by Michael Bloomfield --page 10
When he finished he was sweating. He set the guitar on the floor, up against his leg, and took out another beer. He uncapped it, then pulled a large blue bandana from a hip pocket and began to mop his face. �Ooh,� he said from behind his kerchief, �Ooh-eee.�
I reached for the guitar. I held it on my lap and worked it around in my hands, feeling the smoothness of the wood, the metal sharpness of the strings. Joe gave his brow a final swipe and stuffed the cloth into a breast pocket.
A funny look was on his face. It was a shy look, but at the same time it was a sly look, too.
�Well, Michael,� he said, �we really had ourselves a time in that St. Louis, didn�t we?� I bent a note or two, high up on the neck.
�We sure did, Joe. Not a doubt about it.� I ran a couple of arpeggios and handed the guitar back to him. But he didn�t take it.
�That sound good, Michael,� he said, and gave his head an affirmative little nod. �You play on some.�
And I did. There was no way I couldn�t. Joe�s world wasn�t my world, but his music was. It was my life; it would be my life. So playing on was all I could do, and I did it the best I was able. And the music I played, I knew where it came from; and there was not any way I�d forget.
