By two in the morning Eddie had played forty minutes of music, sold three CDs, lost his phone charger and agreed to sleep in the basement of a man named Gord who claimed to have promoted Captain Beefheart in 1974, although further questioning revealed what Gord meant was he once had seen Captain Beefheart on television. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is touring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
People imagine limousines and cocaine but mostly it is looking for the little black bag containing your toothbrush while somebody explains to you local politics. Eddie had been on the road eleven days and reached the point where every gas station looks familiar. Somewhere outside Moose Jaw he’d begun speaking affectionately to the GPS. “Don’t you fool me, Barbara.” Barbara wanted him to turn left into a cornfield. Eddie kept straight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was becoming suspicious of technology. The concert that night was in the upstairs room of a former Legion hall now called The Centre for Emerging Culture, which meant the Legion went broke and somebody purchased six strings of Christmas lights. Denise, the promoter, hugged Eddie when he arrived and immediately whispered, “We have a situation.” There is no sentence in the performing arts more terrifying than “We have a situation.” <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The piano had three dead keys, the opening act had brought a twelve-piece percussion ensemble and Moon Tractor (the local poet) had misunderstood the poster and believed he was headlining. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“How long does Moon Tractor usually read?” Eddie asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Denise looked toward the ceiling. “Time doesn’t really apply to him.” <\/p>\n\n\n\n
At eight-thirty there were nineteen paying customers, twelve percussionists, Moon Tractor, Denise, two volunteers and a large dog wearing a red bandana. Eddie thought it over; technically it is a crowd. The percussion ensemble began. Forty minutes later they were still beginning. Moon Tractor followed with a poem concerning the tears from the human soul. At ten-twenty Denise approached him. “Maybe just do forty minutes.” This cheered him up enormously. He walked onstage, sat at the wounded piano and hit one of the dead keys. Nothing. Hit it again. Nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I’d like to begin with a new composition entitled Saskatchewan Government Arts Funding.” Somebody laughed much too loudly. Eddie played. The piano was horrible. His voice was tired. Halfway through the second song a fluorescent tube began blinking over his head and he incorporated it into the arrangement. The dead E-flat returned unexpectedly during the fourth song. By the sixth song the room became quiet. When he finished nobody moved for a second. Then the dog came back into the room. This received the largest applause of the evening. Afterward Eddie sold one CD to a woman who said the concert reminded her of her dead brother, which seemed worth more than the twenty dollars. Eddie accepted the twenty because gasoline remained stubborn. Denise handed him an envelope containing $317. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“I wish it was more.” <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“So do I.” <\/p>\n\n\n\n
At Gord’s house Eddie discovered the basement contained no bed. There was a couch approximately the length of a hockey stick and a blanket advertising Labatt Blue. Gord stood at the bottom of the stairs and said, “Hope this is okay.” Eddie looked at the couch, his suitcase, the Labatt blanket and his own face reflected in a framed photograph of Gord meeting Burton Cummings at a charity golf tournament. “It’s perfect.” <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"