It was our last day on the mountain.

I didn’t see the hump of snow, otherwise known as a mogul, at the edge of slope. Well, not really. I mean, I knew it was there, but I fully intended to turn in the other direction before reaching it.

Things did not go as intended.

But I’ve gotten ahead in the story. Here’s some background:

I’d spent the week skiing in the Park City area with my son, his wife and her family, and my significant other, all of whom are better skiers than I. No matter. I was out to have a good time and no amount of falling was going to get in the way.

And fall I did.

In fact, the falling was consistent to the point it became a sort of running joke. Consistent to the point that others in the group kept their phones at the ready in order to get a picture of a fall’s aftermath. I fell so regularly that my son’s father-in-law claimed I used it as a form of attention seeking behavior. I denied this, of course, but I can understand how the casual observer might draw the same conclusion.

But, no matter how spectacular the tumble, I suffered no injuries. This despite the results of one stumble ending with me sliding halfway down a hill on my back, head first, holding my skis in the air lest they impede my progress down the hill. Indeed, I started, only half-jokingly, claiming to be Unbreakable, just like Bruce Willis in the movie of the same name.

Did I mention I always wear a helmet?

It occurs to me, at this point in the story, it may appear to the average reader that, when it comes to this particular sport, I have little to no ability. Let me assure you, this is not the case. Not exactly, anyway. I contend I am not a bad skier, but also that my skill set continues to improve.

At least when I’m paying attention.

Bad things happen when I’m not paying attention. Bad things happen when my weight shifts backward instead of forward. Bad things happen when I don’t control my rate of descent. All of these things I know how to do. It’s during the implementation of this knowledge or, rather, lack thereof, when things go haywire.

That’s the back story.

On this day, the last day of skiing before I headed back to Ohio, I was attempting to put into practice some of what I’d learned during a three-hour lesson I’d taken the day before. At first, everything was hunky dory, at least until that damn hump of snow, the one I mentioned four hundred or so words earlier in the story. It was my third trip down this particular hill and, I swear to God, that mogul appeared out of nowhere. I’d missed it my first two times down the hill. Third time is a charm.

My right ski buried itself deep in that hump.

I could see it happening. Indeed, I had the best view of it as I fell, face first, into the packed snow of the slope and, as my face hurtled downward, I could see my ski go from horizontal to vertical, the tip burying itself even further into the snow. That part I’ll never forget. It happened in slow motion, like the world does right before a car crash. It was mesmerizing.

Other details, however, got a little shady. At least at first.

My son, who was skiing in front of me, apparently looked back at one point to see I had fallen. He then waited, according to his proximation, about one minute for me to get up, quite naturally assuming I would get up. Considering how many times I had fallen and gotten up during the week, I consider it a fair assumption. But after at least one full minute of observing my inert body, he assumed I was dead and, quite courageously, removed his skis and hiked up the mountain to where I lay, face down, in the snow.

“You ok?” He queried after helping me up. My skis were still attached.

“I’m fine. I’m Unbreakable, remember?”
We skied a short distance to an area where skiers could take a break and, once stopped, I took the opportunity to clean the snow out of my goggles.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He told me later he caught me staring blankly up the mountain. “Do you want to stop by the medical shack and get checked out?”

“I’m fine. Really. Just trying to figure out how I got up here.” I wasn’t kidding.

He paused for a moment. “What day is it?”

That was a stumper. “Umm…Tuesday?” It was Friday, but it would take me three more guesses to get it right.

My son now behind me, we skied the rest of the way down the hill, removed our skis, and hiked to the medical shack, where I was instructed to go directly to the emergency room of the local hospital. This we did and, once checked in, were assigned a room in short order. Then, of course, we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I hate waiting, but it was worse for my son. At least I was the object of activity. He, on the other hand, got stuck in the room while I was subjected to a CT scan, and then a full MRI because, I was told, they found an anomaly on the CT scan. For my part, I suspect emergency departments are viewed by hospital administrations as consistent profit centers, so I had a healthy suspicion about the necessity of all those tests. However, my son’s in-laws took time out from their day to visit us in the ER, and assured me they supported the tests. Doctors both, I trusted their perspective and submitted to the regimen until, six hours later, finally being told that there was nothing wrong with me. At least nothing that a little food and rest wouldn’t cure.

