Mornings in Texas with the Dead
My mornings in Texas start with a cup of coffee on Lake Austin. I sit at a park table with my copy of Caro’s The Path to Power, watching steam escape from my cup. When a gust of wind hits, which is often, the foliage on massive oaks rattles like maracas, covering the pages of my paperback with crispy leaves.
After a few hours of reading about Texas Hill Country, I’ll inevitably get distracted by the lyrics of a song being sung, usually by a young buck with an acoustic guitar. Yesterday, it was Friend of the Devil—an old Grateful Dead track that’s been a favorite since first hearing it as a freshman in high school.
The guy singing was soft-spoken; hunched over his guitar, his spine bent like a bow, his fingers effortlessly danced with enviable precision. I was two hours into my book when I heard his picking, so I laid it down and enjoyed his rendition.
Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night
The first one's named sweet Anne Marie, and she's my heart's delight
The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff's on my trail
And if he catches up with me, I'll spend my life in jail
I doubt anyone felt the song like I did. Then again, only a dozen people were there.
An elderly couple, sitting on the same side of the table, were looking at photos on one of their phones. They were clearly in love; their body language told a story, one decades old—I’m sure with equal parts tragedy and good fortune.
Behind them was a young mother with red hair; a real beauty. Her son, a handsome little bugger, had red hair too, but with subtle streaks of blonde—not as pronounced as his mother’s. Momma enjoyed her coffee while Junior played on the table, beneath the table, everywhere.
To my left was a middle-aged woman with a notepad. I wanted to know what she was jotting down. I had half a mind to ask, to introduce myself as a writer, but I chose to observe instead. Her brow occasionally squinted, creating deep wrinkles on her forehead. She was thinking deeply, but about what? Her pen scribbled furiously.
To my right was a brunette with an indefatigable countenance. At times she’d tilt her head in thought, exposing dimples on her chin as her right eye closed, lips pursed. But those eyes… a man could lose his life in them. When she laughed, they danced, doing silly pirouettes, drowning in femininity.
I sat there in my tweed jacket, a necktie, and fedora, believing I was inconspicuous. But who knows—maybe one of them has a story like mine to tell, but where I’m a character in it, at the mercy of a stranger’s observations. Would I be a middle-aged guy dressed like a 1930s college professor? A Deadhead in disguise? Or a redneck with a bag of chewing tobacco hanging out of the back pocket of his blue jeans? And what about that mustache?
All of this because a cowboy played a Grateful Dead tune.
P.S. While writing this, I listened to several versions of Friend of the Devil:
Bob Weir & Grace Potter – 5/14/15, Columbia, MD. The slide guitar is killer.
Jerry Garcia & David Grisman – 1991. These two are beautiful together.
Tom Petty – The Live Anthology. The harmonica is great, and Petty’s voice!
Dick’s Picks Vol. 8 – 5/2/70. Considered the Dead’s best FOTD ever.
