor, no jobs, no money. What does your country send us? A band! A goddam folk band!"

Giant yellow cranes, like steel dinosaurs, soared above the skyline of each city they passed, tearing down the decay of totalitarianism as the first step on the long road to rebuilding. Those cranes were manned by workers from other parts of Europe—England, Ireland, Turkey, and Italy. The people living in the shadows of the cranes watched with confused emotions as their old world was replaced. Most had hated that world, but now that it was being swept away, they wondered what else would be lost with it.

Eventually, his diet of beer, sausage, and bread left Colin feeling bloated, dehydrated, and exhausted. This was compounded by the off-kilter sensation of being an outsider. He felt detached from his life back home, and yet he would always be an exile in Germany. Everybody in the east was an exile. The old governments that provided structure were gone, and the new governments were paralyzed. Foreign workers rebuilding the east were far from home living precarious lives. The communists had been tossed into history's dustbin and the capitalists forced to face bleak realities. Nobody could depend on anything.

The two traveled the length and breadth of what was once East Germany—from the dry, red brick towns of the Mecklenburg plain, north to the free-spirited and windy Baltic ports, down through the soot-encrusted villages of Sachsen Anhalt, and into the dark forests of Thuringia, where tales of witches and goblins still whispered through remote valleys and half-timbered villages. The rotting corpse of communism sprawled across the landscape in various forms; abandoned factories still reeking of chemical pollution, neglected roads, depressing hamlets so run-down that they seemed about to crumble and return to dust. But even as the approach of winter stripped the world of color, the people they met dispersed any gloomy impressions.

One night as they played in a spanking new pub in the lovely village of Limbach-Oberfrohna, that first breath of winter coated the hills around them with a cap of snow. Each town had its own character. Jena was home to an illustrious university and most of their listeners were students. Zeitz was a decaying industrial town with lingering Marxist sympathies where the earthy crowd at the folk club showed a surprising enthusiasm for their music. Grimma was a dilapidated village with a particularly apt name, and the pub they played in was filled with Irish guest workers delighted to speak English and who tried to wheedle Colin into buying them drinks. Wittenburg, the city of Luther, retained its medieval flavor in spite of the ruined factories ringing the town and the stench they left behind. The kindness of the people was one constant that always took Colin by surprise. He couldn't understand how, during the Cold War, some in the West could speak so glibly of "bombing them back to the Stone Age."

After nearly two weeks of playing small towns in the countryside, they approached their first big-city gig in Leipzig. It was the largest city on the tour, and they had heard that Leipzig was home to a particularly nasty brand of skinhead. It was also their last stop before returning to Bautzen. Colin's mood was subdued as they entered the city limits, dodging traffic as they bounced and banged down a road sprinkled with potholes, ruts, and trenches. A spray of ice pellets spewed from the black sky as they at last emerged onto a larger road that circled the center.

Blackened towers and slender spires bristled from that center, while decaying buildings adorned the streets radiating from the preserved heart of the city—a city that started a revolution when protesters first forced the dreaded Stasi to back down. They played at a place the size of a warehouse called Killy-Willy's where the crowd cheered loudly for every song and treated them to champagne during their breaks.

When at last they drove back to Bautzen for their last gig, Ian kidded Colin about Ruth. "Hey, if you want to, you know, get together with Ruth, I won't tell your wife. That'll be our secret. It's pretty obvious, you know, the chemistry between you two. Go for it, man. We can get gigs over here for years. We can just live here if we want to. I'm up for it if you are."

Colin felt vaguely insulted. What made it worse were his own competing emotions as they approached those towers on the bluffs of the Spree River. His adrenalin was crackling. It had been a long time since he felt that intense excitement of new romance, and he felt that way again. He told himself that he was merely flattered that a beautiful young woman found him attractive, but he found her attractive, too. Colin felt a hot flush of shame when he thought of her, which was more often than he liked to admit to himself.

They drove to the hotel and checked into their old room. As the time for he gig grew closer Colin became more nervous. He knew Ruth would be there. One way or another the matter would be resolved. By the time they walked into the pub, he was breathing in heaves. Sure enough, Ruth was behind the bar, and her face was transformed. She could have powered the whole town with the light that glowed around her. Her hair glistened, and she wore eyeliner and a dash of pink lipstick. The other bartenders, the waitresses, and even the patrons clustered around the taps, turned and stared at Colin, who felt a falling sensation in the bottom of his stomach.

He walked to the bar carrying his guitar case while she stood with a huge smile. "Hello, and welcome back! It is so good to see you."

At that moment, the door flew open with a rush of chilly air. Several English guest workers in orange overalls tumbled in, laughing and cursing together, and pressed themselves to the bar. "Here, love, keep the pints coming and we'll keep paying. We're getting pissed as rats tonight."

Ruth had to get back to work and Colin had to set up. For the rest of the evening his heart pounded and he lurked near the stage between sets drinking Guinness and occasionally smiling at her through the crowd. As they started breaking down their equipment at the end of the gig, Colin knew he couldn't leave without saying something to Ruth. Maybe he'd just flat out tell her he was married, he thought. Or maybe he wouldn't. He wasn't sure what he'd do, but after his instruments were packed he sat at the bar near her taps and lit a cigarette, hoping to avoid hurting her.

She smiled at him while pouring a beer. "So your tour was good?"

"Yes, it was great. I learned a lot, too."

By the way her eyebrows tightened Colin could see that she was thinking. "I've been feeling very good, too. Very good."

Colin felt a sting. "I'm glad you're feeling good, Ruth. I haven't been feeling all that good, to tell the truth."

"What is wrong?"

"Oh, well, all kinds of things."

He didn't want to disrupt her rhythm while she was in her element—the place where she was in charge and at home. An idea of what he might say trickled into his mind and he inhaled to take in the breath that would come out and change both their lives.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You must tell me what is wrong."

He paused.

"But I will tell you that I am very excited because I'm going to see my boyfriend tomorrow. He is in Cologne."

The world slammed to a halt. "Your boyfriend? In Cologne?"

"Oh yes, I met him a few months ago, and I can hardly wait to see him." Her eyes had become twin sparklers.

"That's great."

"So why are you not feeling well?"

Colin couldn't move or speak.

"What is wrong?"

"It's just a cold. I've got to get some rest because we're leaving in a couple of days. Thanks for everything, Ruth. It's been great to know you. Have fun in Cologne."

"But wait, don't you want to stay and maybe talk? I wish my boyfriend could meet you. He loves your kind of music. And you remind me a little of one of my uncles. He is like you, so nice, so talented."

He took one of her hands while she looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Thanks a lot, Ruth. You're a lovely girl."

By the time they finally left Bautzen, Ruth was already in Cologne with her boyfriend. Colin left a message for his wife that he would be home in a few days. He had no idea whether she'd be happy to hear from him or had already started the paperwork for divorce proceedings. What he did know was that his life was never going to be the same as it had been a few weeks earlier. As he and Ian rolled westward down Autobahn Two toward the other side of the former Iron Curtain, he felt distressingly aware of the passage of time. He had entered a phase of his life that he didn't know how to navigate. To others, he wasn't the same person he had always thought of as himself. The old ideas and familiar habits would no longer work and he, too, would have to re-think himself and his place in the world. His mortality was no longer a distant abstraction. The illusion of separation between his past and future had evaporated. The Wall was gone.

**Concert in Savona**

When I was fifteen, my father dropped to his bedroom floor with a myocardial infarction and began to die right in front of me. As I grew older I began to understand that one of the last emotions he felt as paramedics tried in vain to save him—the baseball game he had been watching still blaring in the living room—was regret that he'd never see what life had in store for his moody teenaged son. My mother died years later, and since then I've often felt an overpowering desire to somehow send them snapshots of my life at particular moments.

The last time that feeling erupted I was in Savona, Italy, attending a concert with my wife and an Italian friend. I wished more than anything in the world that I could wave and say —"Hey, look mom and dad! Here I am in Savona, Italy, on my way to a concert with my beautiful wife and our Italian friend. What do you think about that?"

My wife and I had only been in Europe for a couple of days, and the jet lag was so fierce that I would fall asleep if I kept my eyes shut for more than four seconds. We were visiting our friend Marianne, who came from a well-to-do family in Switzerland but dreamed all her life of having a farm in Italy. Marianne was sweet and low-key, but she had a knack for getting what she wanted. When she married Rodolfo, an Italian whose family farmed the same plot of land in Liguria for eight hundred years, nobody who knew her well was surprised. However, concerts, plays, and cultural events never made the top of Rodolfo's to-do list, so Marianne used our visit as an excuse to go out and we were happy to oblige.

We drove about an hour from her home to the port city of Savona and strolled through the ancient streets to the city art gallery to hear a series of free concerts. When we reached the first room—where a string quartet was already playing to a packed house—we couldn't get in, so we sat on the floor in the marble corridor. After struggling to peek in past the heads and catching glimpses of the darting ends of the violin and viola bows, I leaned my head against the wall and listened.

