When much of the day stacks up with things that ask to be complained about, the following can happen:
“This your conveyance?” asks a man leaving the Nevada City venue.
I have to think on the word a minute, but since I’m actually leaning on our rental car when he asks me, I put it together that he’s talking about what I’m leaning on. It’s long after the last note has died. Charlie and I are outside at the loading dock waiting on Stephen and Nathalie. We’ve been waiting what seems a long time.
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
“Stay right here. Don’t leave yet. I’ve got something for ya,” he says.
He sprints up the rather steep hill that is the driveway to the venue and leaves me for a while to notice, among other things, that the stars are brighter than I thought they’d be in this part of the country. He returns, striding towards the car carrying a rag and shaking what I think is a can of spray paint. Then he’s spraying the windshield, a dense white cream covering the whole thing.
It takes me a second to realize: he’s cleaning the glass.
Spray, wipe, spray, wipe, throwing in the occasional exclamation in praise of microfibre cloths, along with a comment about how dirty the glass is.
Initially, I am…the word “aghast” comes to mind…but then I think— well, they do need cleaning in a bad way, the car came in crap condition from the rental company— and I relax into letting him do his thing. Still, something like embarrassment is dogging me (again) but I’m not sure if it’s my own embarrassment for driving a shitty car and I’m letting him do what I should have done, or for him doing what he’s doing.
He goes vigorously at all the windows and the mirrors, suffers my repeated thank you’s, thanks me for the Night, and wishes us safe travels. Then he’s gone.
I don’t know what I expected when I got in the car after he left, but it was probably something like disappointment. I thought there’d be streaks, missed bits, and the evidence of good intentions, even though I just witnessed how hard he’d worked the rag.
The windows were near crystal clear. I could make out all the constellations as we drove the half-hour back to the motel.
His name was Evan, and on a day that was woefully short of goodwill in that town (the venue people…don’t get me started), Evan’s very humble kindness went a long way toward us recognizing/remembering the calibre of people that come see something called A Night of Grief and Mystery. Of course, no one expects that every one in attendance need do this kind of thing, but the actions of the one elevate the many. Or they can, anyway.
And we remember who we are playing for when we climb behind the mics.
gh
September 22, Auburn, California.
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Gregory Hoskins 