As quickly as possible, we decamped and drove back to his in-law’s house. There we were served a late dinner of meat loaf and potatoes before retiring to the family room for an hour of Galaga. I got high score.

Lying in bed that night, I thought of the day’s adventure. I thought of how I needed to ski more often and how I felt like the day had been wasted because of me. I attempted to apologize to my son for this, as he had certainly been bored out of his mind. His response? No problem. I would have done the same for him.

Damn right I would.

About three Sundays ago I looked around my man cave, hereafter referred to as my apartment, and decided it needed a refresh. Things were grim. While I appreciate a masculine sensibility of style (I am a man, after all) my apartment resembled more a fraternity house television lounge than a well-appointed man space. There was work to be done.

I decided to start with the living room, which mostly meant replacing my ratty couch and buying a couple chairs. Now, the couch wasn’t always ratty. I can attest that, at the beginning of its life cycle, it was actually quite attractive and comfortable. Enter Brody the Aussie. Brody, for reasons not fully understood by either of us, decided the couch was a good object on which to practice his digging skills. Over time, I and others have tested various techniques to allay this bad behavior, but the dog always seems to devise a work-around with which to foil my defenses which, ironically, included spreading foil over the cushions. I learned quickly, however, that the shiny covering didn’t faze him in the least. Nor did a hand-built wall of couch cushions. Finally, I tried a Scat Mat and found the slight electroshock quite effective—when I remember to use it.

As an aside, let it be known throughout the land that Brody does not attack the couch when I’m around which, to me, proves he knows it’s wrong. It’s when I’m not home that he can’t seem to stop himself, sort of like someone who smokes when they drink. Once I’m out the door, the couch becomes fair game.

Back to the living room refresh.

I knew exactly what I wanted in a couch and started with Amazon but, despite having a gagillion sofa choices, nothing jumped out at me. Admittedly, I was simultaneously watching the Bengals game, but believe my multi-tasking skills sufficient to where I can watch a football game whilst couch hunting on the interweb. Regardless, I found nothing suitable, and set my laptop aside. Lo and behold, during one of the many breaks I was treated to a commercial for Wayfair, a company that, until that moment, I was convinced operated mostly in the homemade craft space. I was as surprised as anyone to discover they sold furniture.

I reopened my laptop.

Eureka! It took me less than ten minutes to find exactly what I was looking for and ten minutes to order my new furniture. Go Wayfair!

A sectional couch and two leather chairs.

And the nightmare began.

Via a link in a Wayfair email, I was given the ability to track my new furniture as it made its intrepid journey, which started in a warehouse in Georgia. According to the tracking information, my new furniture, purchased on a Sunday, was picked up in a town called Richmond Hill in the aforementioned state of Georgia, and its arrival was set four days later. At first, everything seemed hunky dory. On my computer, I watched as the furniture dithered between one Richmond Hill warehouse and another but, no matter, soon it was on its way to Independence, Kentucky, which happens to be about half an hour from my home. Given the short distance left to travel, surely I would have my furniture in a matter of hours! In fact, I was so convinced it would soon appear, I arranged for the timely pickup of my old, ratty couch.

And then I waited.

I waited for a whole day.

I checked the tracker. The delivery had gone off the rails.

My furniture was, inexplicably, on its way to Menlo, Iowa. Now, at this juncture, it may be helpful to point out that, geographically, Independence, Kentucky is a LOT closer to Cincinnati than, well, any place in Iowa. There could be no explanation but that the FedEx driver had gone rogue. How else could such an incompetent logistical accident have occurred?  My couch and chairs were headed west.