They played a 17th century piece by a composer I wasn't familiar with. As I listened to the runs and harmonies echoing through the building, I realized with a jolt of emotion akin to alarm that we weren't hearing a string of notes and harmonies assembled by some guy from the dim past—they were the passionate, even frantic, heart-cries of a living man shouting to us from the past through an invisible time tunnel. I looked around at the faces whose eyes were fixed in silence on the performers—the same faces that hovered above them in the portraits of their ancestors. The same faces, the same people, though their bodies were currently covered by polo shirts, t-shirts, and jeans, and their minds jammed with twenty-first century programming.

I glanced at a flyer that offered a few paragraphs about the musicians—where they studied, who they played with—but realized that those musicians were in reality mediums taking part in a powerful audio séance, channeling an immediate and heartfelt voice from a time now so foreign to us that if time machines existed and the people from that time could visit us, they would surely go mad from the shock. And if we could visit the past and really be present rather than view it as if from a glass bottom boat, we also would be overcome by a disorientation so crushing that we might go mad, too, no matter how prepared we might imagine ourselves to be.

Onstage, the musicians' fingers flashed out notes in the order that the composer flashed them out, each phrase grasping us by the collars and shouting, "I was here! I was! I am!"

I felt a sob fill my throat. A man standing in front of me moved slightly, and I could see a ring of gold around the fourth finger of his left hand. I looked down at my own left hand and saw an identical ring on the fourth finger of my left hand. From my perspective on the floor, I could clearly see the varicose veins and arthritic knees of the elegantly dressed Italian ladies. I kept thinking of my father, who had been dead for nearly forty years, of his voice, his laugh, his quirky sense of humor. After I died there would be no one left on earth who remembered him—the reality and immensity of him. He was a short line on a genealogical chart on a website somewhere that meant little to anyone.

The music swelled to a such a pitch that I felt another stab of alarm. A living man was crying out to us through death and his voice was straining my heart to the breaking point. I could feel the warmth and moisture of those long dead, and yearned to pass through that mortal osmotic membrane for one brief instant to touch my parents while a great composer—once so alive that music sprang from his mind like a gushing fountain—called out to us through the musicians and their instruments. I had to cover my eyes with sunglasses. How could we all not weep?

**Dave's Basement**

Since the day I first started school, my parents told me that I would look back on my high school years as some of the most wonderful of my life. Now I rarely look back on that unpleasant smudge of memory, and at the time considered the experience a barely tolerable nuisance. My first day at Albert Einstein High was hardly a step into High School Musical—my father died of a heart attack days before school started, my family tumbled into chaos, and I fell into a depression that would last for years. The pep rally rah-rah crammed down my throat at high school left a very nasty taste in my mouth.

In the midst of that unnerving hoopla I found a kindred spirit equally lost and out of place. He was a big guy with long, stringy hair that he nervously brushed aside with one hand, and restless eyes that darted suspiciously around. I knew at once that nobody was going to mess with him. His looming bulk and disturbing demeanor did not present an inviting façade, but I was drawn to him at once. He was the only person in that school who looked the way I felt. I found myself standing near him at the school entrance while we waited for the doors to open in the morning.

"I can't believe I'm here," he said to no one in particular, though I was the only person close enough to hear him. He shifted his weight and brushed aside his hair.

"Yeah, me either."

"You play music?"

I looked at him. "Yeah. How did you know?"

He turned and looked back at me. "I can tell."

"Do you play music?"

He lit a Marlboro that he drew from the top pocket of his jean jacket. "Not yet. You ever hear of Buddy Emmons?"

"No. Who's that?"

"Pedal steel guitarist. Ever hear of a pedal steel guitar?"

"I've heard of them, but I don't think I've ever seen one."

"Not surprised. They're hard to come by. I'm going to play pedal steel." He stuck the cigarette between his lips, pulled a magazine out of a back pocket, moved closer, and opened it up for me. "See, that model right there—the Buddy Emmons model."

After lighting the Marlboro he rattled off the specs on the pedal steel guitar of his dreams while the bell sounded and kids began shuffling inside. His eyes now filled with enthusiasm, he told me how the guitar was tuned, how the pedals worked, and how the Buddy Emmons model compared to other pedal steel guitars out there. I almost missed homeroom.

Dave, it turned out, was a musical encyclopedia. That afternoon after school we walked to his house where he played album after album of music I wasn't familiar with—Buffalo Springfield, Poco, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Jeff Beck—while he commented on every phrase, critiqued every instrumental solo, and smirked at how stupid the lyrics were. He gave me painstakingly detailed explanations of every note Poco's pedal steel guitarist, Rusty Young, played, and howled at Jeff Beck's ingeniously twisted guitar solos. I gradually learned that he had barely survived a complicated and traumatic childhood and that music was his escape. He counted the minutes until he would have enough money saved up to order his steel guitar, and speculated on the number of days it would take the package to arrive at his house.

It was one morning in history class that he slid into a desk beside me seconds before class started, brushed aside his hair, and grinned. "My steel guitar came this morning. I don't know how I'm going to keep from going crazy today until I get home. Want to come see it?"

At his house that afternoon we ran down into his basement, where he deftly set up his new instrument, screwing in the metal pedal rods, adjusting the legs, and tuning the strings. Prepared for that moment, he never hesitated for an instant—he knew exactly what he was doing. He plugged into a little Fender amp he had, poked on fingerpicks and a thumbpick, rolled the smooth steel bar over the strings, and tried it out. The pedal steel guitar rang out with a long sustained chord.

"Hang on, I'm going to try this." With his tongue sticking out slightly, Dave plucked several strings and worked the pedals and the bar. Out came an actual riff that sounded like something out of a country song.

"Damn, Dave, you already can play this thing. You must be a genius!"

"I've been thinking about this for a long time. I've played this instrument in my head for years."

Two weeks later some friends and I started a band built around Dave's new instrument. We'd all been playing far longer than Dave, but within those two weeks he practiced around the clock and raced to a level where he could play along with us. We wrote songs that sounded like the ones Dave liked and became a "country-rock band," which was a rare genre at the time. A Hispanic friend of Dave's joined us and we called ourselves "Micks, Spics, and Wops" in honor of our national origins. When a black friend joined us on bass, we added another word to our band name that guaranteed that we'd never get a gig, but eventually settled on the name Sleaze. We practiced four nights a week, and when two band members moved into the basement with Dave, and I started sleeping over, we were together virtually all the time. We wrote dozens of songs, Dave practiced hard every day, and the band sound grew tighter.

At our age it was difficult to get gigs, but we managed to snag a few. One was at the National Karate Championships, where we played a countrified version of the Star Spangled Banner, followed by a medley of cartoon theme songs thrown in just to see how the crowd would react. They responded with a stoic silence. We played at some high schools, and one time used fake ID cards to play at a popular club in D.C. My older brother and his wife came down, and I couldn't stop laughing when they were actually out on the floor dancing to our music.

Dave's Basement became our home, our hideaway. It was crowded with band equipment, and had a couple of old sofas, a lava lamp, a neon Kirin Beer sign, and a brick fireplace where Dave would sometimes take a break from practicing to sit in front of a newspaper fire and roast baloney on a hanger. Dave's dad lived upstairs and two older boarders lived on the third floor, but we rarely saw them. Other musicians came over to jam, friends dropped by, and a few runaways found their way over in search of refuge. The Basement grew into something of a legend. Hippie types I ran into in our town would stop to ask me: "Hey man, is Dave's Basement around here? Do you know where Dave's Basement is?"

"Of course I do," I'd answer nonchalantly. "I'm there all the time."

They would invariably turn to me with widened eyes. "Really? Not kidding? Hey man, would you mind if I came for a few minutes? Just for a look?"

It was never clear where or how these people had heard of Dave's Basement, but word got around. On one autumn afternoon I was picked up hitchhiking by a guy from Wyoming who was wondering where he might find Dave's Basement. Eventually, the band members got together to write a book, The Dave's Basement Anthology, which included poems and stories of our adventures.

Dave's Basement, like high school, didn't last. A couple of band members argued, somebody got a girlfriend, the band broke up, and Dave joined another band—one with older and more professional musicians. One day Dave's dad decided to sell the house, and that was the end of Dave's Basement.

We came and went our separate and converging ways for years. Dave and I played in a New Wave band that was popular, as Dave put it, for about a minute in the '80s. Dave got a lot of attention because of his innovative use of the pedal steel guitar and the way he took advantage of effects boxes no traditional pedal steel guitarist would dream of using. He performed and recorded with well-known artists, and never loosened up on his habit of strenuous practicing. When Dave's wife got a job in Pennsylvania and they moved to a town near Philadelphia, we were out of touch for years.

One night I turned on the television before going to bed. My heart nearly flipped right out of my mouth. There, flooding the screen, was Dave sitting at his pedal steel guitar—playing with a band that I had heard of without knowing Dave was in it—on a late night television show. Of all the many musicians I had known and played with over the years, he was the one who actually Made It. Filled with a strange and restless joy, I sat three inches from the screen hardly able to contain my excitement. Somehow, though, because it was Dave, I wasn't surprised. I wasn't surprised at all.

