PARTING THOUGHTS Noon Tunes By Gary E. Rhoades 62 OREGON STATE BAR BULLETIN • AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2016 iStock I t had been a couple of years since I last stood in line waiting to get a chicken bowl from the cart lady. Across the street, Winston Danner was entertaining the lunch crowd in the brick amphitheater, wooing them with his blend of country, gospel and blues songs. “Excuse me sir, but do you know if she takes credit cards, or is it only cash?” asked the young lady in front of me. “I’m afraid only cash,” I replied. Sure enough, the bad news was confirmed when she reached the cart. “Would you mind putting my burrito aside while I run across the street to my office and get some cash?” the woman pleaded with her. “Why, of course I will honey, and take your time — I’ll keep it good and hot ’til you come back.” “Mighty nice of you,” I volunteered, as I gave her my order. “Just the way I do business,” she replied, “even though I get stiffed now and then by some order that’s never picked up. Hey, haven’t I seen you before?” “Years ago,” I responded. “But this is the first time I’ve been back since I moved my office to the suburbs west of the city.” “So, welcome back then,” she said. “I imagine you can’t get a decent burrito or chicken bowl out there in the burbs, can you?” “Nothing that comes close to yours,” I replied with a smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere, so this one’s on the house. Come back soon. Oh, and bring some of your suburban friends along so they can see what a real lunch can be downtown. No pressed turkey on Wonder Bread, slathered with imitation mayo and cranberry sauce, accompanied by a sliver of dill pickle served here!” she proudly proclaimed. “You’ll get no argument on that,” I assured her, dropping a five dollar bill into the “SERF” (Self Employed Retirement Fund) jar as I headed toward the plaza. Danner was singing “Keep Looking Up” as I found a spot on the bricks, the sun and iconic Jackson Tower at my back, chicken bowl and Diet Coke on my lap. Below the stage, in front of one of the two immense black speakers, I spotted a man sporting a baseball cap, slumped to the left in his power wheelchair, a posture I was quite familiar with. As Danner sang the chorus once again, the man lifted his head and eyes toward the sky, as best he could, and held it there for several seconds. He looked awkward, stiff and quite uncomfortable, but kept his head looking up. It dawned on me that he was responding to the words in the song’s title which had to be pulsating through his flesh, given how close he was to the power of that speaker. I wondered if I was the only soul in the crowd aware of this. Danner took a short break to introduce Del on bass and Chris on drums. But his next piece was a solo, just the man and his acoustic guitar. After what I had just heard, I was eager to listen to more of his music. I glanced down at the speaker below the stage, but the man in the four- wheeler had disappeared. I suspect he would have liked the chorus in this song as well — “giving is the highest form of living” — but he had vanished. The band was now invested in its last song, which had a genuine country feel to it, as I walked down the stairs toward my car. And there he was — parked and hidden behind the stage, the right hand trying to strum as best it could, the left challenged to fit its fingers on the frets of his imaginary guitar. There were four in the band now, as he accompanied the other three in the finale of their performance. “You really know how to play that guitar,” I told him admiringly after the music had ended. The woman seated next to him volunteered, “He loves country music. He’s a big Johnny Cash fan, and knows just about every one of his songs.” I bent down and whispered in his ear, “Keep on playing that guitar like Johnny did, and keep looking up; you have a great gift, and thanks for sharing it with me.” The young man lifted his chin, trying to look me square in the eyes, and grinned, saying something that even I could not understand. His companion smiled. He said, “Someday I’m going to take my band on the road, just like Johnny did.” “When you do,” I assured him, “I’d like to be there in the audience, in the front row, to cheer you on!” As he lowered his head into a more comfortable position, I said goodbye and got into my car. He reminded me so much of my older brother. Suddenly, a flood of memories engulfed me as I hit the “off” button on the car’s audio system and turned onto the freeway ramp, westward bound. The author is a Portland lawyer and fiction writer.