I did not take this lying down. I called the Wayfair helpline.

Me: Yeah, hello. I’m just trying to figure out why my furniture is headed to parts unknown.

Helpful Service Agent: Yessir. It looks like your order is being transferred to Iowa.

Me: (Trying not to sound angry) Yes, I can see that on the tracking tool. My questions are “why?” and “can you get the truck turned around?”

Helpful Service Agent: Well, I don’t know why. And, no sir. We can’t turn the truck around.

Me: (Was my head exploding?) Well, what can you do?

Helpful Service Agent: Hmm…I’m not quite sure, but I will email a supervisor and get back to you as soon as possible. Is that alright?

Me: What choice do I have? Thank you.

And what choice did I have? The Helpful Service Agent was doing her best but clearly did not have her finger on the pulse of Wayfair logistics. I could only mourn for my furniture, which by now had to be feeling terribly lonely and forgotten. I waited for a response (which never came) and, for the next eight days bore witness to the nationwide travels of my new couch and chairs.

And travel they did!

Having made their way to Iowa, my hobo-like furniture moved on to Sydney, Nebraska; thence to Washington Terrace, Utah; thence to Tacoma, Washington; and thence to Troutdale, Oregon. At this point in its travels, it appeared my wayward furniture decided it’d seen enough of the big, cruel world, turned on its heels, and headed back east. It was time to come home.

In (sort of) quick succession, the errant explorers shipped out of Troutdale for Holbrook, Idaho; thence to Sinclair, Wyoming; thence to Minden, Iowa; thence to Indianapolis; thence to Greenwood, Indiana; back to Independence, Kentucky; and, finally, to my front door. A total distance of 5,274 miles or, for metric types, 9,210 kilometers.

No worries. I assembled everything soon after reception and, other than the extra pollution, wasted time and wasted money, everything is fine. As you can see from the picture, the furniture is assembled, and Brody the Aussie is quite comfortable.

Now, I just need to find that Scat Mat. . .

After four or five scans of the bookcase, I found them. They were on the second-to-bottom shelf, hidden behind a heavy table stacked with local doodads like Cincinnati coffee cups and pint glasses bearing the Reds logo.

It was an intimidating set up.

To get to them, I would need to either move the heavy table or crawl beneath it. I opted for the latter, fearing any attempt to move the doodad table would draw unwanted attention, and would likely result in a tumbling of the carefully stacked tchotchkes. But I had to do something. The current setup prevented anyone from actually seeing my books, and I sincerely doubted my not-so-vast group of literary admirers was lining up to ask for them by name. I felt compelled to reduce their anonymity by any means necessary.

I dropped on all fours and started crawling.

Unsurprisingly, my actions were noticed almost immediately. Apparently, a baby-crawling adult is more notable than my novels, which had been relegated to a sort of “if a tree falls in the woods” existential location. You know—if a book is on a shelf, but no one can see it, is it really there?

To be honest, I had no idea what I intended to do once arriving at the books’ ignominious location. Maybe buy them all in order to save them from a life of obscurity? Or maybe it was my own obscurity I feared.

“Excuse me, sir. Excuse me. What are you doing?” I was almost completely under the table but could see the bottom half of the clerk if I ducked my head under my left arm. She hovered behind me, likely staring at my ass and—I imagine—looking agitated, wearing white gym shoes and loose-fitting khakis. My head movement, restricted by the table, prevented me from seeing her face, no matter how hard I contorted my body.

“Sir, customers are not allowed under the tables.” I accepted her pronouncement even as I doubted its veracity. Was there somewhere a written rule against customers crawling around the bookstore? I doubt it to this day.

“Oh. Sorry,” my voice muffled by my armpit. “I was just trying to get to a book on this lower shelf here.” I pointed to one of my books, which I doubt she could see me doing, and pointedly did not mention I was, indeed, the author of said books.

