Serving up Poetic Justice

This story begins in a convergence of back alleyways on a recent Friday evening in my hometown where a free concert, one of a summer series,  is about to begin. The band is a popular local group of sixty-something-year-old males who play country music and know exactly how to please their audience. The alleyway is crammed with people – young and old – and by the time the concert is underway, there is standing room only. Looking around, people north of fifty and those who are specially-abled are over-represented in this crowd.

My brother is one of those who are specially-abled. I have brought him to this concert because the band, TGR, is his hands-down favorite.  And although the direct care workers in his group home do their best to get him and his housemates to these concerts, occasionally circumstances arise that prevent them from doing so. I’m not taking any chances.    

It is a gorgeous night. The heat wave has broken, there’s a pleasant breeze and everyone seems happy and relaxed. It’s ‘bring your own chair’ so I set mine up next to T, who works in my brother’s home and who has, in fact, come with two of his housemates. There are other employees from other group homes – angels all – there with their excited charges and I am introduced to everyone.  

Promptly at 7 p.m.  the band members take their place on the stage and in a moment, the distinctive and familiar opening bars to Amarillo by Morning flow from the stage.  I love this song. I love TGR's rendition of it. I sink into musical bliss. I glance at my brother and wait for his metamorphosis. To watch him in this moment is to experience the true meaning of the 1970’s song, I’ve Got the Music in Me.  His facial expression grows intense. His feet start tapping. His arms begin moving.  He no longer appears to perceive anyone around him. It’s just him and the music. Within a few measures, every cell in his body is chair-dancing with a vengeance. Soon his chair can no longer contain him and, as if propelled, he springs suddenly to his feet.

He will dance every single dance tonight, with gusto, mostly by himself.  And he’s damned good.  His teachers include the best – Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Elvis Presley (those hips) – even Barbara and Bobby (and later Cissy) from The Lawrence Welk Show.  He's got all the moves. He’s light on his feet. He keeps the beat.  The words ‘debonair’ and ‘suave’ come to mind and stay there.  Oh, and a pinch of The Fonz coolness for good measure.   

A group of women enter the dance space and begin line dancing. My brother studies their moves, joins them on their periphery and tries to copy them. It is hard not to laugh and I admit I do but it is with glee. In his seriousness, he is just too funny. He is about ½ step behind because he’s following them.  They turn 180 degrees and he spins around, perplexed at what they did when his back was to them. They lift their leg, he does too. They clap, he claps. He scrambles out of their way when they suddenly switch direction and threaten to run him over.   And when they leave the floor, he is still practicing what they did.

A slow dance comes on and couples come out to two-step, fox-trot. My brother is still intent on his line dancing. I can tell by the look on his face that he is getting lost in his dance practice and soon he will be oblivious to everyone around him. On a crowded dance floor, this is not a good thing. I get up, I’m only a few steps away. I put my arms around his shoulders and say, “How about a dance with your old sister?” and I steer him in to a slow dance with me. His t-shirt is wet from his efforts. He stiffens at first – I’ve interrupted his escalation, but then he allows me to defuse his intensity.  I tell him I noticed how hard he was working to line dance with the women and what a great job he was doing. He looks at me so earnestly, and says, “I try.” Yes, my sweet bro, you try.

******

Not long before their break, the lead singer who I shall call BM (real initials, swear to God), waves a pile of 8-1/2 x 11 fliers and announces that it is their performance schedule for the near future. He sets them down on the stage. Three or four of the specially-abled attendees immediately take one and head back to where we are seated to present these to their staff chaperones. “Hey!” calls BM into the mic. “You guys can’t read!”

It takes a split second for this comment to register, to realize which “you guys” he is talking about. I look up at T, sitting next to me.  “That wasn’t very nice!” I exclaim. She agrees with me, as do others with us. BM begins to sing again. I am sitting, appalled and in stunned silence. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’m stunned, yes – but silent, no. I am fuming. How dare he make that stereotyped assumption and into a microphone no less! T is upset too because not only was BM insensitive – what he said was patently untrue.  You can be sure that if there is a piece of paper with this band’s name on it – TGR – all three of the guys traveling with us would be able to read it AND the dates AND the venues.

At intermission, I approach the stage. BM is fumbling with equipment. My brother and his friend, G, are close to the stage. I put my arm around both of them and look up. “Hi BM, my name is Jan and I’d like to introduce you to my brother, David, and our good friend, G.”  BM is eyeing me suspiciously, unsure of what to make of me. I continue, “These guys are two of your biggest fans…… they come to every concert you give that they can get to.”  BM is fidgeting  and looking like he wishes to evaporate. “And there’s something else you should know about them.” I pause for effect.  “They can READ.” BM looks everywhere except at me. I repeat myself, “They can READ.” BM starts to back away and mumbles, “I saw him singing.”  My brain explodes.  I lead my brother and G away – they do not know they’ve been dissed, and I can see that the big BM just does not get it. Back at my seat, the others let me know they watched BM’s reaction carefully and agree that the man is clueless (and classless, I might add).

*****

The next evening after dinner, I meet my friend Jim for ice cream.  Jim is a drummer and he knows this band – TGR  – well because he subs for their drummer on occasion. He tells me that he will, in fact, be working with them later this week.  I tell him about the events of the previous evening, hoping that he will “get” why this has upset me.  I can see in his expression that he does and I am relieved. He volunteers to say something to BM and I tell him, no, it’s ok – he doesn’t need to do that. But I am grateful for his willingness.

We are quiet for a moment. Then Jim chuckles and I look at him questioningly. “You know,” he says, conspiratorially. “None of these guys can read music.”  I wait for more, unsure why he is telling me this. “On a gig, when I pull out sheet music…. they can’t relate to that.”  He continues. “Maybe I’ll just hand BM a piece of music, then say, ‘Oh that’s right!  You can’t read this’ and pull it away.”  Jim is grinning at the thought.  I laugh with delight, inwardly marveling at the poetic justice of this plan.

What goes around doesn’t usually come around quite this quickly!