It was a rainy, cold Saturday afternoon in 1991. A friend and I had been shopping and decided to stop in at our favorite bar for a drink. I spent quite a bit of time keeping seats warm in bars during the nineties, but not in daylight. It felt strange.
There were two or three people at the bar. I could hear the familiar sound of balls clicking in the back pool room. No one was talking. Maybe afternoon drinkers aren’t interested in socializing. Perhaps they were trying to dull some pain…sort out a few problems…focus on memories of better times. There were smells of old beer, disinfectant, and desperation in the room.
Just as my friend and I were preparing to leave, a young man came from the pool room and sat down at our table. He looked to be in his early twenties. He was handsome, poorly dressed, and had the look of a lonely traveler in his eyes. He explained that he and his buddy were from out of state and had decided to stop for a game and a beer before heading on to their destination.
Then he said the most interesting thing. “Ma’am, if you’ll buy me a drink I’ll play a song for you on the jukebox that you’ll never forget. It’s one of the most beautiful songs ever written.”
If he had been flirtatious or cocky he wouldn’t have gotten that drink. But I was drawn to the quiet sadness in his voice. He seemed too world-weary for a man so young. He thanked me, put a quarter in the box, and told me to listen carefully to the words.
I didn’t see him again. When the song was over, I left to go back to my busy life. But, he was right. It is a beautiful song…and I’ve loved it ever since.
Just a chance encounter. What is there to make of moments like this? All I can tell you is that it touched something deep in me…some strain of connection and tenderness.
The song? “He Went to Paris”, by Jimmy Buffet.
looking for answers
to questions that bothered him so
He was impressive,
young and aggressive,
saving the world on his own
Warm summer breezes
and french wines and cheeses
put his ambitions at bay
summers and winters
scattered like splinters
and four or five years slipped away
He went to England
played the piano
and married an actress named Kim
they had a fine life
she was a good wife
and bore him a young son named Jim
and all of the answers
to all of the questions
locked in his attic one day
he liked the quiet
clean country living
and twenty more years slipped away
well, the war took his baby
bombs killed his lady
and left him with only one eye
his body was battered
his whole world was shattered
and all he could do was just cry
while the tears were a’ fallin’
he was recallin’
the answers he never found
so he hopped on a freighter
skidded the ocean
and left England without a sound
Now he lives in the islands
fishes the pylons
and drinks his green label each day
he’s writing his memoirs
and losing his hearing
but he don’t care what most people say
“Through eighty six years
of perpetual motion,”
if he likes you, he’ll smile and he’ll say,
“some of it’s magic,
and some of it’s tragic,
but I had a good life all the way”
He went to Paris
looking for answers
to questions that bothered him so
