Several years ago, my wife Pam and I went out for a late supper. It was a Thursday night and the local pub in midtown had live music so we went there. We arrived a little after nine in the evening. The entertainment was underway. The musician was a local country singer with a good gravelly voice and an electrified bass guitar. He was dressed in a denim shirt, Levi's, boots and a black Stetson hat. He was covering songs from Johnny Cash to John Denver. We knew him by the name of Buck.
We ordered drinks and our meals and settled in to listen to the music while we waited. When our meals were delivered, we ate slowly. The food was good, the music better and we were in no hurry to finish. The pub closed at eleven and by ten-thirty some customers were drifting out and heading home. At about ten forty-five, Buck strummed his guitar in preparation for his last ballad. A gentleman from the back of the room interrupted him. We recognized the interloper immediately. He was a well know country entertainer with an international reputation. We knew he lived in the area but were surprised he frequented our local establishment. For the purposes of this account, I'll call him Boots.
Boots asked Buck if he could borrow his guitar for a short time. Buck quickly gave up his guitar, his stool and his microphone and took a seat at a nearby table. Boots settled on the stool, fiddled with the tuning of the guitar for a moment and positioned the microphone. "Hi, ya all," he said.
The audience responded with a chorus, "Hi, ya all."
Boots began with an unpublished ditty he said he was working on. As the excitement of Boots' presence spread throughout the pub, diners from other rooms began to congregate in the main room where Boots was performing. Boots began to wander through a series of tunes interspaced with stories about his travels and experiences.
The pub closed at eleven. The proprietor turned out the lights as each of the rooms emptied. He was reluctant to turn out the lights where Boots and approximately fifty paying customers were cramped together and listening. Boots played and talked for most of the next hour. Finally, he introduced his last song with a story about his travels in Europe while he was nineteen or twenty. Here is his story as best as I can remember it.
After high school, I tried working on the ranch over the summer. That lasted about a year. I loved the freedom of the prairie and the great outdoors but I hated the work. I was encouraged to attend college and thought it was a good idea but I wanted to have an adventure before I settled down. I took a break year and decided to backpack through Europe.
I packed some clothing, gathered my cash, a credit card and my spanking new passport. I picked up my guitar, headed for the airport and flew to London. I played country music for tips in a number of pubs and similar establishments throughout Europe. Nine months later, I was in Rome, twenty pounds lighter and almost broke. It was time to head home.
I confirmed my return flight to the States from London and booked a train from Rome to London. The train left the Rome Tiburtina rail station just as the sun was setting. Unfortunately, although I thought I was guaranteed a seat, that was not the case. I settled at the back of the train car for the hour long ride to Milan where I hoped a seat would free up before the fourteen hour trip to Paris. I sat on my back pack with my back against the side wall of the train car. Across from me was a young lady also sitting on her back pack with a sleeping bag, apparently in the same seatless situation as I was.
Things did not improve in Milan and I settled in as best I could in the rear of the train car. Across from me, the young lady was adapting to a similar situation. However, she was better prepared. I watched as she unrolled her sleeping bag, unzipped it and positioned her backpack at the top, apparently for use as a pillow. I watched in the dim light as she sat in the open sleeping bag, covered herself as best she could and began to remove her clothing in preparation for sleep. As she removed each item of clothing, she folded it neatly and put it alongside her backpack. Almost as if she was alone, she didn't hesitate to remove all her clothing. I confirmed her state of undress as she folded her bra and panties and added them to the pile of clothing behind her backpack.
She settled into her sleeping bag and zipped it up. She lay facing me across the train aisle. Her eyes didn't close. Instead, she seemed to be examining me and my similar situation. After several minutes, her hand emerged and she beckoned to me. I moved across the aisle and squatted next to her. "No sleeping bag?" she asked.
"I shook my head. "Mine is larger than I need," she said. "We could share."
"Really?" I asked. "It would be fun," she offered.
I pondered her meaning of fun and the torturous fourteen hour train ride ahead of me and accepted her offer. I moved my backpack across the aisle and put it next to hers as she unzipped her sleeping bag. I removed my shoes and started to enter the sleeping bag. "Whoa," she said. "I'd rather you not foul my sleeping bag with the soil and other things on your clothing."
I understood her meaning and recalled in detail how she was occupying the sleeping bag. I bit the bullet and slowly removed my clothing, carefully folding it and placing it next to hers next to the backpacks. Wearing just my boxers, I, once again, moved to enter the sleeping bag. Her scowling expression was clear. I wasn't done removing my clothing. I slid off my boxers, slid into the sleeping bag and quickly slid into my bag mate.
That last statement brought some "ohs," some "ahs," some gasps, some cheers and significant laughter from the attentive audience until the voice of a middle aged woman in the back of the room shouted, "THAT WAS YOU?"
A mass confusion and a mild pandemonium ensued accompanied by increased laughter. During the uproar, Boots slid off the stool, returned Buck's guitar with thanks and headed for the back of the room or the great outdoors. I searched for the middle aged woman who was asking the question without success. My reaction was that there was more to the story and I wanted to speak to both Boots and the woman but I lost both opportunities in the confusion.
On the way home, I regretted not having the opportunity to speak to either Boots or the woman. I knew there was more to the story and I wanted to hear it. In the void, I imagined how the story might evolve. I made up the rest of the story and wrote it down. Here is what I imagined.
"Why in hell did I shout that out?" I thought as I exited out the rear door of the pub and fast walked through the rain toward my car. I was sitting in my car attempting to understand my outburst and get my breath when someone knocked on my window. I looked up and out the window. I lost my breath again when I realized who was knocking on my window. He made motions indicating that he wanted me to open the window.
I opened the window hesitantly. It was embarrassing to just look at him and he wanted to talk. Boots looked through the open window and asked, "Janice?"
"John?" I asked.
"I was John back then," he said. "Now I go with Boots."
"You weren't a famous country singer back then either," I said.
"True," Boots agreed. "Can I come around and get in the car with you?" he asked. "It's rather wet out here."
"I don't have a sleeping bag," I quipped.
"I don't need a sleeping bag. A towel would be better," Boots responded.
I laughed. "I don't have a towel either," I said as I unlocked the doors and waved him around to get in the car.
Boots got into the car next to me. He took off his hat and shook off the water outside before he closed the door and put his hat in his lap. His hair was a mess but dry. Otherwise, he didn't look too bad considering that he had been standing in the rain for several minutes. He took a long look at me. "It really is you, isn't it?" he said.
"And it's really you," I responded.
"It's been twenty years," he calculated.
"Twenty-four," I corrected his math.
"You haven't changed at all," Boots complemented me.
I laughed. "Right," I said. "I'm twenty-four years older, I've put on weight and my hair is shorter with streaks of gray. Other than that, I'm the same person as I was in Italy."
"I suspect there's more to your story than that," opined Boots.
"After Paris, I went back to school, got married and had two beautiful boys. Now eighteen and nineteen years old and in school themselves," I added.
"You're married?" asked Boots.
"Not anymore," I admitted. "He traded me for a younger model."
"He's a fool," Boots commented. "So single, then?"
"Almost nine months now," I conceded.
"No suitors?" Boots asked.
"I haven't encouraged anyone," I revealed. "I'm still adapting to my new normal. Enough questions. What's your story?"