Dave and I became Facebook friends, and I learned that Dave's son Chris had musical talent, too. He bought Chris a fire engine red Dan Electro guitar and Fender amp. After his son's first gig—at a Middle School talent show—Dave wrote that after his son got home, unflustered by the experience, instead of watching television or playing video games, he practiced for about an hour before going to bed. Just like somebody else I knew.

**In the Eye of the Cat**

I'd heard stories about the place for years, though I'd never actually been there. Other musicians who played there came back vowing never to return, but to me their stories sounded more intriguing than off-putting—it was a rough, waterfront bar filled with bikers, sailors, drunks, and ex-cons looking to have a good time. It was in the seedy Fells Point section of Baltimore, made famous by John Waters in his films that featured local characters and bouffant-coifed ladies with their poodles and loud "Bawlmer" accents. The Cat's Eye patrons didn't give the bands much of a chance, and jeered more than applauded. The owner was as intimidating as the audience, and the cramped restrooms looked and smelled as if they had never been cleaned. On the plus side, there was a large stage with a partition to protect the musicians from their audience. And it was a venue where a band that won over the crowd could make a name for itself.

So when I got a call from John, a Cat's Eye bartender I met briefly at another gig, and he asked if my band Dogs Among the Bushes would play an upcoming Saturday night, I knew our time had come. Other bands had tried and failed, and now it was our turn.

When we loaded in our equipment, the place was so dark I could barely see. The only light was provided by tiny multicolored Christmas lights strung up around the ceiling. The music blasting out of their sound system was so loud that the floor shook, and people were jammed in so tight that we could barely get through. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I saw wooden models of sailing ships dangling from cables attached to the ceiling, and flags from around the world draped over the walls. The place was too narrow for tables, and in the front room the well-stocked bar stretched along the left hand side while the stage—as long as the bar—was on the right, with a wooden partition about waist high. The walls were brick and cigarette smoke permeated everything.

While we hauled our speakers onto the stage, John squirmed through the crowd to welcome us. He had dark curly hair with a beard to match, and a red, bulbous nose. "Hey, you made it! Great! You start at nine-thirty, the first five beers each are free, and never mind what these a-holes say. Just ignore them and have a good time."

We rushed to get everything plugged in, tuned up, and working, while the crowd sucked down beers and kept an eye on us. What I had heard was right—it was a tough-looking crowd. No yuppies, no pink faced college kids. Most people had a hard look to them, as if they'd lived rough lives or even spent some time behind bars. I began to wonder if we'd make it through the night. Compared to them, we were the pink faced kids.

A big man loomed over me as I jammed the plug from the P.A. head into the wall. "I'm Kenny, the owner. Everything all right? Ready to start at nine-thirty?"

I knew who he was as soon as I saw him. Kenny was a legend in the Fells Point section of Baltimore. A big man with his Fu Manchu mustache and Confederate soldier cap, he loved to drink and party, and was a fan of traditional Irish music who also happened to be an excellent button accordion player. The Cat's Eye was his domain.

"No problem. And thanks for having us."

"I heard you guys were good, so we'll see what happens. If anybody gives you any trouble, let me know. I'll toss them out on their ass."

We started at nine-thirty sharp, and played our first number listening carefully to the mix and for any signs of feedback. So far so good. The song was a traditional Irish tale of seduction called As I Roved Out, and featured an easy sing-along chorus. Most of the crowd ignored us, but a few took a break from arguing to listen. For our second number we decided to go all out with a set of reels. Terry started the first tune on the fiddle, lashing into it with everything he had. Charlie then joined in on flute, playing note-for-note with Terry at breakneck speed. At last Bob on bass and I, on bouzouki, blasted into the tune, driving the rhythm hard. The entire crowd turned to us with surprised smiles. A few began to dance. As we flung ourselves into the key change on the next reel, a young and very drunk girl heaved herself onto the bar and began to hop, holding her bottle of beer aloft in the air. I saw Kenny watching from the entrance to the back bar, his muscled arms folded and a grin on his face.

We kept up our frenzied pace for the rest of the night, and the audience was ours. As long as we put everything we had into a song, they were with us. If we began sliding into automatic pilot, they let us know. Nobody threatened us, and in fact, several tough-looking characters even bought us beers. During our breaks, we found ourselves caught up in the swirl and talking to about a dozen people at once. Girls signaled in those many ways they have at their disposal that they were interested in getting to know us better. Finally, after our last song of the night, the crowd howled for an encore.

"Hey, you guys busy weekend after next?" John asked as he guided his wobbling patrons to the door. "We've got some more dates if you're interested."

Our next gig at the Cat's Eye was even wilder than the first. Several of our friends came up with us, and we recognized a lot of faces from our initiation gig. Beers from audience began showing up while we set up. Just before we started I stepped into the men's room where I was confronted by a disheveled old guy obviously out of his head. I could tell because he was sitting, pants down, in the urinal. "I'm Kenny's cousin!" he announced. "That's right, Kenny's my cousin. I'm Kenny's cousin! He owns this place, and I drink for free!"

We kept it loud and fast that night, and the crowd was with us. I began to wonder why so many musicians found it intimidating. Near the end of the first set, our bass player Bob's ex-wife showed up, and stared at him with bleary but enraged eyes. He glanced at me. "Uh-oh, here comes trouble."

He didn't have long to wait. In the middle of the song she raised her arm and shouted, "I hate you, you friggin' bastard!" A full beer can smacked him right in the chest, and another one, only half-full, smashed into his bass, covering his instrument in beer. While bouncers dragged her, screaming, out into the street, Bob turned to me with a smirk. "Ah, it's always good to get together for some nostalgic moments with the ex. She's nothing if not classy."

For reasons unknown, that incident seemed to win the respect of the crowd and they became more responsive. But near the end of the second set, I sensed rising disgruntlement in the crowd, and I didn't think it had anything to do with us. As we played, I looked around through the crowd trying to figure out what was going on. At last, John leapt out from the behind the bar and shoved his way to the front door.

"Hey, where are you going, man?"

He turned to me, shaking his head. "We ran out of beer! I've got to go get some, and fast."

Bob laughed. "A bar that runs out of beer? I've never heard of anything like that before."

John soon arrived with two cases of Bud, but they didn't last. Before the set was over, he walked warily over to the stage. "I'm going to have to close up. We're out of beer, I can't get any more, and we can't have a bar without beer. Don't worry, though, I'll pay you for the whole night. It'll be better next time, I can promise you."

The next time arrived two weeks later, and we brought several carloads of friends along. When we got to the Cat's Eye, we were greeted by a locked door with a piece of official City of Baltimore paper taped to it.

"'Closed due to code violations,'" I read. "Holy crap, last time they ran out of beer, and now the place is shut down. What a gig!"

As we stood around smoking cigarettes and wondering what the hell had happened, more people came by. Nobody knew. Finally, one old guy with long white hair who was walking his dog stopped. "Didn't you know? Kenny died. That's right, Kenny died right upstairs. Drug overdose. His body's still up there in a coffin. Don't know what's going to happen."

A couple of weeks later I got a call from John. "The Cat's Eye has new owners, and they want to keep you on," he said. "I've got some dates for you."

"Okay," I said. "Do you know anything about the new owners?"

"Yeah, they're a couple with money, but they're pretty wacky. At least they want to keep the Cat's Eye the way it is and not try to turn it into some fern bar."

"That's great, then. See you there."

"Not me, man. They fired me. The one thing they do want different is new bartenders. We're the scapegoats for the way things went, but we didn't know that Kenny wasn't paying his bills."

We were sorry to see John go, but the new owners managed to raise the place out of its doldrums. When we came back for our next gig, the front had been given a new paint job. Rows of new beer taps at the bar announced that they would no longer be running out of beer. Two new bartenders cheerily greeted us and introduced themselves. They were a married couple—Megan was a big energetic woman who looked like an athlete. Her husband Larry was more subdued, and looked like a chess master, which he was. The audiences hadn't changed, however, and the place was soon jammed. We kept the place jumping all night, making sure to inject plenty of fast reels and sing-along songs into our sets. While playing one set of tunes that started off slowly and gradually built up to a frenzy, several inebriated girls climbed onto the bar and danced. I wondered how the new bartenders would react—John would usually egg them on—and was oddly relieved when nobody made them get down. They just stood by and kept an eye on them. John was right; the Cat's Eye wasn't changing anytime soon.

At the end of the night the new owners emerged from the upstairs hideaway with big grins and glassy eyes. Tony was a tall, slim guy with tousled gray hair while Anna was a short, dark-haired woman who kissed us, asked us what our astrological signs were, and then began telling us about her parents who had been driven out of Cuba by Castro. The two were very stoned, but full of praise for the band. They tottered back upstairs, but when Megan handed us our money she gave us a wink. "Congratulations, guys. They gave you a raise."

Months blurred into years, and we found ourselves becoming a Fells Point institution. Every year we played the annual St. Patrick's Day marathon—2:00PM-2:00AM, and in a guidebook to American bars, we were listed as one of the Cat's Eye's main attractions. When my old friend Bill and his wife Denise asked me to join The Irish Edge, a band that also played regularly at the Cat's Eye, I found that I had become one of the Cat's Eye's main musicians.

