Still here

 His boots made a tapping sound as he made his way to the small stage in a bar called No Name Tavern. The joint was crowded for a Wednesday night, mostly young folks who attended college a couple of blocks away. The tavern had been here for longer than he could remember, but he knew it was the first place that let him play a couple of sets, and if the crowd liked him, maybe more. That was forty-some years ago. He went by the name Matt, no last name, just Matt. His hair was snow white and just below his waist. Somebody told me he started growing it the day of his first gig and never stopped. The ladies liked it, and he had to laugh inside, wondering how they'd react if they saw him bald as a cue ball. He had to admit it was a bitch to keep up with, so a while ago, he hired a pro to take care of it, especially on nights he played. That would be Ruth, who stayed with him for thirty years. In a month, he was going out on tour with the Winters brothers, a well-known band from the seventies who still knew how to rock the house down. They mainly played smaller venues like beachfront taverns and college halls, just roaming from town to town on a pre-selected schedule that would keep the bus running well into the winter. It also paid him enough to live okay for a few months. In between gigs, he played at the tavern to the delight of those college girls who always wanted to touch his hair every chance they got. He still had some lead in the pencil, but the memories kept him young, and the looks of people passing by whispering something about his hair or his choice of clothes and jewelry always made him smile because he knew they could only ever wish. But he would continue rocking the roofs off anywhere the road wanted him to go, where the music called his name.

MO