Freshly Doug

People think of Kansas City as a big city, but if you're a street musician, there are really only a few good places in it, and, when I was playing in one, and heard that Freshly Doug, best guitar blues-player I knew, was playing in another, I went to find him immediately. It was mostly because of the music; I'm a fiddler; it's hard and boring to play alone, but I get one good blues player like Freshly Doug, and I can do better, even after I split with him and whoever else is around, than I would in double the time alone. He was one hot blues picker, and it was always fun when we played together- tips went flying into his guitar case, or wherever, and time flew right by. But the other reason was, he owed me a steak dinner, and this came from a wild night we spent together in Key West maybe about a year ago, when we made a bet and parted with that agreement. Kansas City, I thought, good place to collect on a steak dinner. And I set about to do it.

Sure enough, I found him down near the Plaza, not a great place to play, but good enough, and he had a harmonica player with him, and a small crowd around. The harmonica player was a guy, had light, curly hair, kind of feminine-looking, but played a mean harmonica, and was dressed in a print shirt, very classy, light cotton, from someplace abroad. The guy was interesting, and I watched him for a while, then they split the tips roughly so I could join them, which I did. We played a while, the three of us, and this guy, Maxwell, as Freshly called him, was pretty good about letting me have a run once in a while; we had to go back and forth taking the lead. But it worked out pretty well, and after a while, it was late evening, maybe eight o'clock or so, and we split the money, which as I said was considerable for that particular town and situation, and I reminded Freshly of the dinner. Of course, he said, we should go get that now.

Now there was a woman, or at least I was pretty sure she was a woman, who came out from the crowd at about that time, and appeared to be connected to Maxwell, maybe his partner or lover. She had been there, in the crowd, for a while, but quiet; she had short hair and a brooding face, quite inward and dark, not so much in color as in general composure. And when she spoke, she was impatient, and somewhat controlling toward Maxwell. I was sure they were lovers, or else how could she get away with this? But what did I know; I'd never met either of them. As for Freshly, he appeared to know them both, at least casually; he invited them along, as if maybe he owed them a steak dinner too, each. He implied that the whole thing was on him, the only problem was, he had somewhere to be at ten, so he might be leaving a little early, but he would make sure he'd pay for everyone's dinner. I had absolutely no doubt about him, as I'd known him off and on, besides that time in Key West; I'd actually met him out in California. And I'd known he had a few unusual things about him, for example, nobody knew his full name, though we called him Freshly Doug Graves, I'm sure Graves wasn't it. Freshly, we just called him. And we knew he went from place to place, and he had people in Denver, in almost every town, and he was one hot blues player. Like I said, I really looked up to the guy, I couldn't imagine him doing anyone any harm.

We started walking up the street, and came to my car first. That's the best explanation I have, for why we put Maxwell's small day-pack in there. Freshly recognized the car, from Key West days, and pointed out that since he'd be leaving early, we should put Maxwell's day-pack, and my fiddle, and my little bag, all in my car. When we got to his car he'd dress up a little as it was a pretty nice place. Why you'd dress up to eat out in the Midwest, and then dress down to play music on the street, that's another story, but that's what Freshly did. When he got to his car, which was an old van, but one I didn't recognize, he spent some time combing his hair, putting on a fresh shirt, combing his hair. The woman scowled as if he was a big bother and brought up vegetarian entrees as if this restaurant was not likely to have them. Freshly assured her that she could get what she wanted and it would be on him. Meanwhile I noticed another thing: Maxwell, sweet, easy-going and gentle, seemed to have a thing for Freshly. He adored the ground Freshly walked on. Now I don't know if he was gay- could have been, I'm sure, and like I say, I don't know much about Freshly either; it was clear that maybe Freshly had stayed with these people, and had known them for more than one afternoon. But I got a sense there, standing at that van, that there was some ménage-a-trois going on there, like maybe Maxwell had fallen for Freshly, and the woman, who they were calling Naomi, was onto them, and wasn't happy about it at all. It seemed that maybe she saw herself losing Maxwell, whatever he meant to her, and she didn't like it at all. And, as I said, she seemed to be the controlling type. She expected him to jump when she said jump. She didn't like seeing him jump to Freshly's steps.

Finally we got organized and headed over to the steak house, which was only about five blocks from Freshly's van. We sat at a nice table, me across from Freshly, Maxwell and Naomi across from each other, and Freshly recounted for us the story of that night in Key West; how we dared each other to live off the land; got some young tourists to watch, and provide the pina coladas; how Freshly took a spear and killed and cooked some goldfish from a decorative pond outside some fancy hotel in the middle of the night, and I went and grabbed some limes, and some vegetables from around, some potatoes from basket outside an old grocery store, and on we went like that until we had a huge feast with pina coladas, drank until the tourists fell asleep on the beach, and entirely drunk, watching the sunrise, we made a huge bet, which I won, because, believe it or not, I knew who was more likely to win the Super Bowl, and it wasn't the Broncos. And I'd waited for this steak dinner for a little over a year, as that would have been late January, and this now was late March of the following year, I know that because I'm on my way to Chicago, coming all the way from the mountains of southeast Oklahoma, but Chicago is a bit cold yet for another week or two, and that's why I want to stall for time, play a bit in Kansas City and see if I can't wait until it at least thaws a little out on the lake up there.