“Sir, if you’ll crawl back out of there, we’ll move things around so you can get to that shelf.”

I had no choice but to comply. What was I to do? Grab the books with one hand and scurry away like a three-legged dog?

I stood idly whilst reinforcements were summoned. It took three of them move the solid doodads table, which was accomplished without destroying any of the items on the table itself. Impressive.

“Which book did want, sir?” The clerk, the original one with white gym shoes and khaki pants, pointed at the local author shelves.

“Um…that one.” I pointed at First Date, wondering if Stephen King ever suffered through such a moment in his hometown of Bangor, Maine. Abashed, I continued to withhold the fact I’d written the damn thing.

However, it appeared I’d not yet caused a big enough scene, as now one of the store managers joined the party, ostensibly to direct the table movers, whose task was nearly complete. After verifying the table had been moved exactly three feet to his right, the manager turned his attention to me.

“What book were you looking for, sir?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d already covered this ground with the white-gym-shoes-khaki-pants girl, so I pretended this was the first time I’d been asked the question.

I pointed again. “That one there…it’s called Drunk Log.”

“Hmmm…Drunk Log, eh? Can’t say I’m aware that any of those have sold.” The manager waived his hand toward the copies of Drunk Log and First Date.

I was sure my head was going to explode.

“Is it possible the lack of sales might be a result of poor product placement? I mean, my books are way down on the bottom shelf, and until moments ago were only accessible to toddlers or crawling adults.”

“You say that’s your book?” I’d shared this information accidentally, mostly due to my rising frustration with being trapped in the Local Authors Section. “These are in alphabetical order by author, so it’s where it should be.” I cursed myself for not having a last name that started with an “A.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Well, I think the Drunk Logs have been there almost a year, while the First Dates just a couple weeks. Listen, is there any reason you can’t put my books over there?” I nodded at a table fifteen feet from us. It was positioned almost directly in front of the entrance foyer. “You know, on that table everyone passes when they come in the store?”

“Oh . . . no. I don’t think so. That’s for new releases only.”

I nearly screamed that First Date was still a new release, but bit my tongue, oddly fearful that if I pressed too hard, they might remove my books altogether. Not that it would have made a difference in sales.

The manager examined another set of shelves, ones unhidden by stacked knickknacks. “But these are for local authors also. You want me to move your books over here?”

It occurred to me that, under the circumstances, this was probably the best I could do. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll even do a face-out.” Now he was being extra nice. A face-out takes up more shelf space and displays the front of the book.

“That would be very kind of you.”

I hung out while the books were moved to the new shelf, their position now at eye level for a human of average height. No crawling required. When he finished, I thanked him profusely, but as soon as he was out of sight, I grabbed two copies of each book and gingerly placed them on the New Releases table.

To no avail.

They were back the Local Authors Section an hour later.

Those clerks don’t miss a thing.

I hadn’t seen him all summer and was worried he hadn’t survived the winter—despite all the peanuts I’d left for him on the fire escape. But there he was, tentatively crossing the street in front of the Know Theatre. Brody and I were out for our morning walk when we spotted the squirrel, who appeared to be carrying something in his front paws. Food, I assume. Neither animal took much notice of the other. Rocky, especially, seemed oblivious to the presence of the not-so-vicious dog. Perhaps he’s familiar with the city’s leash law and understood he was in no danger.

There is, however, another rodent I’m worried about: Templeton the Rat. And I worry even knowing that rats can carry the Black Plague. Until recently, Templeton had been living beneath a sewer grate in an alley just one building over from mine. Templeton, unlike Rocky, is nocturnal and uses the cover of darkness to feast on the leftover food in a dumpster positioned right above the sewer grate. This arrangement has clearly worked in Templeton’s favor, his build being more that of an offensive lineman, in contrast to Rocky, whose lean figure is reminiscent of an Olympic marathoner. But why the obvious difference in Body Mass Index?

