Story for performance #559
webcast from Sydney at 08:09PM, 31 Dec 06

a red card
Source: Michael Gawenda, ‘Saddam’s death no magic bullet for George Bush’, The Sun Herald in Sydney Morning Herald online, 31/12/06.
Writer/s: Vicki Abshire

Late on a Friday night, Robert Crane sat in a dark corner of a Quarrytown nightspot, his guitar in its case leaning against the wall beside him. He was nervous and sweaty from his time at the microphone. Now he rested up from the rigours of performing for an indifferent crowd by listening to the next performer mangle a cover of an old Bruce Springsteen song. He shook his head, thinking that it was better not to invite comparison to the Boss.

His own short set had consisted of four of his poems set to jangling tunes that had come to him as he played the guitar, alone in his apartment after work. That’s how he tended to spend his evenings since his marriage had broken up the year before. His ex-wife had never wanted him to spend any time on his music or his poems. Now he had lots of time.

The Springsteen imitator was climbing down from the stage, giving way to a long-haired blonde who channeled Jewel. Robert smiled, glad that his music was original, even if the response hadn’t been the best. Grabbing his guitar case, he stood up and worked his way toward the back of the club, stopping by the bar for a bottle of Evian and a word with the manager, who sat on a stool watching the stage.

‘You sounded good, Rob,’ said the man, not looking at him. ‘The crowd’s too young for you tonight. Come back next week. I’ll listen to you.’

Robert shrugged ruefully. ‘Thanks, Bill. I’m grateful that you keep letting me onstage.’

Heading out into the rain and cold, he turned up the collar on his coat and hustled toward his car. He tossed the guitar into the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel, slamming the door and letting out a sigh. Midnight, and he was going home again to an empty apartment.

On the way there, his car stopped running. Cursing fate and the bad weather, Rob got out to see what he could see. As he looked under the raised hood pretending to have some idea what he was seeing, a voice called to him, ‘Hey, do you need some help?’ There was a small car beside his, and a young man looking out with an expression of concern.

Rob shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess I do. I don’t know much about cars. It just died on me, maybe from the water on the road? It’s not much of a car.’

The young man said, ‘Close the hood and hop in. You dry off while I check it out. Give me your key.’

The kid grabbed the key from Rob and ducked quickly to Rob’s car. When he turned the key, the car hummed at once. Leaving it running, he hurried back over to sit beside Rob. ‘I guess it likes me,’ he said.

Rob laughed. ‘Good thing! Maybe it sat long enough for the heat of the engine to dry out the flooding.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Rob. Thanks for helping.’

Taking his hand, the kid said, ‘I’m Denny. Hey, are you in a rush to get home? There’s a diner right around the corner here. Let’s get some coffee and warm up.’

Rob looked intently into Denny’s face, then relaxed and smiled. ‘Sure. Sleep is overrated, right?’ They both laughed. ‘Meet you there, Denny.’ He walked back to his own car.

There wasn’t much happening in the diner. A bored waitress seated them at once.

‘I’ll have coffee and a bagel with cream cheese and jelly,’ Denny said to her. She wrote it down and then gave Rob the eye.

‘Decaf, please, and scrambled eggs with hash browns.’ Rob was surprised to find that he was starving. As the waitress plodded away, he turned to Denny. ‘Are you a mechanic?’

Denny snorted and shook his head. ‘Nah, I just like to work on cars. I think it’s like having a green thumb with plants. Your car simply knew I was boss.’

Rob laughed. ‘My ex-wife used to get so annoyed with me when I couldn’t do all that automotive stuff. She’d say, ‘You’re a guy! You’re supposed to know what to do!’ But I always told her that’s what mechanics are for.

‘All that sexual revolution crap and we’re still expected to tune the engine or fix the plumbing.’

Their food arrived. As he ate, Denny talked about himself. ‘My uncle is in the music business, up in the city. I go around to clubs and scout for him. I keep hoping to be the one to spot the next big act.’

‘My music’s not going to be big.’ Rob looked down as he finished up his eggs and potatoes, then glanced up in the ensuing silence. ‘What?’

Denny was staring at him. ‘You’re a musician?’

‘By day, I work in a law office. By night, I attend open mic sessions in clubs and bars around town.’ He smiled in self-deprecation.

‘It’s fate, I tell you. I was meant to drive by and find you stranded in the flooded streets.’ Reaching into his pocket, Denny pulled out a red card imprinted with his name and phone numbers.

Rob took it, looked it over, and smiled at Denny. ‘I don’t expect you’ll like my stuff much. It’s poetry set to my own guitar doodling, and I do it mostly for myself.’

Shrugging, Denny reached for the check. ‘You never know.’

‘Thanks for breakfast,’ Rob said. ‘I should pay, as a thank-you for helping me.’

‘Nah, I invited you here. My treat. My uncle taught me to take care of the talent.’ He flashed a smarmy grin.

Rob flushed. ‘Not sure I’m talent. Guess you’ll decide about that soon enough.’

Walking out of the restaurant, they shook hands and said good night, then headed separately into the rain. It wasn’t letting up.

Rob pulled the red card out of his pocket. It looked to him like his future.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Vicki Abshire.