To the Resort Musician

Tuesday night on the beach and the guitar player shows up with a basket of tambourines and triangles. Resort guests start to gather and parents push their kids to towards him, “Tell him you want to play.” He smiles big and invites them in, “I’m gonna need a lot of help!” and the kids take instruments and begin to dance a little.

He looks like he’s in his mid-50’s: a bit of grey and a few wrinkles. He’s wearing a short sleeve button down shirt and shorts. And glasses strapped to his head, in case he gets carried away in the revelry, I suppose. He sets up a small amp next to the hot tub and begins to warm up, a few strums of Van Morrison, a chorus of James Taylor, a couple bars of Jimmy Buffet and he’s good to go.

We wander down the beach until we can’t hear him anymore. The night air has a hint of cool that I can feel just below the warm. It’s in the breeze off the water. Back home, in Ohio, people are talking about snow. March. Spring. It can mean anything.

As we head back, we start to hear “Sweet Caroline” and he has a tiny crowd dancing. The crowd is small enough and familiar enough that it seems everyone is dancing with everyone else. A dad turns to his son, maybe about 12, and tries to pull him up to dance. The boy refuses but he grins. He wants his dad to keep trying.

This guy had them out off their lounge chairs in minutes.

I watch from the balcony and he plays for hours and the crowd keeps dancing and singing. The sun has gone done and the pool lights shine upwards. He is in the middle of the crowd and they sway around him. I wonder what awaits him at home. Does he dance and play and then head back, his dog greeting him at the door? Does he just turn it off and go to bed? Does he remember the way they all loved him? One more, they beg, please just one more.