They walked the hills up from the water, up from the wharf.

Twenty years before, stirred from sleep by the stone-pillow urge to GO, he walked the same streets. It was raining. He bought a comb at an Oriental grocery store.

The Cathedral he recognized then, and also then.

"I've seen you somewhere before," he said.

"I've been here all along," it said.

Solemn stonework guard alongside the small park, he'd seen the Cathedral on the cover of a book he needs perhaps to read again. Shouldn't take more than an hour or two, cover-to- Cathedral'd cover. Twenty years before, he'd first introduced himself to the Cathedral. Twenty years passed, and he reacquainted himself. They walked the hills up from the water, up from the wharf, and past the Cathedral.

"Been here," he thought to himself, not wanting her to know he talked to himself.

Even in dreams, he'd been there recently. Writing to a woman, he pictured her crossing the park, heading away from the Cathedral. He pictured himself from a place he remembered, a small and quiet bistro.

He walked the hills up from the water, up from the wharf, past the Cathedral. Standing in front of the bistro he knew he knew. This was a place twenty years previous where he found quiet. As a 22 year old man with a head overflowed, he found solace in this quiet place alongside the far edge of the park, across from the Cathedral. He'd been working swing shift in an illiterate warehouse, and broken away from it all for a four day weekend in the rain. The distinction between being alone and being lonely had been made clear, and he sought faces. He didn't want to know the faces, and did not want to entertain their questions. He wanted to be one of them, nameless and silent, but belonging. At the small quiet bistro alongside the and across from the...

Yes, this was the place.

They walked the hills up and up and entered the bistro. Twenty years and only he had changed. Heat from a brick baking oven, gulping portions of house red wine and Miles Davis on the system. Perhaps you remember as well. They shared a meal and three carafes of house red wine, listening to Miles Davis. He looked out the large plate glass windows and remembered once dreaming of watching her cross the park toward the bistro.

Not her.

Her.

He looked across the table, the small table, and said something. Perhaps you remember.

She answered, "Oh -- does that mean that you can't live without me?"

Jim Stedman

Jim Stedman
Jsteds@aol.com

E9. Try it some time. Old-style jukeboxes offer selections designated by letter and number, and the way to test whether you're in the vicinity of a good jukebox is to play E9. For some reason, the songs residing at E9, be it at Salivars at Montauk Point,The Mermaid Hotel in Mombasa, or Chicago's grand old Congress Hotel, always seem to tie directly to my life. At E9, you're sure to find smatterings of old style folk and bluegrass guitar playing, a nice dose of Dylan and Dead, and those swing & torch standards that so often fuel dreams. Listen closely to E9, and you'll hear "Two For The Road", "Imagination", "Don't Get Around Much Anymore", and "One For My Baby and One More For The Road". Look quickly and you'll see me ghosting around, waiting for the last chords, slowly putting on my overcoat, and heading out into the snow on my own.