Saturday, March 19, 2011

Blind Date

“A fan from way back wants to meet you”, said the email from my friend Janet. She had copied Joe Accardo on the message. What? I have fans? I couldn't help but feel flattered. Joe used to listen to my radio show, back in the day. And Janet knows him, so he must be all right. “He thinks you're the 'bees knees'” she wrote. I clicked “reply all”. “Do bees have knees? Would hate to disappoint,” I entered.

I heard from Joe the next morning. His email described wonderful memories of hearing me on the radio. There was one day in particular: He was shaping a metal sculpture in his studio. It was early spring and the door was open to sunshine and breeze. He described “the music, the butterflies, the wrens, zipping in and out of my big doors” to the ethereal electronic music of Japanese composer Isao Tomita that I was spinning. He had called to thank me. He had called me a couple of other times at the radio station as well. It was certainly not unusual for us to get calls from listeners—but I thought I perhaps vaguely remembered our conversation about Tomita that day. Joe wrote that he had admired my voice on the radio, and my VOICE—my musical selections. He said that he had always wanted to meet me, and when he came across recent publicity about my playing folk music with Janet, he thought “this is my chance” and asked her to introduce us. He wanted to meet for lunch or coffee.

I felt excited. This was different from Match.com—where someone is looking for a date and checking out various women with certain criteria. No, he wanted to meet ME specifically. Joe sent me a friend request on Facebook. I saw that he was an old hippie, living in the country—a few years older than me. I perused pictures of his interesting metal art—fanciful garden gates and flower sculptures, practical wine racks and fire place tools. He wrote that in addition to being a metal artist, he was a bass player who was just getting back into playing music. I couldn't help myself. I was really looking forward to meeting him, and felt some butterflies myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I waited inside the door at Fiesta Grill, I kept glancing around to make sure I hadn't missed him. He burst through the door. I thought for a moment it must be St. Nick-- bushy white eyebrows, round belly, full beard and thick white hair. Although I had seen his photo on Facebook, he was much larger than I had expected. When he shook my hand it was rough and weathered from heat and metal. “I'm a little nervous,” he confessed, as the Latina server led us to a table and brought us fresh, warm tortilla chips and salsa.

He started talking right way. Joe told me he had just met this amazing blues singer-- oddly enough, at Lowe's-- buying lumber from his son. They had joked about the warp of the wood, then introduced themselves. He placed her CD on the table, across from me and told me the story of her life—how she had been almost aborted-- then adopted and abused; was recovering from cancer; and had just moved to Chatham County with her new husband—and how her whole life story could be heard in her soulful blues songs. Her music was so powerful, that this lady had inspired him to pick up his bass again, after it sat idle and untouched for a year. He described a previous blues band he'd been in and how he had organized and drawn people together to play—including the “Boss Brass”-- how he was going to do this again, because her talent was so amazing, even though he'd sworn off late night bars and band personality clashes forever.

Joe told me he was ethnic Italian, from New Jersey and had been destined to become a blue collar worker until acid opened his mind. In college he “cherry picked” the studio art classes he wanted, skipping all the boring hoop jumps that would have led to a degree. He tuned in, dropped out, hopped the bus to North Carolina, and wound up living in a commune and creating art. Said he was getting more of an education in farm fields than he had in the classroom. He told me about sitting on the front steps smoking, during a break at a local reggae concert by Rasta Fire. A woman walked up the stairs, casually placing her hand on his head. “I felt an electric shock run through my whole body” he said. He described their courtship, their marriage, their children. The difficult years—building their own home, their poverty, his late nights playing music, his alcoholism, their estrangement when he came to bed reeking of beer at 4AM. The metal work, the forging, the sweat, the summer heat, his wife's affair. How he engaged in a little investigative work to discover who exactly she was seeing—pretending he knew more than he did in conversation-- until the name of her illicit man was unwittingly revealed. Suddenly, he found himself on moral high ground—a place that was new to him. He became so angry that his Italian New Jersey upbringing took him over and he phoned his wife's lover and threatened first to burn down his house, then to sue him for all he was worth.

I munched my Mexican grilled chicken salad in its fluted shell, as I listened. Every once in awhile I smiled or nodded, or asked a question. The salads at Fiesta had certainly improved in the last few years. The lettuce was much fresher and crisper. “Well”, he said “Say something. Tell me a little about yourself”. I couldn't think of a thing to say.

I told him a little about my piano teaching. He spoke again of how he had admired me on the radio, about how my voice had “soul”. “I'm just a normal person”, I said. “Yeah, I get it, ” he answered—like he had finally figured out that I was just an ordinary middle aged piano teacher and church musician, not some exotic, glamorous music guru who would change his life. All I wanted to do was go home and walk my dog.

I felt like a prisoner, waiting for him to remember to put his debit card on the table, after I had given him cash for my share. Now, he was talking about his redemption through AA. Finally, I pointed out that there were people waiting for a table in this small, crowded, popular lunch spot. He finally got up to pay the bill, but then I had to follow him politely to a friend's table—a blues guitarist from Raleigh-- and hear Joe tell him about the awesome blues singer who had inspired him to pick up his bass again. Just when I thought I had made it to the freedom of the parking lot, he asked me if I'd like to sit with him in his car for a little and listen to his lady blues CD. “I really need to get going”, I said. “I'd like to walk my dog before my piano students come,” but perhaps he could email me the files. I climbed into the shelter of my car and slammed the door behind me. It was such a relief to be alone again.

I have never been happier to get home to my little house-- to safety, to stillness, to my wiggling Beagle and my cats. As soon as I set my purse down on the counter I deleted Joe from my phone and then just for good measure, deleted my last the last “lame duck” date. Then I went online and deleted my free trial account from e-harmony.