I was sitting out front late Saturday night, sipping an iced mocha and listening to the wind and the distant traffic, when Dad’s former drummer pulled up in a ’59 Corvette with a very young, very blonde California prospector riding shotgun.
He walked up to me to ask if I had any rooms left, did a double-take, and then blanched as if he’d just seen a ghost.
I laughed. “Good to see you, Steve,” I said, setting down my drink.
I wish you could have seen the look on his pretty young companion’s face when her latest claim scooped me up in a massive bear hug, and spun me around until we were both dizzy. (Evidently the fact that my boyfriend was sitting right next to us escaped her, because she didn’t relax until she figured out that I was old enough to be her mother. It must really suck to be that insecure. But I digress….)
Steve was just passing through on his way back from a trip to Chicago, but we sat up until 3 a.m., catching up on where we’d been since we lost touch after Dad fired him in the middle of a tour 18 years ago (a circumstance for which I am partly, if not entirely, responsible, although it’s probably best if I don’t go into the details).
Paul Simon would have been proud: Steve and I “talked about some old times, and we drank ourselves some beers,” and I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt that we are, in fact, “still crazy after all these years.”
I love this place. I truly have no idea who is going to show up at any given minute….