Well, at least it sounds nicer more comforting that way.
The funny thing was, when I got to the Tiger Bar this Friday, it was like deja-vu all over again – to borrow from Yogi Berra. It was pretty empty inside and the stage was dark and barren. I’d thought 8:00 was early for a band to start – but then you never know.
But I was positive it was 8:00, June 24; the follow-up email I’d received had confirmed it.
It was the same girl behind the bar. It felt a little strange to say to her, “Hi. I’m looking for Kevin and Jason.”
And to hear her say again, “Who?”
Oh, I thought, not again!
“They’re playing tonight – their email said 8:00.”
She looked at me a moment, and a somewhat amused expression passed over her face. “I remember you,” she said. “You came in last week for the same thing. You were so embarrassed!”
Funny thing, I wasn’t. At least not to the extent she thought. I was more frustrated at the effort I’d put into getting down there I smiled. “Well,” I said, “this time I know I’m right.”
It was then I noticed a guy standing next to me, looking at the two of us quizzically. “Are you here for The Strain, too?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said.
“So I’m right,” I laughed. “It is tonight!”
“So said the email I got,” he said. “Kevin’s a good friend of mine.”
“Well,” the girl said. “They never tell us anything. Most of the time people just show up to play and the owner always forgets to tell us. There were two guys here earlier asking about coming in to set up for the night, but I haven’t seen them since.”
To wait for the three guys out of four who were going to show up, Mike – the guy at the bar – and I grabbed a booth and chatted until things started warming up. Nice guy, and it was really good to not have to sit there by myself waiting for people to show up. Kevin finally showed up around 9:30, and it turned out even he didn’t know when they were playing.
“8:00 just sounded good,” he said. “Like about the time they’d be opening up.”
Ah, the minds of musicians; timing may be everything, but I have a feeling that in their world “scheduled performance” has a very loose meaning. It was hard not to be amused. It’s all good; I had time to meet some new people and do something outside of my normal life.
Plus I finally got to actually meet Kevin and Jason; I realize I’ve called them “friends” – and they are. I met Jason online through my MySpace page when he asked to be added to my friends list – well, his band The Strain, anyway. Really nice guys, and I love acoustic performances; it’s not something they normally do, but I enjoy them because you can hear the music better, in a way; it’s a very raw, organic way to hear how it all fits together. Everything seems cleaner and more undressed, if you will; it’s not that you can’t actually hear the individual guitar rhythms or bass runs when run through amps, but it just seems more...individualized, if you will. They kept saying afterwards it was a little strange for them to hear themselves like that. I get the feeling it’s the musician’s version of my looking at a photo of myself and thinking, “I really look like that?!”
That said, I’m looking forward to hearing them for “real”; they’re opening for someone next Friday at a CD release party downtown, so I think I’ll have to go. Actually, I got the odd feeling, in an amusing way, that I was expected to be there; “When you come next Friday....” was one thing I heard, along with, “You’re coming, right? Good!” before I could really say anything.
But that was a late night for me for a Friday. Staying out late on a Saturday is fine, but usually there’s a reason it’s called “Friday” (at least for me) – I’m fried. But I had a lot of fun. I had a few more beers than I usually do, and I had to give Kevin the last half of my Heineken so that I could drive home. Plus I’d forgotten I don’t like lagers, which that beer is. I guess I’ve become a beer “aficionado” by proxy through Andrew, and beer just isn’t beer to me any more as it once was. I used to be able to drink anything and be fine with it. Some were just better than others, but still tolerable. But after getting used to McMenamin’s beers and other local microbreweries far bought at the store, I can really tell the difference.
They were ready to keep going by the time I was leaving at 12:30. What surprised me, though, was their surprise – and seeming disappointment – that I was leaving. “It’s been a long week,” I said. “I’d love to stay out longer, but if I do, I’d end up doing a face plant in my beer. Not particularly a pretty sight I’d like to leave you with. You only get one chance to make a good first impression – and that wasn’t exactly the one I had in mind.”
They both laughed.
“But we’ll see you next Friday, right?” they both asked.
“Yes,” I said. It seemed to satisfy them; I had the feeling if I’d said something like, “We’ll see,” I wouldn’t have gotten out of their care until I did.
I woke up late on Saturday, tired and feeling somewhat dried out (not hungover, I didn’t have enough to even really get me buzzed, considering I’d driven), and vowed not to do anything that day. I didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything, and planned to just flop on the couch and surf through Saturday cable television.
Then, about 4:00 that afternoon, my phone rang. What was odd was the person didn’t seem to hear me answer; I heard a male voice say, “She’s not answering her phone. Not sure what to do. No message machine, either.” And they hung up.
I looked at the caller ID and felt even stranger as I saw that it said, “Self, Heather” and had my cell phone number listed.
