The high school auditorium stage is dark. We hear the sound of footsteps, and the hollow bump of a nervous hand on the body of an acoustic guitar. There is no spotlight, but gradually there is light, from a movie projector, that covers him, wraps around him, and spreads across the flat gray scrim behind him. A city, maybe New York. Streets, cars, trucks, and buses. Storefronts, bars, fences, stairways up and down to apartments, a sidewalk. People: Young and old, coming and going, some talking, some laughing, some crying, holding hands, friends, passing, strangers. The camera moves back, giving us the impression that he is walking among them.
Gene wears jeans and a brown suede vest with fringe over a white tshirt with a blue collar. A bandana rolled and tied around a blond wig, and wire rimmed glasses. (The city looks older now - the cars, the people sliding by toward another time.) He doesn’t move, he takes a deep breath. A note, a chord. Chords. Words. Words of description, of absence, of loss, of love. And a hopeful return. If you see him, tell him not to worry. Tell him to come back home. Everything is fine.
His voice is quiet but strong. His guitar is simple and clear. After he is finished, he takes another deep breath and nods with a tired smile. The projection continues for a few moments, then dims, and it’s dark again. More footsteps. A cleared throat, a cough somewhere in the audience.
The applause is hesitant and polite, but gains momentum. I stand up and clap until my hands sting.
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