Over time, we witnessed a colorful parade of bartenders and became friends with most of them: Jeff, who looked exactly like a sardonic Abraham Lincoln; Joe, who looked like a Sunday school teacher but was in reality a heavy-drinking sex addict; Liz, the world-weary blonde all the other bartenders had a crush on; Howard, a short, swaggering Vietnam vet from New Orleans with long, graying hair, a bushy beard, and a gift for sarcasm; Terry, a big, bossy redhead with creamy skin and a filthy mouth; Earl, the tall, gangly guy who seemed creepy but was really a sweet guy; Skip, former biker, a bon vivant with spectacular tattoos who kept us laughing after the bar had closed with wild stories of his life in a motorcycle gang. Gypsy was another former bike gangster swirling with tattoos who looked like a disheveled Santa Claus who smoked cheap cigars.

The parade of regulars was as interesting as the bartenders: Frank, a very old retired sailor with a pipe poking out of his beard, who was always extremely drunk was a big fan of our band. Over the years, diabetes took his body piece-by-piece—first a toe, then the foot, then the leg, and then it started on his other toe, foot, and leg. Eventually, a friend of his would bring him over in his wheelchair to hear us, and he'd always leave drunk. One night he left and died in his sleep that very night.

Hippies, sailors, classic Fells Point ladies with bouffant hair and too much make-up, other musicians, students, politicians, homeless people, hookers, and artists, came and went. At ten o'clock every night, The Hawk, an elderly black dancer, would arrive with his much younger and gaudily dressed girlfriend to dance for change. One night a friend from out of town came to see us, and later that night I glanced at our little private area beside the stage and saw him and a girl he just met making love up against the wall. Groups of pretty girls always stood near the stage, and occasionally somebody in the band would go home with a new friend.

For a few years, Fells Point was home to the television show Homicide—Life on the Streets. A big harbor building across the street from the Cat's Eye was transformed into a fake police station, and the street was occasionally blocked off, usually in the early morning hours, for filming. Stars from the show often hung out in Fells Point on their off-hours, and several times I noticed cast members in the audience. After the show was canceled the building retained its fake police signs, and people from out of town frequently tried to get inside to talk to the "police." Eventually somebody put a plaque up on the front to commemorate Fell's Point's brief claim to television fame.

The Dogs had a lazy-fare attitude about the crowds, and watched their antics with amused detachment. Bill, however, was a hot-head. One night he spotted somebody fooling around with one of the speakers in one corner. He leapt over the stage partition, dove through the crowd, and chased the guy out the door and halfway up the street while Denise and I stood waiting onstage. Later, after he'd had a few drinks, he saw the bouncer grab a drunk and disorderly patron a bit too roughly, and waded into the crowd to defend the drunk, and almost got into a fistfight with the bouncer. Another night a group of inebriated girls with a bachelorette party camped out in front of the stage demanding that we play their requests. The bride-to-be was the drunkest and the noisiest of the group, and bleated repeatedly, "Galway Bay! Galway Bay!" Bill, a veritable encyclopedia of Irish songs, knew the song, but he also knew a satirical version of the song with the same melody, but quite different lyrics perfect for the occasion. The satirical version was about an obnoxious woman and ended with the line, "She had a mouth as big as Galway Bay." He leaned over and sang the line into the bride's face while the rest of the audience howled with laughter. Bill was a master performer, and even the bride had to laugh, though she and her friends did us the favor of leaving soon after.

Inevitably, people associated with the Cat's Eye died over the years. Kenny, Jeff the bartender, Joe the bouncer, Brian—another bouncer, Frank, Donna, a pretty regular, Gino who played drums for another band, "Nurse Dave," a gay raconteur who was always at the bar with a Bud and a cigarette. Photos of the fallen filled a wall at the back of the stage that became known simply as the "Wall." It could feel unsettling to be on stage playing with those faces looking over our shoulders, and Bill and I often joked about who would be next to go up on the wall.

That joke turned bitter when Bill was diagnosed with cancer. He still managed to do a couple of gigs before it was too much for him but he lived around the corner and would sometimes come in when the Dogs played to have a drink with us. Every time we saw him he looked like he'd lost another twenty pounds, but he enjoyed hanging out with us, and would even tell us horror stories of his treatments with an oddly detached air. When he tragically succumbed, Denise and I couldn't bear to put his picture up on the Wall, and still can't to this very day.

On we played, through the nights and over the years. Kids still in college would come in and tell us that their parents used to come to see us at the Cat's Eye. The groups of girls near the stage grew smaller and older. Fells Point became increasingly popular, and trendy restaurants and bars popped up everywhere. The local business leaders wanted to attract more money to the place, and the drumbeat of change began to throb insistently in the distance.

Old bars got new owners who fixed the places up to attract more affluent customers, old buildings were torn down and replaced by expensive condos, and parking meters sprang up along the curb. The Cat's Eye remained stubbornly unchanged, though Anna would sometimes complain to us about the pressure she felt. "Everybody wants us to become something we're not," she said. "I don't know how long we can hold out."

When news came that the state had voted to ban smoking in bars and restaurants, customers were outraged. "I come here specifically to smoke," one man told me as I tried to make my way to the men's room during a break. "My wife won't let me smoke at home, so now what the hell am I supposed to go? I know it's bad for me, but what isn't?" Anna grew even more distressed. "This is going to kill us," she'd moan. "Why go to a bar if you can't smoke? This is my place and even I'm not allowed to smoke!"

I ran into Tony staring at an empty wall in the back room. "I think I want to put The Wall up back here and not up in the front," he told me. "It's depressing to see all those photographs of dead people behind the stage."

Days later I got a call―Tony had died of a sudden heart attack. The wake was held at The Cat's Eye, where his tearful friends and family drank to him and vowed to keep the Cat's Eye unchanged.

While we set up for our next gig, the mood was subdued. Tony's photo was already up behind me, along with the other Cat's Eye veterans who had fallen. We didn't recognize anyone in the crowd, and the bar was manned by two rather generic looking young guys—a change from the parade of colorful characters we'd gotten to know over the years. Fells Point was changing, people were changing.

When Little Tony, Tony's son who was just old enough to take on responsibility for the pub, came up to shake our hands at the end of the night he hugged each of us. "Thanks a lot for always being here, guys. No matter what happens, you'll always have a gig here. As long as you live. You're as much a part of this place as anything or anyone."

Hardly any bikers or sailors came any more, and drunk driving laws helped ensure that the audience was well-behaved. No more dancing on the bar. No smoke filling the place. The Cat's Eye still looked basically the same, but it was changing in ways not always visible to the naked eye. The band was changing, too. We all had jobs and responsibilities. I was married. Terry got a girlfriend, decided to devote himself more to his day job, and quit the band. Charlie got married, and he began to develop health problems that made playing increasingly difficult. Bob wanted to play in a rock band. I was writing more songs that didn't really suit the band.

I wonder how we'll finally leave the Cat's Eye—will we be fired, will we quit, or will we end up on the Wall? As I write this, we have a gig there in two weeks and have scheduled a rehearsal to tighten up a few new songs between then and now, so in some respects things haven't changed at all. However, over time we have all become increasingly aware that the time really will someday come when Dogs Among the Bushes holding court at the Cat's Eye, like everything else in life, will become a fractured memory.

**The Last Busker**

I struggle against waking up to a third straight day of rain, but the hum of hunger in my belly has grown into a roar. Breezes wash the tang of carbon monoxide through the mesh windows of my tent where it squats on a wooded hill overlooking Cologne and the Rhine. As I do every morning, I reach one arm over to be sure my bagpipes are still in their case. They are my pride and joy—Irish uillean pipes, handcrafted from ebony and silver by a master maker in Galway, far more complex and musical than their noisy Scottish cousin.

It's late October and another long day of busking lies ahead. I came to Europe in the spring to escape from the wreckage of a divorce. During the summer I led a footloose and profitable life, but after the weather turned colder, what was once a joy has become a chore that is the only thing separating me from starvation.

Students are back in school, the tourists back home, and other street performers have moved south to Spain, Italy, and Greece. After being robbed of the money I spent the summer saving up, I've been forced to keep working the streets of Germany instead of moving down to Sicily, as planned. A check will arrive soon that will alleviate my money worries, but it might also cost me dearly.

I eat a damp breakfast of bread and cheese, break down the tent, roll it up tight, and toss it into the trunk of my ancient blue VW. After several attempts to turn over the engine, it rumbles into life. Before releasing the hand brake I check my watch. "I'll wait awhile before going to American Express," I mutter to myself. "I just hope nobody around here knows what I've done."

After crossing the Rhine Bridge, I maneuver through the labyrinth of lanes to park in one of the free spaces on a residential street. Minutes later I'm seated on a folding stool, shielded from rain under an arch on the side of the windy cathedral square. I play jigs for a group of giggling students who pause on their way home for lunch by the soaring mass of blackened stone and carved spires spinning skyward. Although it's chilly, I'm coated in perspiration.