Here’s why:

Whereas Rocky, in order to reach the peanuts on my fire escape, is forced to traverse a suspended path of electric wires, Templeton had easy access to the food in the dumpster via a rusty hole in its base. In addition to the dumpster food, Templeton would clean up on the weekends, when holidaymakers and panhandlers alike leave discarded food on any available flat surface. Indeed, one evening early this summer I witnessed Templeton dragging an entire pork chop down the street and into his alley lair.

So, one might ask, what’s the problem?

Though I’ve made the fire escape peanuts available, thus far this summer I’ve not witnessed Rocky partaking of the potential stash, though I have noticed some peanuts go missing. Now, I am no expert on gray squirrel behavior, but I’m hoping the peanuts have been mostly untouched because he’s just not ready to gather yet. Maybe there’s a specific gathering season of which I’m unaware. Regardless, I was just happy to see him crossing the street, to see him still among the living. The interweb told me that, in the wild, the average lifespan for Rocky’s breed is only a few years. Six years if he’s lucky. I don’t know his birthday so, as far as I know, he may already have exceeded the average.

Also, while Rocky and Templeton both face daily existential challenges, I actually believe Templeton’s day-to-day livelihood to be somewhat more fragile by comparison. Rocky, unlike his rodent cousin, lives above the fray. Though there are, of course, dangers to living in the trees, his arboreal existence gives him choices that Templeton doesn’t have. For instance, Rocky can descend to the street below, for the most part, at his discretion. I understand squirrels are rather clever, so I imagine Rocky taking stock of his surroundings before venturing into the world of man. Picking his spots, as it were.

Templeton, on the other hand, lives in a far more dangerous environment. He is daily exposed to the vagaries of life at street level. Sure, living under the sewer grate gives him a place to which he can escape when danger is afoot, but what happens down there during a rainstorm? Additionally, his main food source has recently been eliminated. A couple weeks ago, the trash company replaced the rusty dumpster with one less leaky. To find food, Templeton must now venture out from the safety of the alley.

And venture out he has. My last Templeton encounter, not long after the pork chop incident, was me spotting him running for safety under one of the corner trash receptacles. It was a busy Friday night and foot traffic abounded. I felt bad for the little guy, dodging one shrieking lass after another. It appeared he’d been forced out of his alleyway lair, probably due to all the construction occurring in the building right next door. Poor guy.

Now, you may be asking yourself, why doesn’t this idiot just call the city pest control people? 

Well, I thought of that, at least when I first discovered Templeton. I figured if there’s one rat there’s probably more. But I didn’t see more, and my attitude softened, especially after realizing it wasn’t likely he carried the Black Plague. So, I let it go. Live and let live and whatnot.

In the end, I realize, it’s really all about survival. Me, my furry rodent friends, and myriad other creatures, including humans, are just trying to survive day by day, and if I have the time and wherewithal to leave some peanuts on the fire escape, and maybe toss the occasional pork chop into the alley, then so be it. For my part, with my karmic slate a little more balanced, I sleep better at night.

At least as long as I don’t catch the Plague.

The shot rang out.

“Did you get one?” Having taken cover with the dog, I was not in a position to see if he’d been successful.

“I got one.” Tim stood, and with his empty hand, motioned toward the trees. “The other two ran away.”

Smart move on the part of the deer, I thought, although I was ninety-five percent sure they had no idea what had transpired. Do deer know how guns work? Doubt it.

Meanwhile, my sister-in-law, who knows how guns work, was in tears. I was told later that this was normal, that Tracey generally cried whenever Tim killed something. She was, however, in charge of the meat preparation so, clearly, she wasn’t totally against the act.

My attention turned from Tracey’s tears when I noticed the reappearance of the dead deer’s compatriots.

Tim looked out the window and sighed. “They always return to the scene of the crime. Not sure why.”

I had my own theory on this phenomenon. “Maybe they came back to look for their friend?”