My heart sank.
I checked my purse and, sure enough, my phone was gone. I don’t use it very often, and so its absence would have taken me quite some time to notice. I tried calling it back, but nobody answered. I knew then it had to be the Tiger Bar calling (my purse had tipped over under the table, but it hadn’t occurred to me to check for anything that had fallen out). I went to my computer to look up their number and phone them, but found, to my dismay, that their number was out of service. Just then, an instant message screen from Jane popped up. “Dude,” she said, “how much did you have to drink last night?! The Tiger Bar just called me to tell me you left your phone there.”
Luckily they’d left their new number.
I called them immediately, and the guy said he’d be there until five, and that they opened at six. Since it was 4:15, I knew I could get there before he left. It’s only a 15 minute drive using the freeway, and I got there a little past 4:30. But nobody answered my knocking or my calling through the mail slot. The payphone across the street wasn’t working, and so I walked up a block or two to a Dollar Car Rental office. The manager was nice enough to let me use her phone to try to call them, but I couldn’t quite remember the first three numbers.
I tried calling Jane, using my credit card, to see if she still had the number, but, even though I tried three times using AT&T’s directions for plugging in a credit card number, the voice kept saying, “I’m sorry, but that’s not a proper calling card number.” In desperation, I resorted to a collect call; no luck. Jane’s answering machine picked up, and I knew leaving a message wasn’t worth it.
So I went back and started pounding as hard as I could on the door. “Hello!” I called through the slot, for the fourth or fifth time. I was extremely exasperated by then. “I’m here to get my phone! You said you’d be here until five, and I’ve been here since 4:30!”
Finally a man opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling irked by the question, given I’d just shouted the answer. “Someone called me to tell me my phone was here. They said they’d be here until five.”
“Dunno,” he said. “I just got here and nobody was here.”
It wasn’t pleasant news to learn I’d pretty much gone down there for nothing and could have just waited until six as I’d nearly had to, sitting in my car.
He gave me my phone, and told him I very much appreciated whoever it had been that had called.
Hand and forearm aching deeply from the pounding, I took a surface street home; it begins right where I was and eventually turns into another street. It’s a favorite route of cyclists, both for its view and its long, tough hill. It’s a beautiful drive, especially going into Portland; the skyline of the city creates a spectacular view, especially when Mt. Hood sits cradled behind the buildings. It was a warm and sunny-perfect day, just the right kind for a drive like that. I purposely took it, hoping it would brush down my frazzled nerves. It did, but only somewhat. It was tempting to stop and go for a walk on one of the many trails that loop through there (the street slices through Forest Park, the nations largest natural park; it has several thousand miles of trails, some for hikers only, others for mountain bikers only, some for both – and so you have to be careful). But I was too pooped by then.
My hand, wrist and my entire arm – including my shoulder – still ache from the pounding.
I awoke today still feeling kind of tired, but, if you ask me, it’s more from how hard it’s been at work. I opted out of going to the gym today as well; given that 3-5 times a week is plenty for me, I knew one more missed day wasn’t going to harm me. Besides, it was partly giving into that sense if “MUST...GO!”, even when I didn’t feel like going at all, that started that spiral down into my long burn-out. I’m starting to know the difference between sheer, “I don’t wanna!” laziness and my body just not having the pull and stamina to do it. It was definitely the latter both yesterday and today. But I’m starting to feel a little stiff and like my energy’s a bit backed up, so I know I need to go tomorrow.
Speaking of that sensation, I’ve had the oddest one that something very important is brewing, like I’ve just bent down a new fork in the river I’m floating down for my life. One that only just recently appeared on the map, but was meant for me to take. It’s also connected to the things I’ve mentioned in my other blogs – the first one, for one thing, and the one where I had things I’d been sensing confirmed by someone else. But I can’t put a description on it like could about some movie I’d just seen or some chocolate chip cookie I’d just eaten. I can sense its plot and texture, but true description – at least in a way that would make sense to my readers – eludes me. I just have to wait and see how it unfolds.
The funny thing is, I get the feeling I need to be doing something more to help create it...while at the same time I am. It’s a strange and, at times, very confusing feeling. I know, however, that I can’t create the answers I feel I need. I just have to let the river flow and let myself flow with it, while still being mindful of possible stops and viewpoints along the way that are part of it all. It’s just that it’s such a strong feeling at times, it gets frustrating. But I know my frustration is self-generated, and I’m trying to create the destination – or land at the destination – before I have the journey. Kind of like wanting to be in New York before I actually board the plane.
So I guess for now all I can do is keep paddling and keep my eyes peeled for the metaphysical equivalents of the old Burma Shave signs or directions to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, given that sometimes the most nonsensical, out of the way stops, are sometimes the most important ones we can make.
Even if it means backtracking to pick up your lost cell phone.
