I sat at the same old wooden table watching the Johnson Creek go by.
Of a sudden everything was green as if it had grown overnight.
The bushes were not thorny anymore.
They had put on nice and soft leafy jackets.
I had a can of Fearless I. P. A. (Steve would say I. P. eh, sounding like a Canadian, and then the whole thing would become a pun intended as in giving a hand to a man with no hands) taking the edge off of the night before.
I was biting the hair of the dog that bit me.
We played a few songs at the West Linn Saloon, and had a few drinks too many.
But we were not the only ones. It was a Friday night, and the saloon was packed with
people having fun associated with alcohol.
I ended up dancing with that tall blonde that looked too good to be true.
Somehow she stumbled upon Steve’s guitar case on the floor and dropped dead gorgeous
flat on her ass, at the same time hitting the table with the back of her head.
Her long legs winding half way up in the air.
I just stood there thinking it must have been a joke, but it wasn’t.
With a couple of other men that gave me suspicious looks, I helped her up.
Embarrassed she excused herself and was on the way to the restroom, swaying.
I could feel all those stares confused on how to tag me.
We sounded good, but then a bombshell fell on her ass sitting there a few seconds in
disbelief. It just didn’t feel right. Thank God I didn’t make her fall.
The patrons sitting a few tables down didn’t see that.
All they knew was she danced with me.
And what kind of a cowboy was I sporting a Panama hat anyway?
Plus I sang that Russian gypsy song that they all jumped to like rhythmic yo-yos, and like
my life, the whole thing was out of place.
Literally misplaced since I was born.
Even in my hometown I felt like an expatriate.
There I wore a made in USA t-shirt, and here I got people up on their feet with some
Russian gypsy songs. And some blues too.
And then the best blonde in town falls on her ass dancing with me.
All that is irrelevant, whilst nursing a hangover by the Johnson Creek, sipping on
Fearless local I. P. A. and hearing Steve’s I. P. eh in my head.
And then continuing with U. P. eh and We P. eh…
Then I heard: What’s in it for me?
Nobody said anything, but I could hear it clearly in the J. Creek’s murmuring.
The subconsciousness of the world was talking.
What’s in it for me?
And the consciousness answered: In it to win it.
I couldn’t help twisting it with a little g.
To win it, you’re to wing it.
It felt weird again.
As if Siddharta was hangover by a creek, hearing voices.
And then it hit me. All that green. Nice and soft.
Just a few days ago, I sat there surrounded by different shades of gray.
The thorny bushes reached out for my eyes, as if wanting to scratch them out.
The sky was painted off-white and the trees looked petrified and bald.
It made me think of bald headed men pulling each other’s hair.
Something that made us laugh in those times forever gone.
What was in it for me? Did I ever win, or was I just winging it?
And then it hit me again. And again. With every blink. Until I realized.
Another wet and dreary winter was gone.
It was all that green, nice and soft, that mattered.
And anew, I sat in it.