As You Are

I'm sitting in a chair at a table among tables, sipping a too-strong vodka and cranberry. It's bringing a grimace to my face each time I take a sip, but I'm not going to waste the alcohol and take a chance with something that will be equally ill-prepared.

A friend sits to my left, taking log drags off a Camel Light as she tries to nurse her own equally toxic vodka cocktail. An acquaintance joined a table behind me a few songs ago, and I've made a mental note to say hello at the next pause in the show.

The rest of the assembly appears divided between those who adore you and others who have never before heard your name. One of the latter came to realize I'm not there for the drinks, as well as the fact that I'm not keen on tuning out the music long enough to hear him discuss the failure of his third, latest and, he says, final marriage.

The former group has also cast glances at my table since we arrived. I'm a stranger among them, not a regular and not recognizable, yet I know the words. I note that they wonder what I say when I lean across the table to talk to my friend, laughing over some perceived private joke as I cast my eyes quickly at the stage. The looks sent our way are laced with curiosity and suspicion; I am rather enjoying the intrigue.

You stand in your place beneath the spotlight, seemingly oblivious to this display of stares, sloshing drinks and cigarette smoke. You have retreated to some place in the recesses of your mind, eyes closed as you strum out serenades to mystery women you've loved and lost. Despite the inherent melancholy in each song, you remain hopeful, with bits of melody that hint at optimism and your endearingly cynicism-tinged earnestness.

We've all been at the places you travel to in the music. You get it. You know. You care. You've been scarred, you know you're flawed, but you're ready to work on them. But you're appropriately frightened at the prospect.

Armed with a microphone and a songbook of revised and polished reflections on life, you and your contemporaries deliver the words we all hope and dream to hear men say. You tell us that you cried when you turned your backs to us and walked away, you explain that you thought things would work out better, too. You confide that your personal demons were responsible for your decision to not call, and you tell us that you love more than you let us know.

We sit at these tables, waiting to hear the particular lines that sums up how we feel about the promise of love. We mouth along bitter cries and laugh when you let down the wall just enough to show that you also possess the sense of humor that only adds to your appeal.

I know you - all of you - worry that people will forget that you're human.

But as you stand before this crowd, of which I happen to be a member on this particular night, I sip my drink, scowl at the straw and realize that I worry that you forget.

Get real.

I like to think you know I'm aware of your human condition. I know only a fraction of your weaknesses, and I, whether fair of me or not, can't help but demand that you work on them as much as anyone else does. You're supposed to learn from the mistakes, not harvest them.

You're a guy. Who happens to perform. I don't believe that everything should be relegated to material for the next broken song.

I take another sip and draw up air and water. I'm out of cocktail. You're not finished with your set.

The waitress comes over to see if I want another. Why not?

It'll be too strong. But, then again, sometimes I think that so am I.