THE STRANGEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE

A WORK OF FICTION (that I wish wasn't)

I am not a person to go out very much, and I certainly wouldn't go out on the night I am about to describe, at least not this particular night. It was cold and the weather was looking threatening for at least snow flurries if not a full scale snow storm. There was a time when snow didn't stop me from doing anything or going anywhere. I went out on a New Year's Eve when I couldn't see 2 car lengths in front of my car, it was snowing so hard. I have gone out in rain equally blinding, but as I have gotten older I have either gotten smarter or more fearful. Whatever the reason, I wasn't planning to go out on this particular night.
I was in college in the late 60s, and while I didn't take part in protests, sit ins, etc., I did participate in the coffeehouses that dotted the landscape in those years. By the time I was back in college, the coffeehouse movement was past its prime. Around that time I bought my first guitar and over the years I have learned to play it decently, even writing my own songs and poetry set to music. I was glad my parents got to share whatever passed for talent in me before they died, especially my father. He used to play accordion when I was little, and he told me he would play in speakeasies and bars for beer when he was young and single. Sometimes he even used a harmonica in his act. His mother and her sister were both guitar players in their youth, so I guess my 'talent' is inherited. I have always wished I could have seen him play like that once. Or at least to have seen a photo of him on the stage.
As I said, I hadn't intended to go out this particular night, but I had read in the paper that a local man had opened a coffeehouse and was advertising an open mike night. I am not usually one to share my playing with an audience, and the night was getting miserable, but something told me to go out anyway.
I parked my car, entered the coffeehouse, and went to the counter and inquired about the open mike night as I paid for a cup of coffee, cream and sugar. The young fellow at the counter nodded toward the corner and told me that one other fellow was signed up ahead of me . I took my seat and as I sipped my coffee I looked toward the corner to which the man had nodded. In the shadows was a what appeared to be a young man in his mid twenties, but his face was partially obscured by the strong shadow thrown by the stage light. He appeared to be dressed in very old clothes. Either he didn't have anything else, or it was part of his act, so I thought.
While I sat there, he got up and went to the man at the counter and had a few words with him. The counterman came over to me and told me that the young man had requested that I go on first. This time when the young man sat down his face wasn't shaded and I got a good look at him. As I said, he appeared to be in his mid 20s, shorter than I, and had sandy red hair. I had the distinct feeling I had seen him before, which in our small town that isn't that unusual. You tend to know everyone or at least have seen them.
I sat on the stage and played my guitar and sang a few country songs, one folk song from the 60s, and read one of my poems and then I thanked the 6 people in the room for listening to me, and I sat back down.
The young man rooted in a box behind his seat and got out a beautiful accordion and an apparatus that I soon recognized as a harmonica rack. You clamp the harmonica in the rack and then wear it around your neck, playing like Bob Dylan or Neil Young. He played a few old country songs and again I had the strange feeling I knew him. The accordion playing sounded strangely familiar, like I had heard it before.
When he was done he packed his accordion up and came over to me and introduced himself. He told me his name was Harry and that he enjoyed my playing and hoped that I had enjoyed his. I told him I had and that I had the funny feeling that I had met him before or heard him play. He just smiled and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder that we had met years ago. I opened the door to go out right after it closed on Harry, but there was no one in the street and the snow was beginning to fly.
I went back inside and inquired about Harry and imagine my shock when I was told that I was the only one to play all night. Shaking my head I went back outside to go home, remarking to myself that Harry had the same first name as my father, but my father had always used his middle name. As I got to the car it dawned on me where I had seen Harry before and where I had heard him play. I had heard Harry play in my living room as small child and I had seen his photo pulled from a box of photos my Aunt had kept in her closet, a old, sepia toned photo of my father, taken when he was in his early 20s.