I’m in my bathroom primping, anticipating tonight’s rendezvous with my mistress. As I gaze into the mirror I notice, to my astonishment, that my beard has miraculously turned silver. There are little wrinkles around my weary eyes and creases on my forehead, and my hair is thinning at an alarming rate. When did all this happen? And then it dawns on me that I’m not a young man anymore. Shall I get down and give you 50 push-ups? I’m 68 years old and old enough to know better.
Unbeknownst to my friends, I’m tired and depressed most of the time. Part of my problem is bad genes, but deep down in my heart I blame a lot of my misery on my mistress.
What an irrepressible seductress she is! She’s always taken me to the height of ecstasy but she has also broken my heart. On several occasions, my mistress has almost ruined my marriage. Hell. She’s nearly killed me! Her beauty is undeniable. Once I fell under her spell at an early age, the rest was history. This is an eternal affair with no escape. Not only is she my lover and muse, she is my tormentor and nemesis.
She is music.
Beginning to play music professionally in the sixties was a challenge in many ways. First I had to learn the business ‒ which was seedy to say the least. I had to become acquainted with other musicians. Some were wonderful human beings and became my brothers and sisters, but many were subhuman. I had to hone my craft and learn the art of performing. At this I was successful. I also had to learn how to say no to drugs, booze and female admirers. At this, I failed miserably.
Somehow I managed to make a living with my evil mistress even though she would turn on me at every corner. I started playing gigs at seventeen and then quit school to play full-time. After joining the Army in 1969, I played snare drum in basic training and eventually joined the 79th Army Band in Panama.
When I got out of the service, my mistress and I went back to the smoky nightclubs and perilous bars of Dallas. In 1973 I got married in Albuquerque and suddenly had a baby boy. Tait was later diagnosed as autistic with severe congenital renal problems. Though he was not expected to see twelve years of age, he lived to be twenty-three. Throughout those years I studied music in college on the GI Bill and had brilliant highs in the “business” with record deals, tours, television and radio. I got to record with famous people and perform with some of the greats. I also had extreme lows, which threatened my marriage and my life.
All the while my evil mistress was corrupting me and leading me further away from reality.
Jayebird and I had moved from Albuquerque to Dallas, to Santa Fe, to Honolulu, to Maui, back to Santa Fe and then finally settled in Pagosa Country in 1991. Here I sit, still trying to “beat out” a living with this sultry siren. But lately I’ve been beating a dead horse: she will not let me go. I love her, but she’s killing me. This frustration and anguish makes me sad, and the only time I’m really happy is when I’m embracing her. Thank goodness Jayebird is the most loving and understanding wife in the universe. She has been putting up with “the other woman” for 46 years!
People always come up to me and ask why I’m not in Vegas or touring with a national act: the so-called “big time.” I joke around, but never tell them that I’d given up on the music business ages ago. Of course ‒ after all these years ‒ they still want to know what my “real” job is. At that point, I always wonder not only what my real job is or should be, but who am I? And why the hell am I doing this at my age? The age of arthritis and weariness.
A well-meaning friend of mine offered that I should quit music and go to work at Walmart. She said I could play music as a hobby. I know of no self-respecting musician who would call a lifelong romance a hobby! The thought of working at a menial job makes me sick to my stomach. How can you help people find deodorant and underwear after you have received a standing ovation from five thousand people? Once you’ve had groupies clamoring at your dressing room door, it would be humiliating to be castigated by an irate customer on aisle 9.
My mistress has spoiled me rotten.
I must say that recent developments have made me do some serious soul-searching. Perhaps I should get a new mistress? I’m thinking about one that is probably more sexy, seductive and dangerous than music ‒ writing. (Just look what happened to Hemingway at the hands of his mistress!)
I can tell you unequivocally: At this point in my life, my beautiful wife will come first.
Yes, I have some very serious soul-searching in store, but can you even imagine me saying…
“Welcome to Walmart! May I help you?”
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.