I watched him go to the passenger side of his old Tacoma. He reached in the window and grabbed a lighter from the door. Then he leaned against the side of the truck and sparked a bowl. Gray hair slipped out from underneath his old US Marines hat. I wouldn’t call him old, but he wasn’t young — probably 60, or so, or whatever. Is 60 old? We made eye contact as he blew the smoke out his mouth and he grinned a big, silly grin. I want to say he was missing a tooth or two, but I can’t remember. He appeared settled and content. Maybe it was because of the sweet light that shined over the mountains on the edge of town. The snowcaps glistened like golden ice cream. I followed him into the brew pub and found my Coors Light at a table in the back as he went to the front and grabbed his guitar. Open mic night. His turn. A young man in dreadlocks walked onto the makeshift stage and sat down next to him with a mandolin on his lap. There were nine, maybe twelve people in the room. Then, he played. Familiar chords jumped from his Martin. An old Robert Earl Keen song. The mandolin began to dance. His voice was scraggly and worn; the sound of living and enduring, of wisdom gained through regret. “I wanted you to see 'em all,” he crooned. “I wished that you were there.” As he hit the climax of the song, the man in dreadlocks harmonized, a sweet and soulful duet in the clean mountain air. “It feels so good feelin’ good again.” I suppose I agreed.
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