Note: This began as stream of consciousness fiction, but took on a little more planning. Let's call it extremely short fiction. For a blog entry, it's long.I'm at this concert with Lindsey. It is our third date and I am definitely hoping things will go well. Our first two dates were amazing, so I figure a little live entertainment is definitely the way to go tonight. The place is nice, intimate and warm. You enter from the street at the back of the building, where the bar is. In this area, as it should be, the bar is the focal point. It has been placed symmetrically between the two openings in the building. On one side is the entrance proper, and on the other is a short hallway that looks to lead to the kitchen. The walls are 100% red brick, but laid uneven in certain parts for a more natural feel. Various murals have been painted right into them.
The bar appears like a solid block of long, rounded cherry wood stained to a very dark and smooth finish. Simple stools with dark, leather cushions stand like pylons at the front of the bar awaiting the show. Behind the bar are all manner of spirits, liquor, wine & beer lined up in fancy bottles, below cabinets matching the cherry wood finish. The cabinet doors are made of glass, to display all of the novelty tumblers and glassware. The bar is essentially on a kind of wooden stage with a balcony fence and stairs on either side. Down four or so stairs are deep navy carpeted walkways surrounding the wood floor dining area consisting of about 30 small, round tables. In the very front is the stage, perfect for tonight's acoustic guitar performance.
Lindsey and I make small talk at a volume a little bit above a loud whisper. For a room of more than 60 people, the banter is surprisingly quiet. Toward the back, a few groups have pulled tables together, but couples like us are the majority. Some are eating the fair, light appetizers and salads, most are imbibing. On my suggestion, we went without a meal and both of us have a single glass of red wine, Cabernet. We're sitting in the front.
She looks unbelievable, wearing sandals with newly manicured toes (from what I can tell about female grooming), her nicer, dark jeans, and a simple, white halterneck that complements her slightly tanned skin. Lindsey has her blonde hair down, thrown over one shoulder. She knows what she's doing. This is a wink to me, because of what I said the other...
As I was looking into Lindsey's grey-blue eyes telling her another one of my goofy jokes she loves, I noticed the old man looking at me from the table behind her. There's something about him, I'm not sure. I must have stopped my joke in midsentence because she still has that geeky smile I like, waiting in anticipation for the punchline. Then she asks me what's wrong, but the old man holds my gaze. I don't know what it is. Now, Lindsey is looking at him, transfixed.
He is very old. Completely bald on the top of his head, with incredibly smooth skin, he has long silver hair to his shoulders. He smiles. Both of us, I believe, start feeling very happy at this. With that, the man stands. He's tall, about 6'4" and lanky. He deftly grabs one of the chairs at his table and, with a sweep of his long arm and a quick stride, is seated at our table in moments. He greets us, I'm sure. He speaks mostly to Linds, and I hear him & I understand, but I don't know his words. The speech is harmonic. From what I can tell, it conveys more through tone and movement and expression than through words.
I begin to admire the man's features, and I notice something peculiar. It's his ears. They're large, of course. But, ever so slightly, and just subtly enough that most passers-by wouldn't care to notice, the ears are pointed. In fact, the longer I stare, the more distinctive they become. But then he's looking at me, smiling. He knows me. We haven't met before, but there is warmth between us, like two friends, brothers even, who survive a calamity. Maybe one brother saved the other. Just as quickly as he met us, the man is back to his own table. Strange.
I look to Lindsey who acts like the Cheshire cat. I ask her what he said and I sense something different about her in the response. She is speaking harmonically, also, but her words come through, like hearing something new for the first time in your all-time favorite song. You know the lyrics but the melody is just somehow different. Linds tells me that the musician we came to see is called Thomas Reynard and that we're in for a real treat. There's more that she isn't telling me. Something about me, it must be. She beams at me when she thinks I'm not looking. Something good, at least. Can't do me any harm to just let it be, so that's what I do.
As I'm back to admiring her, I notice that her skin is getting more tan, but then I look up to see the lights dimming. The show is starting. The whole place quiets. The whole place is dark. I hear one of the doors open at the front of the place, opposite our end. Footsteps now, I can barely make them out, but I hear footsteps. Lindsey puts her hand on mine to tell me to turn so I can see him. He is coming down the walkway closest to us. I am amazed.
Reynard is tiny. Maybe 5'5" if he combs his long, brown hair right, he has complete command of the room despite that. As he approaches the stage, I notice something peculiar. He is barefoot, walking heel to toe naturally. His features are remarkably pronounced. Reynard's small body is adorned with long arms and hands of spindly fingers. His face seems older than his years, wrinkled under the eyes from concentration & exhaustion and around the mouth from excessive smiling & laughter. His nose is long, but not oversized like his ears. His eyes are huge and greenish-brown, the kind that change in the light.
My experience now tells me to observe Reynard like a hawk. I don't hear him introduced or the spirited applause he receives until Lindsey takes her hand from mine to clap, herself. With his guitar in his left hand, Thomas waves to the audience with his right. As he sits down, he nods to the old man who responds in kind, bowing his head in respect. Reynard plays.
No song has lyrics. The emotions from them are stronger. Thomas plays in a way that makes you feel as if you're only seeing one small portion of a greater masterpiece. The feeling is palpable that certain rhythms and melodies are flying over us just as others are being received. The only audience participation is the assumption that jaws are on the floor. Each element, arrangement even, amidst a song causes various reactions. They are all joyful. Lindsey and I are amazed, together. She now has a firm grip on my hand, and mine back to hers. At different points during the performance one of us gives a squeeze. It is pure excitement.
This is downright otherworldly. I could swear as I look back toward the bar that those bar stools are swaying in time to the music. But that is nothing. The murals on the walls have come to life. Several shape notes, painted into the red brick in bright colors, dance across the ether above us and trade places between the two walls. On one wall is the mascot of the establishment: an elephant on a trampoline. As sure as Lindsey is beautiful, that elephant is doing backflips and dance moves on that trampoline. And last, behind Thomas Reynard, the grand mural of the stage has become three-dimensional. It looks almost like he is literally playing on a televised beach performance.
A feeling like this is nearly impossible to describe, but Reynard onstage is the icing on the cake. It is as if the music moves through him and down his arms and into his fingers and onto the strings and out from the guitar. He dances as a vessel possessed by its cargo, moving in time from a straight-up posture to that of a deep bow forward and back again. Each time, he leans back and stretches far, throwing his head back with his lips pursed and his eyes closed. The eyes, though, are rolled back in a dreamlike state. I picture him simply envisioning the notes and causing his fingers to respond instantly. It is a sight to behold.
Finally, Reynard closes the show and then plays his encore, bringing the audience to his true height. At the very end, out of the corner of my eye, I see that old man get up and dance around his own table faster than I've ever seen a person move. Show over, lights up, and Reynard staying to speak with audience members, Linds and I just look at each other. I think this date is a hit.
Gradually, after the shock and amazement of the incredible show begins to wear off, the specifics fade into our memories, and we regain our conversation. The old man is over with Reynard, saying goodbye, as I can tell. The man leaves, leaving us with a simple wink of his warm eyes. Soon after, Reynard walks by smiling genuinely, and looks us both in the eye. We can only smile. As he brushes his hair back, I notice it: a long, pointed ear.
As we get ready to leave, I ask Lindsey, "So, what did the old man say about me?"
She looks at me like she has good news.