My observation did nothing to alleviate Tracey’s tears, and in fact made them worse. Until that moment, apparently, she’d not considered the deer might be searching for their fallen comrade.

Tim and I ventured to the carcass, which rested only a few yards from where it got shot, a testament to Tim’s skill. We did not have to chase it and it did not suffer. Tim performed a quick inspection before grabbing a forehoof.

“You wanna grab the other one? We’ll just drag it down to the shed.”

Lucky for us, the trip was not far and sort of downhill; the most strenuous part was maneuvering the corpus around the chicken coop, which stood between us and the shed. The deer cooperated as best it could. The cooped chickens, disinterested, offered no help.

Once inside the shed, Tim decided to try something new and not hang the deer head- down. I’m not sure exactly what this would accomplish. Maybe it was deer-cleaning-opposite-day, or perhaps the inverted hanging somehow made the meat kosher. Still, I said nothing. After all, I had zero experience with this sort of thing and Tim at least acted like he knew what he was doing, even though the knife he was using to rend the fur looked like something he’d grabbed from a kitchen drawer. It was about the size of a paring knife, and it occurred to me that, in every butchering scene I’d ever watched on television, the person doing the butchering used a much larger knife. And this seems appropriate. The large knife. I mean, wouldn’t you want something big in order to cut through all that flesh and bone? I know I would, especially in a zombie apocalypse scenario. In a zombie apocalypse a big knife could serve more than one purpose.

But I digress.

Tim did most (all) of the work while I played fetch with my dog. Brody, like the chickens, found almost nothing interesting about the dead deer. Sure, he sniffed it a little, but he demurred when my brother offered him a slice of raw deer meat, preferring fetch and knowing he would have dry dog food for dinner eight hours hence.

“Can you hold her head up?”

The problem with hanging the deer that way was that its head was flopping backward, getting in the way of his work.

“Sure.” I did not find the idea of handling the deer’s floppy head at all appealing. I mean, I really was wearing a nice coat, while Tim’s looked like something you’d find in a dumpster at a wastewater treatment plant, but it was the least I could do. I’d literally done nothing to help once we got the deer into the shed, so I pulled my coat sleeve up and held the head aloft. But now the doe’s doleful eyes were staring right at me. I thought this would bother me more than it did, but in a (rare) moment of clarity I was reminded of a basic truth: Everything dies. None of us is getting out of this alive. Not the deer. Not me. Not even Brody (even though I want him to live forever.)

When Tim finished filling a cooler with deer parts, we carried it up to the deck behind his house, where he placed weights on top of it so that the meat would remain unmolested by the local racoons. As I mentioned, it was Tracey’s job to transform the spoils into steaks and sausages, something she is apparently quite good at.

For my part, in addition to the shed epiphany, I’ve taken a lesson from the experience. Here it is: should the zombie apocalypse come, I’m going to scooch to northern Indiana as quickly as possible. My brother has survival skills, and I’m sure the meat freezer is full.

“Who’s Molly Sullivan?”

“We used to be neighbors. She’s a musician.” I threw in “musician” to subtly signal I wasn’t trying to trick him into attending a poetry reading. “She’s really good.”

(Insert pregnant pause here.)

“I’ll check her out and let you know.” This was Paul slow-rolling a “no.” His improvisational nature usually has him coming out of the gate with a “yes” for this kind of thing, but sometimes he’s in a mood.

“Cool. Let me know and I’ll get the tickets.”

“Sure.” Click.

Two hours later, safely ensconced in a training session at one of the airport hotel meeting rooms, I received a text.

“Checked her out. I’m in.”

(Insert thumbs up emoji here.)

Pretending to pay attention to the gripping, round-table discussion of Excel pivot-tables, I surreptitiously ordered the tickets online. I’d also invited Beth, my friend and editor. But she promptly prevaricated on my invitation, telling me she would think about it and, if she decided she wanted to go, would meet us there.

