It had been ten long years since he left the tunnels. In terms of the world Above, he hasn't met with much success. He played in two bands (Marble Phrogg and The Honky Dreds) and garnered some renown as a studio musician among the southern blues set; but he barely got by. He worked music retail to pay the bills. And when the bottom dropped out of that, he turned to backbreaking construction work. Somewhere along the line, he got married and had two children. When his wife demanded more income, he stopped performing in bands and played his Guitar only late at night when he was "thoroughly mellow." He never understood the rat race and so he got left behind. He thought he had failed his dream.

But the strange thing was that people – certain broken people – who came into his life started saying these things about him. And these things didn't make sense because he was simply being who he was... One in particular, who seemed to know his back-story without asking, called him an Earthbound Angel and insisted upon sending him music. And when he tried to pay her for it, she yelled at him and told him that he was full of shit and "Words are my life and Music is yours and let me love you back, dammit." And the music she sent was always exactly what he wanted but couldn't get and was post-marked Canada or Germany or Henderson, Nevada. He didn't understand because all he did was send her blues tapes occasionally and once a picture of the Cains Ballroom at night; and how could that be called "love?" He just knew she would like those things, so he sent them to her.

One Winterfest, he was worn out. And he couldn't take the sun anymore, so he boarded a bus for New York with only the clothes on his back and his beloved Guitar; and he went home. He was ashamed, because everybody (especially Vincent and Pascal) had such high hopes for him. When he'd sent word he was coming home, everybody all sent requests for him to play. Maybe they wouldn't notice aura of failure? He went Below and was welcomed by all of his friends, who saw him with other eyes. They asked him about his music and his life and his friends; and when he told them his story, everyone seemed pleased. And when he got out his Guitar, it didn't matter that his fingers were ruined or that he wasn't "mellow." The music flowed from his hands.

For Vincent, he played: Love of the Common People

For Catherine, he played: Falling in Love with Love

For Father, he played: Camelot

For Pascal, he played: Seduced

For William, he played: Christmas in Carolina

For Mary, he played: Wheel of Fortune

For Narcissa, he played: By the Rivers of Babylon

He played and played... His friends kept calling out requests as though he was the biggest star in the world. He sang until his voice was hoarse and he played until his fingers were raw.

"Thank you," he said, doing his best Elvis imitation, "Thank you very much."

He was so happy, he could have gone on forever.

But finally, for himself, he played, Take Me Back to Tulsa, because as much as he wanted to stay, he knew had to go back.

The next day, he boarded the westbound bus as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. He came to the realization that precisely the traits that seemed to make him a failure Above, ensured his success Below. It wasn't fair...

He closed his eyes and counted the moments until he could sneak away and become "mellow" again.

Far Below the city, the pipemaster took his place beside Vincent at the dinner table and said: "Imagine having all that talent and all those friends who love him! He is lucky to be so very successful!"

Vincent nodded in agreement. "And so very rich."

But Narcissa, still present for the continuing Winterfest celebration, shook her head gently and said: "I'm surprised at you two. That boy has got a suitcase full of blues."

And a truer thing was never spoken.

PS: This written for all the nameless, faceless musicians who enrich our lives with their talent and rarely make a living doing what they love.