the walkman

I was walking down Houston Street in New York just listening to Megadeth on my headphones hooked to my Walkman when I had to stop to flip the tape.

“Damn, haven’t seen one of those in a while,” a voice said to me.

Looking up after my task was complete, I noticed a small boy staring at me. Next to him was Elvis Costello.

“What are you listening too?” he asked.

Now, of all the times to have “Peace Sells …” playing in my old Walkman, this is it.

“Megadeth,” I say meekly.

“Damn fine choice,” he says and walks away after a tip of the hat.

Dumbfounded, I just kind of stare at the ground for a moment. I wonder if I should chase after him, maybe get an autograph. I have a gal friend that loves him immensely. However, I kind of like the way this story had a beginning, a middle and an end. It doesn’t need a chase scene, I decide, and I start walking the opposite direction.

A few minutes later, I get to a street I don’t particularly want to be on. There’s construction at one corner. A closed deli on another. The third corner has a thrift store and the one I’m on has some kind of church. It’s marquee says “Turn your back on God? Don’t do it.”

“Huh,” I think, turning back the way I came.

I decide since I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop by the Niagra Bar. The best bar with a mural to Joe Strummer on it that I’ve ever been to. Once, I had a drink with the pedal steel player of my favorite band. He seemed cool. Even though he made out with the girl I was with. Ha. And there we were again, hanging out in this place.

I meander to 7th Street and Avenue A to the bar. It’s open. And empty, except for a barkeep.

I amble up to the bar and take a seat. Sorry, man, that seat’s taken. I look at it and there is a hat on the bar in front of it.

“Sorry, my bad,” I reply, give me a Jameson.

“Guess what man?” the barkeep says. “You seem like the kind of guy who would care about such things, but Elvis Costello is in here.”

I look at the barkeep with a smile. “Why’d you think I’d care about such things?”

“You’re using a Walkman,” he said.

“Good call. Anyway, me and Elvis, we’re cool.”

“Whatever man,” the barkeep says and walks to the cash register.

A few moments later, Elvis comes out of the john. He’s shaking his hands and wiping them off. At least he’s the kind of guy who washes after, I think.

He plops down in the seat next to me.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Mustaine!” he says with a chuckle and pats me on the back. “Get this man a drink!”

The barkeep stares at me then looks at Elvis in bemused silence. All I can think of is this is pretty fucking cool.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “where’s the kid?”

“Oh, mommy took him to the park. I had to pay my respects to Joe.”

“Me too,” I said. He gave me a glance under his shades. And then a once over.

“What other tapes you got?” he queried.

I actually had no idea. I grabbed a handful when I left my apartment and stuffed them into my old 1997 Rose Bowl book bag that I got while working for my student newspaper at Arizona State.

“You know what, let’s find out,” I said, reaching for the bag.

Elvis kind of gave me that “what the fuck is this kid reaching for look” when I went into my bag, but when I yanked out a handful of cassette tapes, all stress vanished from his brow.

“I’ve got Y&T, Prince’s “Around the World in a Day”, a Dixieland sampler, Bruce’s “Nebraska” and the Mick Mix,” I said.

“Mick Mix?” he looked at me.

“Yeah, I made this in 1991. It’s a tape of Clash, BAD I and II songs that Mick Jones sang. Heavy rotation back then.”

“May I” he said, pointing at the tape’s case.

“Certainly,” I said, handing over a mix tape I made and the index card I scribbled on back when I was 20 years old to Elvis Costello.

He read the card and then took the tape out of the case, removed Megadeth from my player and put in the mix. Soon, Elvis was smiling as “Lost in the Supermarket” started playing. He listened to the entire song, including the part where I accidently pushed record one day while listening to it and you hear me go “ahh”.

“I love that song,” he said. “Perfectly timed.”

He took a long draw on his drink.

“My name’s Randy,” I said meekly. “Randy Jones.”

“Nice to meet you sir,” he said. “I’m Declan.”

“He, can I get your autograph. I know this girl…”

“Her name is Alison, right?”

“Yep. Even with one L.”

He did so dutifully. I feel that ended our little moment.

“One more round?” he asked meekly. Maybe he sensed exactly what I was thinking.

“Certainly sir,” he said.

“Don’t call me that. I ain’t no sir.”

We sat for about another 15 minutes. He asked me my favorite band. I said who it was, and he smiled.

“Those guys are pretty damn good. Wish they make the bucks one day. It’s a tough road they’re on.”

I then told him of the redhead the pedal steel guy kissed. And how in these exact seats we talked.

“You and rock stars, you always meet up here?”

We shared a laugh. Then he put down a tip, paying for my drinks as well, and stuck out his hand.

“Great to meet ya Randy.”

“You too, Elvis.”

And he left. I ordered another round, knowing full well nothing better could happen if I went outside now.