"Hey, Mike! Just the man I'm lookin' for!"

I pivot around, my heart slamming at my sternum. "Christ, Alan, you scared the crap out of me."

Alan runs an Irish pub a few blocks from the cathedral square. He's tall and lean, with pale skin and red-rimmed eyes that display his distain for fresh air and sunlight. His light brown hair is so dense it looks like a wig, and wears old jeans and a fraying black rain jacket. "By God, you've got a wild look in your eyes this morning, and I can't blame you." Alan lights a cigarette with his long, dry fingers. "It's a rare day that sees me moving around this early."

"So what got you out of bed before nightfall?"

Alan leans closer. "To ask a favor."

"A favor? I'm usually the one asking favors."

"You've heard of Davy Wickham, the singer from Cork?"

"I've been a fan of his for years."

"He's doing a tour in Germany and he's playing at my place. Just as a favor to the owner, who's an old friend of his."

"He's playing at your pub? The place will be packed."

"Don't I know it? But listen, he usually plays with a piper, but the piper can't make

it, see? So I was wondering if you'd mind doing the gig with him?"

"Would I mind?" I feel my first flush of excitement in weeks. "I'd kill to play with him. When is he coming?"

"Couple of weeks."

The chasm between that moment and the upcoming gig feels like an ocean. "What am I going to do for two weeks? I'm not making much money, the weather is getting worse, and I've got some other problems, too."

Alan stands up, sucking at his cigarette. "You can crash upstairs of the pub. One of my bartenders is heading back home. Maybe you can help me out around the place."

A flash of olive drab on the square shoots adrenalin through my system. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, but I've got to tell someone. I'm worried about some of these guys in the military."

"You mean your soldier boys? You've always gotten on with them, haven't you?"

"That's the problem. Come on, the rain's letting up and I've got mail at the American Express office. If I get that check I'm expecting, I'll buy you a drink."

"A drink? What are we waiting for?"

I pack up the pipes while Alan nurses his cigarette. "Make any money today?" he asks.

"Just a couple of Euro. I can barely feed myself anymore."

"So what's got you so worked up?"

Together we set off across the square toward the crowded pedestrian zone. "You'll think I'm nuts, but I've been desperate for money. I wrote an article for a paper in the States and they actually published it. In fact, they made it a feature article."

"So you're a journalist again, eh? That's magic, Mike."

"Magic? What I wrote about was the military's dirty little secret."

"What do you know about the military?"

I gave a tight laugh. "I've been all over Germany, playing in clubs late at night. And I know what the parents or wives of these kids shouldn't know—or should they? About certain people in certain places doing certain things certain other people aren't supposed to know about."

"Sounds like a song. 'You know who, saying you know what, about something I'd better not mention. . .'"

"It's about the government-issued prostitutes, booze, even drugs."

Alan looks around, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Wherever there's a big US military presence—Kaiserslautern, Geissen, Aschaffenburg—somebody in the military brings hookers and drugs to the guys in certain clubs. Those places exist exclusively for the military, and locals are kept out. I've seen trucks pull up to those places at one, two in the morning, and the prostitutes pile out. All paid for with taxpayers' money. It started during the Cold War, supposedly to ease the nerves of soldiers staring at the Russians every day, but it's still going on. Like the Dublin Pub in a certain town east of Frankfurt. I was playing a gig there and at exactly twelve, the owner paid us and hustled us out of there, and he was sweating, too. He told us, 'The army lads will be in at twelve-thirty, and you don't want to be here.' Fifteen minutes later a couple of trucks full of hookers showed up. I've seen that happen all over Germany in military towns. I was in a pub in Baumholder and the guy running the place told me more. He was having problems getting paid and was pissed off. Told me a lot more. A lot."

Alan lights another cigarette, his fingers trembling. "I don't think you should have written that. You didn't use your own name, did you?"

"I was desperate for money, and I had a story nobody back home knew about. I told them not to use my real name. I just hope somebody didn't slip up."

Alan stops and fiddles with his cigarette. "I think I'll go back and have a kip. I'm not used to these early hours."

"You're afraid to be seen with me, aren't you?"

"No, not at all. I'm just done in, that's all."

"Is the gig still on?"

"Oh yeah, Mike. I'll be in touch."

I watch as Alan threads his way back through the throngs of shoppers. "Me and my big mouth can kiss that gig goodbye."

My mood lifts when the man at the counter brings the awaited envelope. I cash the check and stash the money deep in a money belt under my jeans. At that moment I realize that I have enough money to return to the States. A travel agent I know around the corner can arrange a cheap flight, and I can leave within days.

Another thought ripples through me. Or I could head south for the winter like I wanted to. I know loads of people raking it in down in Spain, Greece. Or maybe I can do this whole tour with Davy Wickham. Yeah, maybe he needs someone to do the tour with him.

A vista of possibilities rises up in my imagination, and worries about the article vanish beneath them. "I'm not ready to go home," I murmur as I step back into the swirling pedestrian zone. "I've got some bucks, so now I can get the hell out of Germany."

Strong fingers grasp my arm. "Hey, Mike, where are you headed?"

I jerk my arm back and turn to see Brian Hahn, a young captain I became friendly with at Alan's pub. Out of uniform, Brian wears jeans and a white sweater, and bright blue eyes sparkle from his pink face. I try to read his expression for any sinister signals. "Hey, Brian. What brings you into town?"

"I was looking for you."

"What for?"

"Hey, don't look so worried. It's me who should be worried—they're shipping me to Afghanistan in a couple of days. We were having a party this afternoon for some of the guys who are leaving, and I thought maybe you could stop by the base and play a few tunes for us."

Fear seeps through my system as if it has been injected with a hypodermic needle. "I don't know, Brian. I'm not feeling great today. I think it might be a flu or . . ."

"Come on, I'll even play guitar with you. It'll be a jam session." He pats me on the back. "We'll pay you, too. Plenty. Don't let me go off to war without hearing you one last time. I might get my ass killed over there, and I love those pipes."

"I'm going to have to pass, Brian. I really need to lie down."

"Just for an hour. I don't have much time left."

I hear the scrape of a shoe on pavement behind me. "Hey, Mike. So Brian found you, eh?"

Another out-of-uniform soldier appears—a thin, bespeckled sergeant from North Carolina named Ken.

"I was just telling Brian that I didn't feel so good today."

"Come on, we'll drive you to the base, feed you, and pay you a fat pile of money just to play. No big deal."

"I don't think . . ."

Ken plants himself in front of me. "I guess you don't understand what we're saying, Mike. Brian is headed to Afghanistan and I won't be far behind. You know, when you sign on to the army, you're thinking of training and bonuses and education money. Security for your future. But the other side is that you can find yourself tossed out into a war zone with everybody and his brother trying to blow your ass up. We just want to party with you and your bagpipes, drink beer, and who knows. Just for a couple of hours. Mike, you can't say no to us."

Brian starts up the lane with a wave. "We'll drive you there and back. You'll make at least a couple of hundred bucks, or Euros if you prefer."

I can't figure a way out of the situation and follow Brian.

"We're right on the edge of the ped zone. I really appreciate this."

Before I can rouse myself from a mental fog, the door of the black Hummer crunches shut and locks. Brian fires up the engine, and we shoot into the narrow tangle of streets.

Once I enter the military base I'll be completely at their mercy. I finger the door handle while trying to slow my breathing. "Yeah man, I'm not feeling too good."

Ken glances at me. "You don't look so good, either. Kind of pale. What do you think, Brian?"

"He does look a little weak."

Moments later we are over the Rhine Bridge and on a fast road into the green countryside. Signs emblazoned with American flags announce that we are approaching a military zone, and the film of sweat I noticed all day has transformed itself into a deluge. What will they do to me if they know? Legally, they can't do anything. But I know that they have ways of bending the rules on their own turf, especially when that turf is far from home.

I feel for my pipe case. Nothing. I look everywhere, over the seat, the floors, the seats behind me, but they're not there. Fear escalates into panic. "Hey, I don't have my pipes. I must have left them at American Express."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh my God, I can't lose those pipes. Without them I'll starve. You have to order them five years in advance and they cost thousands."

"That really sucks, Mike."

"Oh my God, I'm screwed."

"We have to be back on base. I'd love to run you back to town, but can't do it."

"What's the problem?"

"We have orders to get back. You don't really know what it's like in the military. There are a lot of things about it you don't understand. But we'll drop you off here and you can walk back."

"But we're miles from Cologne!"

Ken and Brian look at each other, and I detect the flit of a smile passing between them. "We're under orders, Mike. Like I said, there's a lot you don't know about life in the military. A whole hell of a lot."

I find myself on a long, flat stretch of road surrounded by farmland. As I start back—sticking out my thumb every time a vehicle passes—I scour my mind for the moment I lost track of my pipes. After half an hour I finally get a ride into Cologne. Once there, I run to the American Express office. No luck. I hurry through the streets, my eyes looking everywhere for the pipes, asking every shopkeeper I know if they saw them. Finally, I race into the shadow of the black cathedral—my usual busking location—and check my usual spot. At the edge of desperation, I run to the far side of the square and into Alan's pub. "Alan! I need your help!"