24 hours later and training complete, I hopped the shuttle back to the airport. I had four hours to kill before the flight, and spent that time productively drinking beer whilst “researching” flights to Spain and other various overseas destinations.

I’d let Paul and Beth know my estimated time of neighborhood arrival (ETNA) was seven-thirty, and that the show started at eight o’clock. Lucky for me the pilots were in a bit of a rush, and we were in the air for, maybe, 18 minutes or so before hitting the tarmac at the Cincinnati airport. The flight was so speedy, in fact, that I barely had time to watch a full episode of Downton Abbey. On the bright side, the short flight left me with plenty of time to pick up my dog before meeting Paul for pre-show cheeseburgers at MOTR.

(Author’s Note: Beth deigned to show up at MOTR, and arrived just as we were finishing. She spent the remaining time scamming our excess tots.)

The three of us left MOTR and crossed the street to the Woodward, where we grabbed beers and gave our attention to the two opening acts.

Finally, Mol and her band took the stage.

Hmmm…how do I describe her music? Short answer is her songs could be considered a record of her battles, won and lost, with her own demons. A record of loves lost and found. A chronicle of desires fulfilled or abandoned. It is difficult to have had the human experience and not feel the brutally honest accounting she gives of her own life. And none of it with a “poor me” inflection. She owns it. All of it.

Molly’s trip through life thus far is full of material worth singing about, as is Paul’s. And though she’s certainly more in touch with her feelings than is my best friend, on this night their spirits were aligned. Paul felt Mol’s music in a way I’d never witnessed. Mesmerized. Transfixed. He couldn’t turn away from the stage except to look over his shoulder at Beth and me, his eyes expressing joy and surprise. He’d clearly fallen in love.

So had the audience. And the love was two-directional—in waves it rolled toward the stage, crashed over the band, and then rolled back to her fans. Indeed, other than a few chatty bastards behind me, the entire crowd was as engaged as Paul, as a group unable to focus on anything other than what was happening with Mol and the band. Unlike the chatty bastards, they’d come for the show and were going to absorb as much of it as possible.

Now, I’m not sure how long Mol was on stage. An hour? A day? A week? Personally, I believe we entered an alternate dimension the moment she started playing. Time stopped passing in any discernable way. Mol, however, gently kept us attached to reality, keeping the cadence and taking time between songs to introduce her band and others that have helped her along the way.

Of course, all good things must come to an end and, in preparation of that eventuality, Mol laid out the rules. Instead of following standard encore procedure, the band would do the encore without ever actually leaving the stage, thereby relieving the audience of the need to openly beg for more.

(Insert rabid applause here.)

And what an encore. Cheryl Crow’s Every Day is a Winding Road couldn’t have been more apropos as a summary of Mol’s life or, indeed, anyone’s. She pulled musicians on stage until there was no room for them to move, the expanded entourage creating a wall of sound of which Phil Spector would have been proud. (Look it up)

Applause still echoing, the crowd dispersed. Paul, however, remained still, staring at the now-empty stage, perhaps hoping Molly was joking about the lack of a formal encore.

“Do you guys want to go get a drink?” Beth’s voice rose from below. I heard the question but it seemed to bounce off Paul.

I advanced Beth’s effort and spoke to the back of his head. “Paul, do you want to get a drink?”

(Insert another pregnant pause here.)

“No…no. I’m good. I think I’m good.”

Beth and I looked on in wonder.

“What about Liberty’s?” Beth coaxed. Usually, Paul found Liberty’s Wall of Wine irresistible.

“No. I’m good. I just want to savor this moment.” I don’t recall Paul ever saying these exact words, unless he was talking about a cocktail.

We went our separate ways and, as I walked, I imagined Paul ambling to his house, tripping over uneven concrete and running into street signs, attention turned inward.

I smiled at the thought and made a mental note to remind him, or rather, torture him, of the fact that he almost said no.

(Insert convenient link here: http://molsullivan.com)