Lunch Break.

Lunch is only an hour, but the guitar shop is only four blocks from the office. I was holding a $700 Takamine, $600 more than mine. I was hiding in the back room, my arms wrapped around it like a child guarding a favorite toy. I’m decent at best, certainly not a pro, but I relax my fingers by plucking strings in between stroking a keyboard.

A tall, older black man strolled in a parka and some khakis. I was looking forward to being alone, if only to avoid accosting people with my mediocrity, but he had no intentions of leaving. But his eyes were kind and he wasted no time in listening with a polite smile while I tripped through Damien Rice. He grabbed an Ovation off the wall and played a little lead, crouching down on a bass cabinet.

"That’s some good soul you’re playin’," he said. "Otis Reddin’."
"Nah, actually it’s a singer/songwriter. But thank you. You gave it a nice lead-in."
"Aw, I’m a bass man myself, I play bass. But I’m on a break from work."
"Yeah, I hear that. Where do you work?"
"I race motorcycles."
I laughed, thinking it a joke. He didn’t laugh with me. He was for real. I quieted down.

He rubbed his jaw as he elaborated, which was coated in a thin layer of white whiskers, as though his chin had been dipped in milk. "I like the speed. Keeps me young. That and the music."
"How long have you been playing?"
"About 35 years now. I’m sponsored by a couple comp’nies."
I was confused. "For bike racing?"
"Naw! For bass! I’m a union bassist. I played with Earth, Wind and Fire, Sly and the Family Stone."

I was dealing with a pro. I drank in the sound as he breezed through a few more licks on the acoustic, watching his smile flicker and tighten as he played faster and faster. I clumsily tried to follow, playing little rhythm chords as he worked the neck of his Ovation. When his fingers slowed, I went in for the kill. "What’s your favorite show you’ve ever played, your favorite memory?"

He looked past me, at a spot on the wall, suddenly wistful. His smile relaxed and deepened; his voice seemed to come from a far away, as though the words started from the core of him and softened on the long journey out. As he spoke, I could see the memory movie flashing before his eyes, the colors and movement. "Aw, man.... that would have to be... 1974. Before I started playin’ for Sly. Sly and the Family Stone didn’t show up for a gig, so our band got to open for" – he emphasized each word with an excited, high-pitched staccato – "Gladys! Knight! And the Pips!" He leaned back and rubbed his whiskered chin again, with wide eyes, as though he still couldn’t believe it, thirty years later. "And it was the truth! The crowd was so big.... and the sound was just.... aw, man! That was the best show.... with Gladys. Knight. Aw... man!"

He came out of the trance, looking back at me. I was watching his face like a first-grader at story time, and his cocoa skin grew a reddish tint. "That was my favorite show."
I blushed too, knowing I was witness to something very special. Very small, passing, even, but very special. The kind of exchange you’d miss if you blinked.

I had to get back to work. I struggled to let go of the guitar, and the sweet vibe that had filled the room. "Thank you. For the lead-in," I said, but we both knew I was thanking him for much more. "It was nice talking to you."
"Aw, sure, sugar! Maybe I’ll see you in here again!"
"I hope so."

I never got his name, but I almost didn’t need it, certainly not to remember him by.