The storyline I’d been working on for “Undaunted” held me captive for most of the day. That’s a good thing when that happens, but it’s exhausting. Maybe that’s just a convenient excuse to step out for a glass of wine, and I caved under the pressure of that thought, heading for my favorite local microbrewery, Lil Charlies’. It had been a productive day, and nearly an entire chapter had been wrapped up. I needed a break, so I took one with every intention of enjoying a low-profile cabernet.
When I arrived at Charlie’s, the seats at the bar were partially filled, giving me the bonus of leaving obligatory open seats on either side of my choice. Perfect. One-seat buffer of no one sitting on either side of me, a generous pour by Ashley of a dry J. Lohr cabernet, and four big screens of games that did not matter. What’s not to like? Time to settle in, and I never saw him.
Before I even get into this story, I must confess I am a selfish man with my time. I wanted an open seat on either side of me because I’m not an idle chatter…I wasn’t there to chat…until I was. His name was Mitch. As he leaned toward me, offering a hand, I shook it, ignoring my brain’s warning not to touch him. He looked…dusty…and had hitchhiked from Nashville for a job interview with Tool & Dye, a large employer in Batesville. I do not know whether this was a last-ditch effort to get a job at 61 or just another run at survival for him; either way, it took a commitment of several days for him to reach Batesville.
His beard was three days old, not a conviction; mine was four, but not what you would expect for someone interviewing for a job. He had a hat that I’d describe as a well-worn cowboy hat that seemed too wide, and the edges curled up from who knows what. Mitch had that same well-worn look, his life having been hard, the matching hat confirming it all.
We had a fantastic conversation I never wanted, but soon found a gift in it, and learned he was a songwriter from Nashville. Names were dropped from things he wrote for Tanya Tucker that she never sang. He set a plastic box on the bar, filled with hundreds of worn scrap sheets of paper, folded several times, receipts with scribbling, all bearing lyrics. This was a box of his hopes and dreams. God only knows how many hours of his life went into those lyrics. The best part was when he pulled out a scrap of paper and sang a few bars quietly before fading into silence, lost in what I felt was quiet desperation.
I know Mitch went to a dark place, and I pray the interview on Monday goes well for him.
Peace! G.