Slidin' through the darkness...

Last night I saw Patti Larkin and Chris Smither at Jorma Kaukonen’s Fur Peace Ranch. It was wonderful. Chris did a tune called ‘Leave The Light On’. The song is about constancy and acceptance and hope; it made me think of a guy named Robert, whom I knew in NYC years ago. Robert was a faithful attendee of a meeting located on the extreme upper west side of Manhattan, scant blocks from Harlem. He ALWAYS wore a dark blue baseball cap, pulled low, over aviator shades. He wore a P coat, with the collar turned up. Twelve months out of the year – except if it was really hot, when he’d trade it for a navy nylon jacket, collar turned up.

He never spoke.

One summer night I was heading home from a show at a westside club and changed trains in Times Square from the downtown express to the local. It was about 1:30 AM. I crossed the platform and started walking toward where the front of the Broadway Local would stop. Standing on the platform was Robert. Hat, shades, P coat. I walked up to him. Hi, Robert. He looked me over. I extended my hand - Arne, from the Wednesday meeting. He shook it. “How ya doin,” he said, scarcely looking away from the white tiled wall above the third rail across the tracks. Robert, I said, mind if I ask you something? He shrugged. It’s almost two in the morning, we’re in the subway, and you’ve got those shades on and the hat and your collar up. How come? He looked at me. He looked back at the wall. Staring straight ahead, he said, “I like slidin’ through the darkness, alone and unnoticed.” Then he turned and walked down the platform. I’ve never forgotten that encounter.

Listening to ‘Leave The Light On’ last night I was happy I was where I was - in the company of people. I was glad I could let the words in. I’ve spent some time slidin’ through the darkness. And I’ve felt alone and unnoticed. I’m not regretful of the experience. There’s no pity in it nor am I sad about it. I’m just thankful I came out the other side. I don't know why, but sometimes when I hear a tune that strikes a particular chord, I think of Robert. And wish that I could thank him for what he shared with me that night.