I was sitting in the lounge of the Empire Hotel. I was watching as the Maple Leafs and Red Wings slugged it out. A little woozy floozy staggered over to see. “Wussa score, Honey?” she slurred at me.
I tried to tell that woman that the game was tied late in the third. Instead she leaned over, squinting at me like she hadn’t heard a word. She sneered and jabbed a finger at me like I’d committed a crime. “Ainchoo that guy who writes them mean things in the Metro Times? I read your reviews. They’re all so full of misery.”
I said, “Y’know, I don’t hate Detroit, so why don’t you leave me alone?” I told her ’bout a brand-new Motor City record I liked by Jawbone. “This guy’s a crazy one-man blues band. He plays a psycho harp. His slide guitar style’s really raw, it isn’t razor sharp.
“This kid rocks because he wasn’t raised on snobbery.”
She said, “I know about this Jawbone, the sidewalk’s where I heard this guy. He plays at all the music festivals although he never gets inside.”
I said, “Don’t worry, he will one day: dang blues cannot be beat. It’s filed in my collection next to Exile On Main Street. His passion for music’s on display for all to see.”
I drained my drink and grabbed my jacket. I felt that it was time to leave. As I stood up she lurched against me, balancing herself on my sleeve. “Come on, let’s hear this Jawbone record,” she said with gin-soaked breath.
Just then Tie Domi scored the winning goal in sudden death. The Michigan papers called it highway robbery.
E-mail Jeffrey Morgan at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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