It’s warm in the evenings this week. So hot it makes my neighbors talk about the weather while I walk my dog in the morning. “It’s gonna be 90,” said the man who collects recycling as he bikes dumpster to dumpster.
I opened all the windows yesterday in our apartment and considered purchasing a fan for the summer. It’s only April. Last night, I had the TV on low waiting for John to arrive so we could watch the Clippers game at a nearby bar. The apartment was dark because any light seemed to generate heat. And then I heard it. What I thought initially was someone’s radio was the sound of someone playing guitar. Across the street, separated by a small parking lot was a man on a bench playing guitar. In the fluorescent light of the laundromat he sat in front of, he played music on his electric guitar that carried across the neighborhood through the small amplifier in the seat beside him.
It reminded me of New Orleans. The live music at almost any time of day and night throughout the French Quarter. It was my favorite part of my favorite city I’ve visited so far. John and I would be walking back late to our hotel room on Royal or Frenchmen Street and someone would be singing or playing music. The night sticky and humid but neither one of us too in a hurry to get back to air-conditioned rooms. There’s no music in those rooms.
I turned the TV off in the apartment and found myself standing on our balcony listening to this impromptu concert. Funny, since a serenade is music played in the air, often by a man to his lover beneath a window. By then the evening had cooled a bit and faint traces of cigarette smoke lingered in the air courtesy of the chain smoker in the parking lot. The guitar player would take breaks every now and then–short–but those moments of silence pierced the night air with loneliness. It was as if last night, a misplaced summer evening, required music. The heat would diminish, but each pluck and strung of the man’s guitar felt like a coda to a day that just wasn’t quite ready to end. I stood leaning over the railway completely engrossed in the music. I always find it comforting that strangers can have such an effect on people. Street musicians and their gifts of harmonic distraction in an otherwise dull day of sounds.
Later, we would find ourselves in the parking lot on the way to the game reconsidering leaving at all. As we drove past the man, I told John to roll down his window. Just a little bit more I insisted, not wanting it to end.
I’m in the living room now, windows wide open, waiting for a man who isn’t my lover.
joyce familara 