So Freshly orders a bottle of wine, but really, Maxwell and I were the heaviest drinkers, me because it's not often I run into Freshly, once in a blue moon maybe, and Maxwell, because, as I said, I think he had joy in his heart, deep inside, he was both overjoyed, and a little desperate, knowing that a guy like Freshly could be here today, gone tomorrow. And then, what would happen- he'd be stuck with this Naomi, a thin wisp, with an attitude, unpleasant, couldn't even relax and enjoy a guy like Freshly. I looked around the table, and my eyes began to fog over a little- I was drunk already, it must have been the hunger, the smell of steak in the air, the slight edge everyone brought to the table. Only Freshly, well-dressed, calm, was totally in control.

I saw, in a brief second, that Naomi, who was handling her wine glass more than she was actually drinking out of it, was also wearing long sleeves, and that, in fact, she had a scar or two on her wrist. A cutter, I thought. A shiver went up my spine, remembering people I'd known. She was brooding, kind of glaring at Maxwell occasionally. She was onto him. Right around then, when the steaks were about to arrive, three steaks and one vegetarian entrée, anyway, there was a lightning-quick incident, when Maxwell reached over and touched Freshly on the arm. I'm not sure what the meaning was, wasn't even sure he intended it; don't know how Freshly felt about it either. But I did notice that Naomi saw it, and just about choked on the spot, and I did notice that Freshly saw that. It may have been nothing to Maxwell, he was just talking, laughing, relating something that had happened when they were playing music, just a day or two ago. He, I think, was kind of drunk, like me. But I saw this look, just that second, and I didn't like it. I remember thinking, something is not right here. But the steaks arrived, and that kind of changed the atmosphere.

I dug into mine, starving, a big appetite, fiddling does that to me, and also I'd been living out of a peanut butter jar for a few days. I had about half my steak down when I noticed that Freshly had barely touched his, and had just backed off, mentally, and was watching Maxwell and Naomi, on either side of him, as they started in and began eating. Freshly was a really sensitive guy, a complete musician, and there were times when it seemed he was more interested in the sound of knife on fork, the clinking glasses, the little chiming sounds, than anything else. But when the waiter came back, he complained about his steak. It wasn't done enough, he said. The waiter offered to take it back, have the cook do it just a little more. That wouldn't be the same, Freshly said. Well, we'll make you another, said the waiter; in my mind, the waiter was being perfectly polite, he was in a tough position, of course, but he was at least offering to make amends. No, I'd like to talk to the manager, said Freshly, as if something the waiter had said, had irritated him, or led him to feel like going over this waiter's head. Now the waiter was flustered, and a little angry. But Freshly wasn't backing down. He wanted to see the manager. Immediately.

Well, pretty soon the manager was out there, and the waiter, and they were both trying to calm Freshly down, and Freshly, without raising his voice or betraying any kind of strong feeling, was just insisting that he'd been wronged, as if they'd told him one thing and brought him another, and he refused to be pacified, in any way, he wasn't going to settle for just another steak. And eventually they decided to give him the entire meal, all four people and all our steaks, and the vegetarian entrée, for free. Wine too. When that happened, he was quiet for a second; he stopped. And then, there was nothing left but for him to leave. I accept, he said, but no thanks, I don't want another steak. Maxwell, J.B., Naomi, I bid you farewell, I'll see you anon. With a slight bow, and a flourish, he walked out of the restaurant.

We were stunned. And, on top of it, I was now at the table with these two people, who I barely knew, and they started snipping at each other. Naomi insisted on paying for at least her share. Her entree was fine, she said, and she didn't need Freshly paying for it in the first place. No, said Maxwell, the dinner was on Freshly, and they gave him the dinner. On and on it went. I was done with mine though; I was ready to go. And I did; it was getting uncomfortable in there. It was only later, at a camping place outside of town, that I realized that I still had Maxwell's day-pack.
Even then, I didn't open it, though.

The police caught up with me in the morning, and went straight for the day-pack. Maxwell, they said, was dead, died of an overdose, took sedatives and alcohol, apparently, but they weren't saying much more than that. They'd seen us playing out on the corner; they wanted to know all about Freshly; but, the more they talked, the more I realized they thought I'd done it, that I was somehow involved. The day-pack, I'm sure, played a role in this; I had to admit it was in my possession. They were quite curious about the stuff in the day-pack, and asked me all kinds of questions, but here my pure ignorance worked in my favor. I knew absolutely nothing about the day-pack or what was in it. I hadn't even opened it. They held me a while, and questioned me, over and over, but I couldn't help them much. Given what I knew, and I told them almost all of it, except how Kansas City was a good place to play music; I left out some details about Freshly's van, too, as I really didn't see much point in letting them track him down. In my mind, suicide was probably the best explanation, though she could have pushed the pills on him, I could see that also. But they weren't interested in my explanation, and knew nothing of the woman, who she was, or where they could find her. They acted like I was making up the part about the woman; something led them to believe a man was involved, and at first anyway, they were pretty sure that was me. And occasionally I made them mad, like when I said that I knew Freshly well enough to know he wouldn't have done it, or when I said I thought maybe Maxwell had a kind of thing for Freshly. You don't know a thing, they said. And maybe they're right. But I knew what I saw; Freshly was somewhere down the road already, and he didn't owe me a steak dinner anymore.

-May 2008