A Cage To Hold My Dreams
The Black Guy At The Bar
The bar of Le Cafe des Artistes
was crowded
It was almost time for placing last orders
During a hot, excitable night
in July 1966. England's win over West Germany
at Wembley had got everyone in a good mood.
Smiles lit every face. And the cry of '4-2'
came across the smoke from the darkest,
noisiest alcove in the room.
There was no space to move away from the bar
Those already at it, like myself,
were trapped
by a sea of bodies pressing against us
I decided to buy my girl-friend one last drink.
As I called to the barman, at the same time,
the guy standing beside me also tried to get
his attention.
He was thin and black, with long, frizzy hair
fringed around a rather sleepy-eyed face.
Not handsome, exactly, but distinctive.
We glanced at each other briefly, both of us
having a good time,
both on the point of smiling.
He spoke first.
"After you, my friend," he said, as he directed
the barman's gaze onto my eyes. I thanked him
for his courtesy, which was unusual at that hour
as everyone scrambles before the bar closes.
Later, at her apartment, I mentioned to Sheila
the black guy at the bar
who had impressed me with his good manners
and thoughtfulness.
She said, "I noticed him speaking to you.
I hoped you would introduce us"
I asked, "Why should I ?" She said, "Because
he's the greatest guitarist in the world.
That was Jimi Hendrix."
