Bad Kids in the Back

The day was dreary and dripping, the roads well puddled. Sheltered by umbrellas, Dave, Don, Carey and I walked from the parking lot to the station platform. As the New York bound train pulled in and stopped, a glance in the windows made clear there were no free seats. We shook the water off our umbrellas, folded them up and squeezed onto the train. Not only were there no seats, stealing some space to stand was a trick as well. Apparently work on the lines had drastically reduced both Metro North and Amtrak trains, so people heading south, be it New York, Savannah, or Florida were jammed - along with their voluminous luggage - wherever they could fit. Sidle though we tried, we could inch no further than the gap between two cars. 

Edwin, bound for Sarasota, reeked of the beverages he’d downed prior to the beer in his hand. Nose – to-nose and breath-to-breath with Dave, Edwin was jolly at the prospect of his upcoming vacation and eager to regale my husband with graphic tales of his sex life. Dave’s efforts to extricate himself were unsuccessful because movement was impossible, and his companion greeted any turning away with a slurred and guilt-inducing, “Wha? (not a typo) You don’t wanna talk to me?” Carey, Don, and I, meanwhile, enjoyed a lovely chat with charming Juliette, a young woman heading back to work in the city having spent the weekend with her parents. All exchanges were at max volume, peppered with “Say that again?” given the rattle and grind of steel wheels on tracks. 

Upon arrival at Grand Central, we spilled from the train, a rush of striding, racing humans dragging suitcases, grateful for room to move and the destinations ahead. In our case, Don had yet again arranged a New York excursion, and we were hopeful that this day would not involve a cop unjustly accosting our driver, a native of Bangladesh, as happened during our last group foray. Without incident, we grabbed a cab and headed to La Lanterna for bruschetta, lasagna, and wine before walking a block to Café Wha (not a typo) to see Steve Forbert. 

We were late, and Forbert was singing, his distinctive voice throaty and cozy in the café’s candlelit darkness. The walls were a gallery of Bob Dylan photos, his long ago performances and patronage the café’s claim to fame. Our tickets included cocktails, so we settled in and whispered our orders as the server made her rounds. 

As it turned out, we were not the last to arrive, and the only seat left was next to my husband. An older gentleman, with a bold nose, mustache, and tweed cap nodded his thanks as Dave inched over to make more room in our booth.  

Dave is a kind soul with a welcoming heart that others can see. He loves chance encounters and welcomes the conversations they bring. Sometimes it seems the universe has maneuvered the meeting, so meaningful are the heartfelt stories told, and more than once Dave has said, “ I was in the right place at the right time.” This, however, was not one of those. This was just a chat between music lovers, and it was too loud. So loud that a woman across the room, annoyed that her stink eye glares were not doing the job, marched over to our table to chastise Dave and his new friend.

“Wha?” protested Dave, echoing the name of our venue, perhaps providing insight as to its origin, “we weren’t that loud.”

“You were!” I hissed, but quietly. 

It was harder to argue his defense when a man behind Carey turned and said gently, “You are speaking louder than you might think.” 

Carey and I, two famously well-behaved girls, friends since college, obedient to a fault, were mortified to be included in that observation, but were willing to think some in the audience were over-reacting. I have to admit, though, it annoys me no end when people behind me in a small venue are talking. Usually, a pointed look conveys the message, “Are you here for the music or wha?” 

After Forbert’s finale, the lights flicked on. We finished our drinks, still shaking our heads and chuckling that we’d been branded the bad kids by a few picky people. 

More than a few apparently. As the crowd filed past en route to the exit, several people turned to us and said, pleasantly enough, “You really were loud.”

Ouch.