The sound of bottles knocking together trickle from a room behind the bar. "Jesus, you're scaring the skin off me. Hold on, Mike."

Alan emerges with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a plastic crate of bottled mineral water in his hands. "What brings you here before nightfall? I don't even have any customers yet."

"I lost my pipes, Alan. I'm screwed, man, I'm really screwed."

"Have you been out jogging?" Alan drops the crate onto the bar. "You're sweating like a . . ."

"Have you heard anything? Seen anything?"

"What would I know about anything? But maybe you're not so crazy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just this." Alan reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a sheet of folded paper. "Somebody left this on the bar. Your lucky day, eh?"

"Lucky?" I grab the sheet and stare at it as if it is a creature from outer space. "This is a miracle!" As I read further, Alan begs me to sit down. At last I fall onto a chair.

"What is it, Mike? Isn't this a good thing?"

"Yeah, real lucky, like you said."

"You don't sound happy about it."

"Whoever found my pipes wants a reward for finding them. A big reward."

"Most Germans wouldn't even accept a reward—they'd just be happy to restore order. How much do they want?"

I look up and feel the purple drain from my face. "The same amount I got in the mail today."

"What are you going to do?"

I slap my hand on the tabletop. "Let's see—I can buy back my pipes and be broke, or say farewell to my living and an expensive set of pipes and go home with only the clothes on my back."

"I'll get you a drink. Maybe a triple whiskey."

"They want me to meet them on the cathedral square at midnight."

"Midnight? So these lads like a bit of melodrama?"

I tighten the fist that lies before me on the table. "Yeah, and they're gonna get melodrama, too. Do you have a camera?"

"Only the one on my phone. Why?"

At five minutes until midnight, I pace in front of the cathedral trying to stay warm. Moonlight illuminates the vast airy space and glows from the stones that make up the square. The cathedral is black and silent. I repeatedly feel at the iron bar I slipped up the sleeve of my coat.

A pair of headlights appear at the edge of the square and my throat tightens. I detect movement near one of the cathedral buttresses. The headlights jolt on again and shoot light across the square. Slowly, the car bumps up and over the curb.

"All right, you bastard," I whisper. "You have my pipes and now you want to rob me?" I let the bar slide into my hand. "Just try this on for size."

The car is a black Opal with a German "K" plate—Koln--Cologne. One window lowers and I grip the pipe so hard my knuckles hurt.

"You have the money?" The voice is muffled. It doesn't sound German or American.

"You have my pipes?"

The end of the case pokes through the window. I recognize it immediately. I try to swallow but my throat is dry.

"Put the money in the window and you can take it."

"I want my pipes before I hand over any money."

"Or there is another possibility. Perhaps I don't need the reward."

"What do you want, then?"

The man pauses. "If you sign this paper I'll hand over your pipes and be on my way." A hand emerges clutching a pen and a sheet of paper. "If you sign it you can keep your money and your pipes."

"I'm not signing anything unless . . ."

"It's merely a receipt."

"I'm sure it's more than that."

"Perhaps these aren't your pipes at all."

"They're my pipes, all right." I move toward the car but the window shuts and I hear

a metallic ka-chunk from the shadows. Fear squeezes my entrails.

The window opens a crack. "It's your choice. Keep the money and the instrument or be without either.

"All right, damn you, I'll sign the paper."

I take it, glance at it, and sign the bottom. The back door of the car barely opens, my case slides onto the stones, and the door shuts. Still holding the paper, I kneel down, unlatch the case, and look inside. The pipes are safe.

At last I stand up and shove the paper at the window. The window opens, fingers snatch the paper and draw it in, and the car speeds over the smooth stones of the square, rumbles over the curb, and disappears.

"I knew it!" I growl. "Alan, you still there?"

Alan steps from the shadows. "Got it, Mike. Twenty pictures of the whole thing!"

I take the camera and stand so that the streetlights shine onto it. "You have a knack for this. Perfect follow-up to my story."

"What was that all about, anyway?"

"It was a retraction for the newspaper. Said I made the whole thing up. I've got to get these pictures and my story to the paper before the retraction."

"So you got your pipes and kept your money, too. Somebody isn't going to be happy when these pictures come out. Where will you go?"

"I'm going where they can't get to me so easily, and far from any military bases. I'll make a lot more money with the follow-up story and photos. Maybe I'll write a book. That ought to teach the bastards." I grab Alan's hand and pump at it. "Thanks for everything, Alan. I'll see you at the gig with Davy Wickham. I'll be coming by train and, by the way, don't use my real name."

As the pink fin of morning glides over the horizon a few hours later, a blue VW approaches the first foothills of the Alps. On the other side of the mountains, warm Mediterranean skies are just beginning to open their windows wide.

Looking for Ireland

We drove all day and night through a roof-rattling rain—from the Black Forest in Germany, over the Rhine to Strasbourg, and across the face of France to the Norman port of Le Havre—hoping to catch the dawn ferry to Ireland. It was pedal-to-metal, chain-smoking and sucking down espressos all the way, but we still missed that damned ferry by six minutes. The next ferry wouldn't leave until five o'clock in the afternoon, so we found ourselves stuck for eleven hours in what seemed the most God-forsaken dump on the continent.

It was late October, and three friends and I had spent the previous few months busking on the streets of Europe—from England to France, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and back. All the while we poured what we could into the "Erin Fund" to pay for one last bash in Ireland before returning home to what would no doubt turn out to be a vengeful reality.

Charlie strolled by the docks in a yellow raincoat playing his tin whistle under overpasses while Pete, Terry, and I took turns sleeping in the car. At noon we attempted to get some coffee in an overcrowded sailor's café, and ended up jammed between tables in front of a blaring television set while half-drunk sailors playing cards stared at us, laughed together, and stared again.

Finally, the afternoon ferry opened its gangplanks and we joined the passengers pouring onboard. Wandering around with our instrument cases, we attracted a lot of attention. An attractive young Australian couple introduced themselves for no particular reason and told us they had just spent six months traveling. Older Irish men slapped us on the back and asked where in Ireland we were from. When we told them we were American their faces changed. "I could swear you were Irish," we heard repeatedly. "You don't look like yanks at all. So are you going to give us a few tunes on them fiddles of yours?"

A group of young guys with wary eyes sidled up to us. "We heard you lads were yanks. Mind if we, like, hang out wit yas? We're from Belfast and some of these geezers are a bit leery of us. But we'll be all right if we're with you yanks. And we'll keep an eye on you, too."

"For once I don't mind being lumped in as a yank with you lot," muttered Pete, a Londoner we joined forces with at the beginning of our trip.

Not long after we put out to sea, the bars opened up and duty-free Guinness became the focus of public attention. I was thankful that I took plenty of Dramamine to ward off motion sickness as I crammed myself into the scrum. The trip was estimated to take 22 hours, so every man and woman on board was intent on staving off sobriety on the high seas. Everyone was in good spirits, and we found it impossible to avoid finding full pints in our hands. We ended up with a tableful of people of all ages exchanging stories of their holidays. One young guy from Waterford, who wore shorts in spite of the raw chill outside, saved money in Greece by sneaking in through the windows of empty hotel rooms at night to sleep, then slipping out in the morning before anybody found him. An elderly couple from Dublin drove all around Italy in a big RV visiting art museums. When we told them what we'd been up to, their smiles dropped. "You're joking! Busking on the streets for all them foreigners? You lads must be mad."

A crew member set up a sound system at the end of the room. One man at our table craned his neck to have a look. "Maybe they'll let you lads play a few tunes. I'll have a word with the fella up there."

Our tablemates chattered their approval and moments later the four of us found ourselves set up with microphones on the makeshift stage. We'd been drinking gallons of Guinness, the sea roiled beneath us, and we struggled to remain upright as we played a set of reels. In spite of our difficulties, the audience roared and a few leapt up to dance. We then did some jigs, a song, and another set of reels before the waves and the Guinness knocked us out of commission and the ferry's official entertainment—an octogenarian accordion player in a suit and tie—took the stage.

Several more pints of Guinness later, while my companions tottered off to check out the onboard disco, I made my way to our cabin to go to bed. The room wasn't much larger than the inside of a van and contained two bunk beds and a metal dresser. I rolled into the first bed and was asleep immediately.

A tap on the shoulder and the radiance of morning let me know the night was gone and we'd soon be in Ireland. Blinking, I looked up and saw Pete's red hair and mustache grimacing over me while the ship heaved back and forth. "There's been a bit of trouble. Charlie and Terry have been arrested. They'll be deported soon as we land."

"Are you kidding me?" I jerked up, smacking my head on the bottom of the upper bunk. "Ow! Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, all right. I tried to talk to the captain, but he's been keeping them locked in the brig."

"The brig?" I repeated. "They actually have a brig? Charlie and Terry are in it? This can't be happening."

