Gary Smallwell - June 2015 Mini-Sledgehammer

The following is a short story that I wrote in 36 minutes at the Mini-Sledgehammer writing contest that takes place monthly at a wine bar in NE Portland. Participants take turns reading their stories aloud and two volunteer judges, John and Daniel, come to a decision about who will take the coveted bottle of wine and free book (to be chosen from the plastic bin) home with them. The winner's story is also published on Indigo Publishing's website. Mine did not win (or wine) this month, so I must self-publish on this blog. The following prompts needed to be included, to be a contestant for the prize.

Character: Drummer
Action: Tipping a waiter
Setting: Cemetary
Prop: Cellar Door

Gary Smallwell 

Gary tipped the waiter in his usual way, casually, almost sly, though of course he wanted the pretty young ladies to see his generosity. It was all so natural. By today's standards, Gary Smallwell would be considered overweight, but in his day, over a half century ago now, all the most powerful men in Danesbury sported an expansive torso. Eaiting steak was one of the ways he displayed his wealth. In truth, his nightly tips to the staff at the Nightglow were only marginally above those of the average customer. He flashed a large grin with wide eyes to the drummer of the jazz quartet in the corner of the room. The seasoned musician had seen many men of his type, and gave the respectful smile given to those whose relative status is assumed higher. It was easy and required only smiling in his general direction and gently rocking his head forward and back as he continued to punctuate the passage of time in that cavernous lounge. Mr. Smallwell passed through the swinging black door, shiny with black paint but revealing the battered wood beneath in the irregularity of its shine. He stepped into the foyer, feeling the lower temperature of this room as he stepped over the weathered red mat and into the night beyond another door, this one made of metal and heavier than the first.

41st Avenue was poorly lit and the Nightglow's entrance marked a safe haven where one could rest a few minutes, though its safety ended upon its patrons' exits. Gary crossed the street, still damp with rain that had since halted, and walked toward the light that emanated from the intersection a quarter mile north. The street was now on his right and a chain-link fence ran along the left of the sidewalk. Dim lights lit the cemetery on the other side of the fence. Robust elm trees sprung from the ground and created a canopy over many of the lawns, reflecting light back down from the plots whose graves were lit. Gary often lost track of time during this portion of his nightly walk. The scattered light was enough to ease his fear and cars rarely passed. Occasionally the sound of a car could be heard in the distance but the spaciousness of the night air was louder. For some time he had no thoughts. He was pleasantly tired after several glasses of his favorite wine, a french white. His ears reverberated with the sounds of the lounge, perhaps louder than the first time, now that he had the silence to compare it to. Some time later he realized he was on the street in which he lived, and had been for several hundred yards. He hadn't forgot where he was, but hadn't been thinking any thoughts either to remind him. He saw the stairs leading to his cellar door amid the leopard print of shadows that fell upon the houses and lawns.

You'll always be my friend

Back to the blog. I have a sore throat so I can't call anybody to ramble about whatever I might ramble about. Last time I wrote here I was on one my iconic California road trips. What's to write about day to day life?

So I want to share a story that happened to me recently. Synchronicity, as Jung called it, is when the events of your life take on a symbolic quality, specifically two or more events that relate to each other somehow. It is tied to man's need for "meaning" in his life.

I went to a show two or three nights ago, at a very nice local venue. It has a log cabin theme, but is very upscale, and chic, with amber LED lights providing atmosphere. Larry Yes was opening for Sonny and the Sunsets. I met Larry on a camping trip a while back and his songs are great. He bends the vowel sounds with his voice is a distinct way that gives him a signature style. My friend Landon and I had dinner at the bar beforehand, and Eric joined us for just the music.

It was a great performance, in a great room. Small cymbals hung from the microphone stands of the two musicians. Larry played guitar and baritone ukulele with effects. His comrade Nate played a six string bass, a Squire I think. It's a pretty unique vintage guitar/bass and not a ton of them were made. Nate sings harmony on many of Larry's songs and sometimes their vocal duets are offset, like a call and response. Their performance borrowed from Flamenco and Indian Raga styles at times, and Larry's banter with the crowd was fun.

After their set, we went upstairs to smoke and stood near the firepit on the patio. We went back downstairs and the second act was playing, though I didn't realize it at first when I walked into the room. It sounded like a song being played over the PA, not a live person, if that makes sense. She didn't have any backing band, but played distorted guitar with drum beats and tracks behind her. I made some snide remarks and when she finished I went upstairs again to bid the two guys goodnight, and I returned back to the venue to get at least a sample of the headliner.

Coming down the stairs between the bar and the venue, I saw somebody look at me like they knew me. I was puzzled for a second, and then recognized him. I first met him when I was twenty years old, and a college student. He had a demo tape on the internet and was looking for a drummer to form a band. I loved his music and we played in that band together for maybe a year. They were fun times. We were only just becoming drinking age, and playing the part of the rock star was alluring.

At the end of our golden summer, our bass player moved to college, I kicked out the guitar player for being a weirdo cokey, and then James kicked me out for not wanting his GF to be our new bassist.

After that, we remained friends and his band played at my 23rd birthday party. He lived with me for a month or so after my dad died in 2008, while he was seperating from his wife. He gave me his oil paints when he moved out, as I'd been painting that month.

In 2010, he invited me to be a roommate in his house. I was living with my mom at the time, doing very little with my life, sort of studying spirituality and self-knowledge. The invitation came at a good time and I decided to accept it during a mushroom trip in my mom's backyard.

I lived there with him in NE Portland near MLK Boulevard for a little less than two years. It was a pretty good time in my life, having new experiences, becoming more independent, though lacking clear purpose in myself. I waited tables and went to yoga classes. I walked to Alberta Street and I sat in the parks. I finally moved out because I was running a monetary deficit and I had some strange notion that maybe I was meant to be a station-wagon gypsy.

I didn't get my security deposit when I moved out because the new roommate didn't have the money. So I was supposed to wait for it. Anyway, no surprise, the money never came. By the time I got around to making a fuss about it, the new roommate had caught a chair on fire in his room, and since moved out. So I definitely was not going to get any money. What upset me was not just the money, but that James wouldn't admit any responsibility for the situation, even though the new roommate was his friend, and not mine.

So I didn't talk to James for a long time, over two years. While I knew he was like my brother, I felt I had been disrespected. Neither of us reached out. At one point, somewhat recently, I had a dream where James was there and told me I was a beautiful person. The feeling of the dream was powerful enough to nullify whatever bad blood was there. Still I had not had any contact with him.

Once I recognized him coming up the stairs, as I was going down, he said to me: "I'm sorry I've been an asshole. You'll always be my friend." "I'm not easy to be friends with" he added.

"Neither am I. That's just the way it goes sometimes."

"Yeah I guess so" he said.

We hugged awkwardly on the stairs and said we'd have a beer sometime.