I never knew him. Even after we met. But I saw him around here and there. He played the fiddle with an aggressive punk-rock attitude. But he didn’t wear leather.
He had thin wiry glasses, big and wild hair, and a thin body structure. He wore baggy jeans and a gray T-shirt, at least that’s what he was wearing every time I saw him. He was what some refer to as a “dirty kid” , a street type vagrant. I made sure to throw him a buck every time I passed him. I like the fiddle.
The last time I saw him was in a cafe on Decatur St. in the French Quarter of New Orleans called Cafe Envie. I remember looking at him. Guessing at his background and making up stories in my mind. I remember wanting to talk to him, but not knowing what to say.
I just read my book. Occasionally I wrote something down. But mostly I just stared at him. On my way out I nodded to him… he didn’t even look.
About a month or so after that I left New Orleans. I never thought about him again. Time, like a bird, flew by. And one day I was on Freemont St. in Las Vegas and I saw a thin man with wiry glasses, big and wild hair, a gray T-shirt, baggy jeans, and he was playing the fiddle. I watched until he stopped, I tossed him a couple of bucks, and we both smiled.
I said “weren’t you in New Orleans just a few months ago.”
He said “yeah. Wait? Were you down there? I think I remember seeing you”
“I was. How’s Vegas treating you?” I said.
He said “it’s good. I make more money here. But I like New Orleans as a city more.”
“I prefer it too,” I said, “but the work is seasonal.”
We went on talking. He talked about his influences musically. And about how he went to Idaho to see his family again. But he realized they just didn’t get it, so he left again, vowing never to return. He hitchhiked most of the way. Hopping trains, street performing, sleeping wherever he got tired. We talked about our times on the road, times in New Orleans, and our conceptions of art. Nothing too scientific or grandiose.
It wasn’t that long of a conversation, thirty minutes at most. But I felt the need to go. Talking is all well and good, but when you have a lot to think about it shows. And it isn’t fair to keep talking without thinking about what you’re saying. It’s a waste of words and ears.
Funny enough I think of him now as two different people. The one I talked to for thirty minutes. And the other guy, the one I just looked at guessing. When I think of him at Cafe Envie, he might as well be anyone, going anywhere. And the thought impacts me. And the man I spoke to in Las Vegas, whose story I know to a degree also impacts me, just differently.
I wonder what those guys are looking for. And what they know that I don’t. I wonder if they find what they’re looking for. Or if they find that they were searching for the wrong thing the whole time. It leaves me guessing.
They are looking to love and be loved by all things in the universe.