"Our two buccaneers are out now. It's not like they can go anywhere. They're going to be deported soon as we land. How do you like that? Come all the way here and sent home before they can step one foot on Irish soil,"

"Why did they get locked up?"

"After the disco closed they broke into the cafeteria and stole some oranges."

"Oranges?"

"Mate, they were pissed out of their bloody heads last night. You're lucky you went to bed. I didn't want to know 'em. Look, I'm going to have another word with the captain. Tell him they're yanks and not used to Guinness, they took seasickness medicine that made them go off their heads, something. Mind you, after last night I should just let them get deported. Might teach them a bloody lesson."

Swallowing more Dramamine, I hurried up to the deck where I found Charlie and Terry, their hair sticking up in all directions, slouching against a rail smoking and gazing morosely at the approaching shoreline. Ireland was almost close enough to touch. "I don't remember anything from last night," muttered Terry. "Now we're screwed."

Pete appeared. "All right lads, I talked the captain's ear off and he's overlooking the whole episode. Says you two are never to take this ferry again as long as you live or you'll be tossed off straight away. You're lucky this time. It was a near thing."

Charlie and Terry brightened. "All right, this is great. Thank goodness for that."

While they hurried down to pack up their things, Pete turned to me shaking his head. "You mean thank Pete, you ungrateful wankers. Can you believe it? I just got those two out of prison and deportation and not a word of thanks. I should have kept my bloody mouth shut."

All was forgotten when we drove out of the car hold and onto the sacred land of Ireland. All sides of my family came from Ireland, and like so many Irish-Americans, I grew up in a house decorated with maps of Ireland, posters of Ireland, family coats-of-arms, and framed Irish sayings. The Ireland in my mind was a land of unearthly beauty and mystical Celtic magic. I was so filled with emotion that tears soon found their way onto my face.

"We'll stop in Wicklow, lads," said Pete at the wheel. "Maybe we can get a gig there. Or at least have our first pint in dear old Erin."

We drove through pleasant countryside to the riverside town of Wicklow and right up to the first pub we saw. Inside, a man with sideburns down to his neck washed glasses while his seven-year-old son sat on a stool blowing into a tin whistle. We ordered pints of Guinness and Pete chatted to the barman. "Any place in town we might get a gig? We're a band."

"I'm not having music here myself," said the man. "But you might try up around the corner at the Wicklow Arms. They have musicians on weekends, I believe."

Pete ran up the street while the rest of us finished our pints, and returned with good news. "All I had to do is tell the bloke a little about us and we got a gig in two weeks time. Yanks and a Brit playing traditional Irish music. He said at least we'd get people coming out of curiosity."

"I'm exhausted," Terry said. "Maybe we should find a place to stay here."

"This town is expensive," said Pete. "But if we can get up to Dublin we can stay at the Ceoltòiri center. You know, the international Irish arts organization. They've got a hostel a lot better than the brig. I'm a member, and Charlie and Terry are too, right?"

They nodded. I wasn't a member and was surprised their membership might come in handy. "You mean they'll put us all up? Even me?"

"Sure, and for next to nothing. Plus they'll have Guinness, food, whatever we need. They have seisuns every night, too, so we can play music with local musicians. It's good craic. Let's get going."

The sun eased down over the Irish horizon as we got on the road to Dublin. The main road to Dublin was half a lane in each direction lined by hedgerows that obscured any view. With all the bumps, turns, and the occasional sluggish farm vehicle, it was slow going.

"Bloody 'ell, this is taking bloody forever," grumbled Pete after an hour. "We've got to get there before nine."

"Might as well speed up because we can't see the scenery anyway."

Pete pushed his overstuffed car harder as darkness draped itself over us. There were few lights on the road, so we were forced to go even more slowly. "It's close to nine. If we don't make it I don't know where we can stay."

When we finally got into Dublin, Pete darted and dashed through traffic so desperately that the rest of us could only hang on to whatever we could find and hope we'd eventually be flung somewhere near the Ceoltòiri center. At one minute until nine, Pete pulled up to what looked like a large house in a well-to-do neighborhood. "Come on, lads, let's run. We might just make it."

We dashed into a main room with a bar, some tables, and a group of musicians clustered in a semi-circle in one corner. When the musicians saw us and our instruments, they tightened their circle and turned their backs to us. I nudged Charlie. "Is that their version of 'welcome to Ireland'?"

"I just talked to the woman running the place and it's all set," said Pete as I stared at the sullen ring of backs. "We'll get rooms for tonight, dirt cheap. I told you, lads."

At the bar I asked if we could still get some Guinness and maybe something to eat. They only had Harp and some old soda bread left. Pete and I sat chewing the few slabs of stale bread while Charlie and Terry took out their instruments and tried to join the musicians. The local talent drew even closer together and ignored them. After sitting outside the fringe of the ring trying to play along, they gave up and returned to the bar.

"Never mind those poncers, lads," Pete assured us. "Tomorrow we set out for the west of Ireland where you won't find any of this snobbish shite. You know what they say—the west is the best!"

After a few more Harps we were ready to turn in. Just as Pete got to his feet to pick up our room keys, a pair of families rushed in with suitcases and red faces, the parents looking around in confusion while the kids raced across the room. The lady in charge hurried over to them. "All the way from Cork! Oh, come, you'll need some nice tea and I'll make up sandwiches for you, too. You must be tired from your journey."

Pete walked over and asked for our keys.

"I'm afraid there has been a change of plans, sir. You see, these people just came in from Cork. They've come a long, long way and are very tired. I'm sure you understand. You can find other accommodations, I'm sure."

"Cork? We came all the way from Germany and we're beyond tired. We haven't slept in two nights!"

The woman screwed her eyes up at him as if he'd just spoken to her in Mongolian. "But they came all the way from Cork! We'll have to give them your rooms because they traveled such a long way."

"We came all the way from bloody Germany, and you didn't make us tea or sandwiches! Now you're giving them our beds and tossing us out in the middle of the night?"

"Sir, these poor people drove all the way from Cork, can't you see? They're very tired. And the children, you see. You understand, I'm sure."

Further discussion was futile. Ten minutes later we found ourselves crammed once again into Pete's car. After a good deal of cursing, Pete turned on the engine. "We'll have to sleep rough tonight, lads. We'll go to Belgrave Square and set up the tent. It's not far."

Pete drove for about ten minutes before he pulled over beside a small park. We dragged out our tent and set it up behind a clump of bushes before collapsing into our sleeping bags.

The next morning a steady rain beat down on our leaky canvas tent. I opened one eye to see a little blond boy's face peering in at us At last he spoke. "Would you like to come in for tea? Hurry up, then."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course, and why would I joke about a thing like that?"

After much groaning and eye-rubbing, we got up and followed him through the morning drizzle to a house on the square. Inside, a slender middle-aged man and his big-boned wife greeted us with hot tea and toast. "We saw your tent this morning and thought you might be hungry," said the woman, Jean. She was originally from Cornwall and wanted to hear all about our adventures. Her husband, Martin, was from Holland and had sent his son Mark to invite us to breakfast.

After a huge breakfast and lots of talk, we thanked our hosts profusely, offering to give them a concert the next time we were in town. Then we set out for the west.

Rain smacked at the car. The further west we drove, the more Ireland looked like the Ireland I expected—intensely green hills, an endless gridwork of stone walls, sheep, ruined castles, and the ever-present perfume of peat fires. We stopped at plenty of pubs along the way, though none of the bartenders wanted us to play any music. After getting lost on a tiny rural road in Tipperary that evening, we dragged the tent out into the rain, set it up, and tried to sleep while water rivulets ran under our faces and backsides.

The next day, just outside the East Galway town of Kiltorma, we visited Bertie, a friend of Pete. A stout fellow with a big, bald head, Bertie was about seventy years of age. He lived with his older sister, Mary, in a cottage on a windswept hill. They gave us sandwiches and tea, then we all walked down to the pub, except Mary, who Bertie somberly informed us had never been in a pub in her life. There we pulled out our instruments and played for the locals, who bought us drinks, amused that yanks were playing music they considered old-fashioned and more than a little bit quaint. We stayed in the pub all day and evening until Bertie led us home.

We finally got some sleep, though Bertie's rusting outdoor water pump was not equipped to provide hot showers to four rather fruity-smelling travelers the next morning. We set out on the road just before noon, waving goodbye to Bertie and Mary.

In a pub along the route we heard that there was a festival in Lisdoonvarna, so we took a detour just as colder winds brought yet more rain. When we finally arrived in Lisdoonvarna it was dark, so we pulled up to the first Bed and Breakfast we could find. An elderly woman greeted us suspiciously, then granted us four beds in a musty smelling parlor sectioned off by curtains. We optimistically booked ourselves in for two nights, anticipating two days of music and drinking. The lady woke us next morning with trays of runny eggs, overripe bread, and dangerous looking cubes of indeterminate origin. We stuffed as much bread and tea into ourselves as possible before heading out into rain so thick it was impossible to tell where one drop ended and the next began.

