DB: In It Together

This past Thursday was the last of the farmers markets for this year. My roommate and I had the pleasure of sharing our music to the plodding crowds as they disappointedly roamed the thinning stalls for fall produce. Peppers, squash, tubers and bulbs bled from the stands in celebration of the coming All Hollows’ Eve, but the mood was somehow broodingly grim.

The night previous, while eating a hippy corn chip (read: thicker than normal), my guitar-wizard buddy split and swallowed half of a molar. This, while slicing up the inside of his cheek on the sharp remaining tooth-matter, was destructively painful and prevented him from sleeping at all in preparation for our performance. Yet, cold fingered and bundled we twanged and screeched our way through the songs, as the patrons of the market marched by in frowning disapproval.

Some friends of mine (half the city it seems) were at the time of the show preparing for a drive to Tonasket Washington to attend what is commonly known as Barter Faire. I wanted desperately to go, but we are teaching our songs to a bass player for a show this weekend, and there wasn’t a way for me to be both camping and rocking at the same time. Barter Faire interests me because it is founded on the idea of a world where people need each other for more than just paying and working for money. I was told to bring something of value in bulk, and that in the same spirit all I needed would be there for trade.

The market paid us by the hour to play our songs. Waking up without sleep, Robby realized that his guitar was not in our house. This led to a bit of a goose chase as we negotiated with our music community for the use of someone’s axe. We found one but we were an hour late to the gig, and therefore were paid half of what we were counting on. As we mopedly packed the gear out of the market to go find Robby some drugs (for the pain), a lovely young woman hailed us from behind a table of veggies, “Hey, are you guys playing music?”

“Yes, but we are done (for).” I replied, wondering how she could have missed my wailing for the hour previous. “Well, good! Musicians get free vegetables today.” she said happily as she wafted a plastic bag in my general direction.

Reeling from being called a “musician” I happily loaded a sac full of veggies and blew the fair maiden a kiss. Somewhere in there I am starting to see the Barter Faire right here in my hood. The rest of the day was spent delivering Robby to free clinics and our Dr. friends offices…desperately seeking relief for his shattered chomper. (Dental insurance is a myth.) At the end of the day, we scored some narcotic relief for Robby and played yet another show at the Embellish Salon art walk. From there Robby was scheduled to spin records at Club Masa which is where we parted ways. (We borrow show and DJ gear from our space mate Ron, who owns a stage and sound company, in exchange for keeping his gear safe and being available for lifting when its needed.)

Neither I nor Robby have regular jobs anymore, but our offerings to the community are valuable, and we are somehow being carried as we carry. A willingness to give, and to care puts us in a position to receive and be cared for. I am grateful for the relationships that reciprocate this kind of attitude. It seems to be bred out of tough times, as a homeless man showed us the next day.

While teaching our bass player a song about broken love, a knock on the door pushed me to look out the window at a dirty fellow wearing two backpacks. Often, being in the same alleyway, my door is confused with the homeless shelter and I answered the knocking ready to rebuff him in an annoyed sneer.

“Sorry to bug you, but did you leave some things out here on the garbage can?”, his gravel paved voice was as tired as his leather jacket. I peered out and saw the typical stack of rejected thriftstore jeans and fleece that the shelter hands out for the homeless to pack into my recycle bin. “No, that’s not mine, Thanks….” I said curtly and nearly slammed the door in aggravation at being interrupted in my work.
The man caught me with clear blue eyes and said patiently, “That’s not your calculator there?” Looking again I spotted Robby’s BlackBerry sitting next to a half drunk mocha and I exclaimed, “Woah, Jesus-man, THANKS.” I shook his hand as the patrons of the shelter made their daily exodus down the alleyway. He smiled knowingly, and I felt like a human being among human beings for the first time in a while. I couldn’t help but have a strong sense that I wont be able to ignore people for very much longer. We have to look out for one another. Seeking no reward the man turned and continued his trek to the King center.

I guess we’re in this together.