Behold These Tremulous Dreams

Three beers down and half a bag of Doritos consumed, and it's apparent that this parent is home alone. Tom Waits plays on the laptop and I doubt he'll play these songs when he plays the Ryman next month. This is the early stuff.

This stuff has piano and I can just close my eyes and see him at his piano in a small and very smoky bar. The tip jar is half empty and I'm reaching into my pocket to see how much I can add to it. Maybe a buck or two and I'll save the rest for another round or two for me and the sweet-looking redhaired girl from Georgia sitting by my side.

She's really something to look at, but she sure likes her drinks expensive. I'm an innocent victim to her every nuance. She told me her name, but it got lost in the noise. I'll ask her again in a minute. But for now, I'll just listen to her talk and imagine what it's like to share a future with her. Just off work, she's still in her uniform. A smart, black pantsuit, she's tougher than any Reservoir Dog and prettier than light itself. Her own touch of flair is a silver pin on her jacket in the shape of a horse's head. I will remember this woman forever no matter what happens between us tonight. And if she only gives half a damn about this barfly who is finding uncharacteristic bravery by talking to her, then I'm better off than you tonight.

I can tell that she really doesn't care much for the guy at the piano, but she's too polite to say. Country music is her thing. She likes the stories in country songs. For the most part, the songs she likes have happy endings. The piano player is singing "Blue Valentines" and she takes another drink and gives me a smile. Brother, that smile will change my life. A smile from a pretty redhead will leave me either domesticated or incarcerated. I'm thinking this one will not lead me to the wrong kind of bars. I imagine that a stubborn part of me will fight it, but I'll probably end up buying a house with her.

I tell her that I heard some cool stories about this guy at the piano. Tom Waits. One time, his wife went away for a bit and came home and found that Tom had replaced all of the doors in their home with actual hotel doors from places where he had stayed from the road. Perpetual vagabond that he is, he just likes opening hotel doors. And now, they are all hotel doors in his house. True story. I like that there is no way that she cares about the story at all, but she sure likes that I like it. I get a bit giddy when I talk about music and she thinks it's cute.

I can see that even if things go the way I am imagining, she's going to like me - not despite my eclectic tastes - but, in part, because of them. And I can also imagine that there will be a peaceful night, way off in the future, when she will be my wife and we'll have this wonderful family together. There will be a night much like this, and she will be out of town on vacation with the kids, and I'll be all alone in our home. I'll be able to do whatever I want, go to any bar, let loose, whatever. But it'll be enough for me to sit quietly alone, play old Tom Waits records, and think of how lucky I am that I get to be her husband. I miss her and look forward to joining her next week when I get some time off work.

Sometimes these things just work out perfectly.