Page 71 of Poetry By Dead Men
“Wait. Would you really consider… Would you let me do that? Put your words to music?” he asks, but I don’t have an answer.
Not for the question he’s asking, or the ones I’m asking myself. So I just give him a sad smile and walk away.
NOW
September 2024: Birmingham, Alabama
I won’t say the cause is lost
Though lost souls seem to get your blessing
Can you answer just this prayer
If I help Heaven’s angels sing?
—An excerpt from "St. Jude," written and performed by Robert Beckett
I'm standing to the side of the meet and greet while Bobby signs hats and t-shirts and takes pictures with smiling fans. It's going to be a great addition to my story, a human element, because every type of person is here. Old, young, preppy, hipster, black, white, brown, tattooed and ink-free. The people making up the line wrapping nearly to the entrance of the building are as different as grains of sand, and I take advantage of their time waiting to snag some interviews.
There's an older man, probably seventy, who brought his teenage granddaughter. He tells a sweet story about them bonding over Bobby’s music, and that tonight will be their third show together. They try to make it an annual tradition to find a show within driving distance and make a whole day out of it.
I find a couple in their mid-twenties, just a little younger than I am. When the girlfriend sneaks away to the restroom, the guy pulls out a ring and tells me how he plans to propose during “Someone Who LovesYou" tonight, and asks if I can pass it along to Bobby to help make the moment extra special.
My chest aches at his request, my heart throbbing, but I smile and tell him I’d be happy to.
The line has maybe fifteen people left when Bobby waves me over.
"Beth. I want you to meet Mrs. Mendez. She was my high school music teacher, and a big reason why I get to be up on stage every night." Bobby says, pulling me close to him as a tiny woman with curly, graying hair and glasses shakes my hand.
"Beth," she says, her eyebrows raising. "Am I right to assume—"
"That’s the one." Bobby doesn't let her finish her question, clearing his throat as if uncomfortable. "I thought she might make a good interview for the article?” Bobby turns his attention to me, his blue eyes questioning. "That is, if you have time, Mrs. Mendez."
"Anything for you, Bobby. And it’s Patsy. Stop calling me Mrs. Mendez.” She turns to me. “I'm afraid I'm late for my grandson's basketball game. Could we do a phone interview?"
"Absolutely," I say. "Why don’t we step to the side, and I’ll get you my contact information. Then you can call me when it’s convenient for you."
"Thank you," I mouth to Bobby, but he doesn’t notice, his eyes brightening as he looks at the next person in line.
"Aaron, buddy! I didn’t know you were coming today!" Bobby says, picking up a little boy who appears to be around the age of six.
Bobby takes the boy's hat off and flips it around so it’s backward, matching the way Bobby prefers to wear his. My heart squeezes as a wave of déjà vu passes over me.
There’s no hair on Aaron's head, nor where his eyebrows or eyelashes should be. He reminds me of Michael so much that I feel like there’s a shard of glass in my chest, ripping into my lungs with every breath. It’s physically painful, but I can’t pull my eyes away.
Bobby spins in a circle, then turns to Aaron's mom. “You guys should’ve told someone you were here. I wouldn’t have made you wait in line."
"Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve had fun waiting, haven't we, Aaron?"
"We played what's that song!" Aaron says.
Bobby taps his chin with a finger. "How do you play?" he asks.
"You start humming and see how long it takes the other person to figure out what song it is," Aaron tells him, his face flushed with excitement.
"I hope you threw a few of my songs in there." Bobby pinches Aaron's side, tickling him.
"Only almost all of them," his mom says.