We darted from pub to pub, but they were all as empty as funeral parlors after closing time. We asked if there really was a festival in town that weekend and were assured there was, but we couldn't find a single poster, advertisement, or announcement to confirm the rumor. Charlie and I ended up in a café where the girl serving us mentioned that the festival was actually a Matchmaking Festival, where unmarried farmers would come to town and look at the unmarried women who had come in search of husbands.

Rain hammered the streets and sidewalks, and there wasn't a sign of romance anywhere. Before giving up for the day, we at last found a pub on the fringe of town where a lone singer sang "Fields of Athenry" for a misty-eyed handful of farm bachelors in tweeds and mud-splotched boots.

That night I was woken in the middle of the night by a man who had just come to town for the "festival." It was then I learned the custom of putting two to a bed if things got crowded. There was nothing I could do except lie awake beside my new friend, Mr. O'Malley, who fell asleep immediately, still in his tweed jacket and snoring like a tractor.

We finally escaped from Lisdoonvarna and made our way to Galway, famous for the finest traditional music in Ireland and some of the best craic anywhere. As we neared the city limits, Pete pulled out a bottle of whiskey he'd been saving for the occasion and passed it around. We stopped at the first pub in town, a place about the size of an elevator, where a bearded guy sat playing jigs on button accordion. Pete asked if we could join in, the guy nodded, and we raced outside to get our instruments out of the car. At last we'd play some tunes with real Irish musicians in dear old Erin!

Once we got our instruments out, however, we noticed a slight problem. We couldn't figure out what key the guy was playing in. At last Terry leaned forward and asked him.

"Ah, now, I'm playing a B accordion."

"I've never heard of a B accordion. It's almost impossible for us to play along in B."

The guy barely allowed a tiny smile. "Well, now, that's the idea, like."

We left without further comment, plunged into the center of town, and stopped in one of Galway's famous pubs, The Galway Arms, to settle in for the evening. There was some mention of finding a place to stay, but the Guinness was creamy and the fire was warm. A beautiful red-haired German girl wandered in. Charlie and I got talking to her, attempting to outdo each other in an all-out charm offensive. When an old acquaintance of mine from home showed up out of the blue, I was forced to concede, and watched helplessly as Charlie and the girl, Rosevita, slipped out together. My friend talked happily on about his holiday in Ireland and how he couldn't wait to tell mutual friends back home that we ran into each other in a pub in Galway.

At last Pete, Terry, and I staggered out and booked into a hostel around the corner seconds before it closed. We shared a room filled with bunk beds with Leslie and Pam, two lovely girls from British Columbia who joked and laughed with us half the night. This time it was Pete and I who opened the charm floodgates, but we were already too drunk and the girls too sensible to bring the attempt to a satisfactory conclusion.

When I woke the next morning Terry had already gone, so Pete and I had to pay for the three of us. We hurried through a gloomy deluge to a pub where we finally found Terry, Charlie, and Rosevita drinking tea in front of a heaving fire. Charlie was so entranced by Rosevita that he barely noticed us, and when Pete suggested going out to find some music, Terry muttered that he was going to tag along with Charlie and Rosevita.

The rain began to pound harder outside and the day grew as dark as midnight. Pete and I retreated to a corner where we counted our remaining funds and realized that paying for the B & Bs, gas, occasional food, and endless pints was draining our funds far more quickly than anticipated. We would be flat broke in days, if not hours. Pete and I looked at each other in alarm. The rain outside slammed harder.

"Mate, we can't afford to ponce about paying to stay in hostels anymore. We've got to start back to England. I've got some money in the bank there. We can stay with friends of mine on the way."

"And I guess I've got to catch a flight back to the States once we get to London. I can't believe it's over. We're on our way home."

It didn't seem possible, but the downpour grew more savage. We talked to Charlie and Terry, who appeared to be in a daze. "Look," I said. "We've got that gig in Wicklow in a few days. You still want to do it?"

"Sure, sure. We'll be there."

Pete called up Kate, an ex-girlfriend of his living in Galway, who reluctantly agreed to let Pete and me stay in her living room that night. When we got to her flat she had another girl with her. "This is my friend, Fiona. I was thinking we might all go out for a drink."

Fiona grabbed hold of my arm and peppered me with questions about America. She was short and blond, with an upturned nose and thin lips. She asked about my home state of Maryland, and when I told her that it was famous for its horses and crabs, she looked up at me with glowing eyes. "It all sounds so magical in your Maryland. I'd love to go there someday. I'd love to go with you." She squeezed my arm harder.

We drove to a pub and sat around a low table. Pete and I ordered Guinness while the girls ordered white wine. Pete and Kate soon got into a whispered argument that attracted more attention than if they'd been shouting at one another. Fiona attempted to jolly me up by asking more questions about me and my life.

She must have read somewhere that it was good way to get a person to open up, but a million things were whirling through my mind. I had just enough money to survive for a few days. I wasn't sure if I still had my room in the group house at home, I didn't have a job, and had no idea what to do with my life once I returned to the States.

While Fiona talked, I grew drunker. Finally I looked at her. "I'm sorry, but I've got a lot on my mind right now. My life is falling apart. I have to get home before I run out of money and starve to death."

We drove back in silence. Fiona got into her car, slammed the door, and drove off without a word. Once inside Kate's flat, I tried to sleep on the living room floor while I heard her and Pete argue in the kitchen. "And your friend was very rude to Fiona," I heard at one point. "I went to all the trouble to set up a date for him and he barely said a word. Typical yank!"

Pete and I woke up after Kate had already gone to work and wasted no time getting on the road. We drove through Galway City while a thought that had been forming like a sore in my consciousness finally emerged with disturbing clarity. I turned to Pete. "I know this is the worst kind of blasphemy, and you'd be correct to give me a sock in the jaw, but I'm not having greatest time of my life here in Ireland."

"I've been thinking the same thing," Pete admitted. "I wouldn't half mind going back to Germany right now. But at least it's a relief to get away from those other two. I know they're your friends and compatriots and all, but they can be a pair of right wankers. Terry never paid us for that last hostel, did he? Bloody bastard he is."

"I never did get to see the Cliffs of Moher."

Pete pulled over into a rain-filled puddle. "What am I thinking? Come on, mate, we're not done yet. We can have a little fun. Let's go to the cliffs right now."

We drove out to the windy coastline where Ireland fell thousands of dizzying feet down into the restless sea, and walked along the very edge of Ireland, knocked around by the wind and deafened by the crashing waves below. After about an hour we got on the road east, picked up some hitchhikers from New Zealand, and stopped at a pub to let them buy us drinks. We paused along our route to look at crumbling castles, shining rivers, and timeless villages, then spent the night in the upstairs of a pub in Portumna run by one of Pete's many friends. Before going to bed we checked out a jam-packed cèili dance next door where the band, whose average age was about ninety, played jigs and reels at a breakneck pace all night.

When we finally arrived in Wicklow for the gig, I was surprised to see Terry and Charlie waiting for us, along with Rosevita. That had taken a bus from Galway and would be taking a bus back the next morning though they were as broke as we were. A local named Tiny, a big guy with a black beard spewing from his face, was our engineer, and he set up an elaborate sound system. We got up on stage at the appointed time, but nobody was there. We played the entire night to Tiny and a half-asleep bartender, and at the end of the night paid the engineer five pounds each out of our own pockets.

After seeing off Charlie, Terry, and Rosevita the next morning, Pete and I drove to Dublin to catch the ferry to Wales. Rain slashed our faces and the winds picked up.

"It's going to be a rough crossing," said Pete, pulling up his collar. "Better take some of those pills of yours. After paying for this we'll have just about enough for petrol and a loaf of bread. I hope I can get money from my bank. If we make it that far we can stay with my friend Tony in Birmingham."

Pete drove his car into the hold and we walked up to the deck in spite of the rain. As the ferry plunged and rolled over the Irish Sea, the green coast of Ireland drew ever further away. I thought of my ancestors who left Ireland and wondered how they must have felt as they stood on deck for one last look at their homeland. Now, more than a hundred years later, I too, was leaving Ireland—hungry, broke, unsure of future prospects, and barely clinging to fading illusions. The Ireland of my imagination had already receded even as the Irish shore was just a thin emerald line on the horizon.

The End

##
A **bout C.B. Heinemann**

C.B. Heinemann has been performing, recording and touring with rock and Irish music groups for more than 30 years. The Washington Post said his songs are "...among the best coming from either side of the Atlantic," and Dirty Linen called him a "virtuoso." His short stories have appeared in _Florida English, Berkeley Fiction Review, Cigale, Rathalla Review, Howl, Ascent, Lowestoft Chronicles, Outside In Literary Journal,_ _Storyteller,_ _One Million Stories, Whistling Fire, Danse Macabre, Battered Suitcase, Fate, The Washington Post, Boston Globe, Philadelphia Inquirer, Cool Traveler, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette,_ and _Car & Travel._ His stories have been featured in anthologies published by _Florida English, One Million Stories,_ and _Whereabouts._

**Other titles by C.B. Heinemann**

The Last Buskers of Summer

**Connect with C.B. Heinemann**

cbheinemann@yahoo.com
