A Bus in Sydney, 1991

I'd arrived in Australia with a bad cold, and combined with jet lag that lingered longer than usual, I felt awful. So, although I'm a bit of a people-watcher, it wasn't surprising that I hardly noticed her when she boarded the bus. She moved past me in the aisle, and took a seat in the side-facing row opposite mine. She'd moved a couple of seats farther to the rear than my position, so we were fairly close to one another, but not directly opposite.

The bus was mostly empty, so I happened to be the closest fellow passenger. I glanced her way. She wore a long, tan linen skirt, a brown blouse, a tweed jacket, and white walking shoes. Her hair was chestnut-colored, with streaks of gray. She had a soft, plain, oval-shaped face, one that didn't clearly convey a certain age. She could have been thirty-five; she could have been fifty. She looked tired, and I guessed that she felt no desire to begin a conversation.

A busload of college guys might hardly have noticed her, but the more I glanced at her face (discreetly, I hoped), the more I felt drawn to it. She had an intelligent, but unassuming air about her, as well as a modest dignity. I noticed the crow's feet around her eyes, the laugh lines, the small scar on her right cheekbone, and the tiny mole below her left ear. Suddenly, I worried that I might be too obvious. ("Most women like to be noticed," my sister once informed me, "but not so much that they feel threatened.") Feeling self-conscious, I forced myself to look down at the floor. I closed my eyes, and soon began to spar with an unwanted nap. One of those strange half dream/half daydream bouts soon commenced, in which I saw myself sitting with her in a cafe, a newfound friend from half the world away. We shared coffee, and I listened to funny stories about her husband and children, her growing up years, her first love, her friends, her life. Then, someone on the bus went into a coughing fit, and I came out of my trance feeling vaguely unsettled, as if I'd invaded her privacy by conjuring up such a vision.

When I glanced at her again, I noticed that she had meanwhile closed her eyes. I now studied her face more intently, a face that promised the telling of so many stories, so many observations about life. I saw love and loss, laughter and sadness, joy and sorrow, all at once. I didn't feel attracted to her so much as fascinated by her, and strangely comforted by her presence. Still, as I gained a familiarity with her appearance, I grew aware of a subtle, graceful beauty that wasn't apparent at first, a beauty that seemed veiled in world-weariness. I yearned to talk to her, to learn of her loves and losses and triumphs and tragedies. But then, the bus began to slow, and her eyes suddenly opened. I failed to avert my gaze quickly enough, and she caught me studying her. "Oh great," I thought, "I've just entered the 'gawking geek' zone." Her expression betrayed no reaction whatsoever. I felt mildly relieved, but still embarrassed. She gathered her bag, then leaned forward in the seat, preparing to disembark.

Having been "caught," I again looked at the floor, although I very much wanted to look at her one last time. Her feet stopped in front of me. "Oh no," I thought, "Mr. Discreet is about to get a lecture." Prepared to offer a preemptive apology, I was instead startled when she gently bumped me on the shoulder with the back of her hand. I looked up, into her eyes. They had a twinkle to them, and she offered a smile that harbored no hint of reproach.

Saying nothing, but still smiling, she moved to the door of the bus. She then looked my way one last time. "Bye, Yank," she said. Startled anew, I couldn't seem to say anything in response, but I did manage to return a smile. Then she stepped down from the bus, and walked away from me, back to her life.

Trout, Love & Tenderness

In 1982, I lived in Austin, Texas. It was the sort of place that seemed to offer me, a single twenty-five year old guy, an extended pit-stop in the journey of life--a chance to hide from loneliness, from responsibility, from myself.

One night, I sat at home, feeling dejected. An English woman I'd been seeing had just dumped me. Her former live-in boyfriend, who’d dumped her, had resurfaced. He was in, I was out. As the evening wore on, cabin fever set in, and I aimlessly headed into the evening for a few "I'm sorry for myself" beers. I walked about a mile from my house to a mall, where I found myself in front of a tavern I'd never visited before. There was a sign in front announcing, "Tonight only, Trout Fishing in America." I read the sign again, thinking, "Trout Fishing in America?" I started to walk away. I stopped. I turned around, walked back to the bar, and went in.

The first sign that the evening might develop into something memorable came when I bumped into a guy with long blond hair, walking to the stage holding a guitar. Nothing unusual in that, except that I'm six-four, and I found myself about eye-level with his Adam's apple. Then another guy, seemingly two feet shorter than the blond guitarist, walked to the stage where his upright bass stood waiting. "Hm," I thought. I shoved the beer I'd just paid for back at the bartender and ordered coffee. Something was in the air, it seemed, and I no longer wanted to disengage from feeling the currents of my life. Suddenly, without really knowing why, I wanted to feel plugged in.

I could've skipped the coffee. Those two guys drew me in with their spare but tasty musical arrangements, and as for their vocal harmonies, well, it just seemed that they were meant to sing together. There was an innocence to their songs, yet a sneaky sort of profound spirit infused them. Many of their songs seemed written for children, which normally would have seemed incongruous in a smoke-filled bar; yet somehow, that evening, did not. I found myself drawn from feeling merely interested, to entertained, to wrapped up in an enchanting mojo. When closing time came--all too soon--I felt that someone had grabbed me and shaken the hardness out of my heart. I walked out of the place with nary a thought of my now-former girlfriend and her resurfaced boyfriend.

Over the years, I sometimes thought about Trout Fishing in America. But, before the internet, thinking about them was about all it came to. Fast-forward twenty-two years to this year. My wife comes home and asks, "Feel like doing anything tonight?"

"Sure," I replied, "You want to go out to dinner?"

"No, Peggy asked us if we want to meet her and her kids to see some guys who call themselves 'Trout Fishing in America.'" I froze. That evening back in Austin came flooding back to my memory. In moments, I replayed the journey I’d made that night, from a realm of sorrow and self-pity to a place infused with a celebratory spirit.

“Hal? Did you hear me?” I looked at her. “What did you just ask me?” “I asked if you wanted to do something tonight. Is something wrong?” “Did you say we’d go see Trout Fishing in America?” “Yeah,” she answered, “but what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” As Dylan climbed into my lap, I told them about that night in Austin in 1982. “I wanna go!” announced Dylan.

That evening, we walked in to the auditorium with our son, found some seats behind Peggy, and waited. Then out onto the stage they walked: Ezra Idlet, all six feet nine inches of him, and Keith Grimwood, all five feet five inches of him. To tell the truth, I had to overcome an initial resentment, as those guys appeared to have aged at about half the rate that I saw when I shaved in the morning. But as the evening unfolded, tears came to my eyes at least twice: once, when I realized that they still had their magic, and again when I saw that my three-and-a-half year old son was drawn in to their warm realm as well. It was very much like rediscovering an inviting, comforting haven, only this time it was even better. This time, I sat with my family.

A couple of months have passed since I rediscovered Trout Fishing in America. Now, my son no longer asks to hear his formerly favorite CD--by the Crash Test Dummies--when we get in the car. No, "Big Trouble" by Trout Fishing in America is now number one on his request list. My son, my wife, and I don't sound as good as Keith and Ezra as we sing along in the car. But we think Keith and Ezra would approve anyway.