This is messy and changes tense when I absolutely know better, but I will come back and edit later. It has been ages since I felt like writing. 

Murphy can't see. I am an asshole because despite knowing him for 20 years I can't remember the name of the degenerative disease that is causing him to slowly go blind. Anyway, we went out to see The Melvins tonight at the 40 Watt, and for the first time he took his Blind Guy Cane. You know the one: straight, mostly white with red at the very bottom, collapsible. He was a little self conscious about it, but a couple weeks ago somebody knocked a full beer out of his hand at a show because they collided with him while trying to squeeze past him thinking he was going to see them and adjust. They replaced it, of course, because they were not a monster, but he decided it was not worth wasting alcohol so this time he brought the cane.

When we were leaving, it was fairly warm outside, but I wore my hoodie because it has been getting colder at night. Also since it is Auburn Weekend (imagine some kind of loud horror movie soundtrack whenever you see this phrase, like the shower scene in Psycho) and most of the civilized people I know are hiding out until at least Sunday, with the possible exception of a quick meal or grocery run during actual game time, I figured the crowd would be relatively small and the club would be cold like it was for the Mercyland show a couple weeks ago.* Murphy assured me that it would be packed, but as a gentleman and a feminist he also did not argue with my chosen attire.

We parked at the office of a friend of mine, left a note on the windshield per her instructions, and walked a couple of blocks to the club. On the way we passed The Grit, just closed after the last dinner service ever (for the uninitiated this is a vegetarian restaurant and Athens institution of 30+ years). The staff was inside, doors locked, having a drink at a table near the window. We paused momentarily, half wanting to take a picture but probably both just taking a mental one. I have never known this town without The Grit, and having grown up on the South Side of Chicago, a place that is as meat and potatoes as it gets, it was a big part of the reason I felt like Athens was where I belonged. I went vegetarian at age 24, and it was very confusing for the folks back home. "It's not meat, it's chicken," was an actual sentence uttered at a family gathering once. It was accompanied by a sneer. On the day my dad and I arrived in the moving truck in August of 2000, we had lunch at The Grit. He got mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and I believe mac and cheese. But I digress.

He popped the cane open somewhere between The Grit and The Watt, probably when we were crossing Pulaski at Prince. There were large groups of college kids swarming the sidewalks, but without fail they would part before us when they saw the cane. It was great. I had a hold of his bicep, dropping directions and warnings into our conversation as we navigated potholes, speed bumps, and generally shitty infrastructure. When we got to the line at the door, people were politely cautious, understanding. The cane is a signal. Mind you, Murphy has remarked on both my shirt and my necklace, and he greeted several people in line while we were waiting. He can see, but his sight is limited (he has maybe 10% of his vision left he thinks) and his peripheral is non-existent. So we showed our IDs, paid, got our hands stamped, and scooted inside. Inside it's a lot darker, and as he predicted, there are a lot of people. It's packed, in fact, but with room to maneuver. His eyes take twenty or so minutes to adjust, as he explained to me the last time we were here, so I hang close, lead him to the bar, ask him what he wants. I tell him when we are sidling up to people we know, indicating which side they're on. He chats them up while I order drinks. We fall into a rhythm. He is one of my so-called rock wives, folks I go to shows with when the husband can't or doesn't want to, so we have a system. Once we have our drinks we take our usual spots at the side of the bar, stage left, leaning against the walk-in cooler. We know all of the people there. The band on stage is the second of the night. They are fucking great. Loud, tight, middle-aged metal dudes. I am slightly annoyed at myself for not getting here earlier. Also for wearing my hoodie, which I promptly remove and tie around my waist. that lasts maybe five minutes before it is unbearably warm, and I spend the rest of the show shifting it from arm to arm, lamenting the fact that Kevin isn't running monitors so I can't hang it on the back of his chair until the show is over.

The band finishes the set to raucous applause. We all start shooting the shit. Two separate people ask me if I want to go outside and smoke weed. I decline. Pot is strictly a sleep aid for me. Murphy disappears with some friends, and I am talking to Mike. I have had an exceedingly stressful couple of weeks, for reasons I do not care to go into at the moment, but the longer I stand there talking to Mike, both of us greeting and/or hugging every other person that walks by because that's how this town (and particularly this show) is, I feel my blood pressure dropping, my shoulders returning to their natural place several inches below my ears. A couple of times I wave or nod or smile at somebody that I know from my day job,  younger folks who I see in the daytime when I am buttoned up in a plaid shirt, acceptable work shoes and pants, with an iPad and some wine samples in tow. Mostly they smile and say hi, but I can tell they can't place me, standing there in a t-shirt and boots, with a skull necklace and a beer in my hand. This does not compute with the basic bitch middle-aged woman they know me to be 9 to 5. I kind of love that. Hiding in plain sight. 

I grab another drink, and the Melvins take the stage. Buzzo is in a sort of velvet-looking caftan with eyes and other occult symbols on it. the bass player is clad all in white, long-haired and Jesus-ey looking, grinning goofily. They are happy and excited. Their energy is infectious. Murphy and friends return. He is standing with the cane in front of him, and it works beautifully. Instead of people trying to squeeze past or between us they go around, giving us a wide berth. His beer is safe. The band sounds great. The space around us continues to fill with people we know and love. Some Grit staff arrive. I buy a beer for the one guy I know and thank him for his service--20 years, he informs me. I am in a bit of awe. The only thing I have been consistently doing for 20 years is going to shows like this. I can't fathom that much time at the same job. Murphy folds the cane up and jams it back in his pocket. I lean in and ask if needs anything from the bar. "I am exactly where I need to be," he says, referencing both his physical and metaphysical states. So no worries about spilled drinks then. Excellent.

When the show ends we are joined my other rock wife Paul and his other rock wife Eric. We are all swingers now, and we are all buzzing from the show. The mercy booth only takes cash, so there is some scrambling and Paul loans me $30. When I come back, shirt in hand, Murphy has another beer. I get another cider and close my tab. The place has emptied considerably, the lights are on and the staff is cleaning up. It isn't even midnight yet, but this is the new Athens and (thanks the gods) we don't end shows at 2:30 anymore. Paul and Eric depart, Murphy and I finish our drinks, and we head back out into Auburn Weekend in full swing outside. The sidewalk is bustling, the street is full of people both walking and driving poorly and drunkenly, and I am thankful to have parked away from it all. There are large groups of drunk college kids everywhere, so progress is slow. I have Murphy by the bicep and I pull the cane from his back pocket, unfolding it with one hand. He doesn't think he needs it, so I keep it, holding it in my left hand with him on my right. My hoodie and newly purchased Melvins shirt over that shoulder as well. Suddenly I realize that the crowds of kids are magically parting again, bleary and drunk but still being careful of us, shooting me pitying looks. This is brilliant, I decide, so I wave the stick back and forth on the sidewalk in front of me, never focusing on any of their faces. I am still holding Murphy by the bicep, still warning him of curbs and speed bumps, but nobody can tell because I look past them into the distance. when we get back to the lot where we are parked, the light is good and he can see again. It is chilly now, so I pull my hoodie on before getting in the car. We are home in minutes, part ways in the porch and go into our respective houses. 

My arrival wakes the husband, who has fallen asleep on the couch after work. We chat a bit and he heads down the hall to bed while I hang my hoodie on the back of a chair and take my boots off. Only then do I realize that I do not have my new shirt. And I also realize exactly where it must have fallen. I jump back in the car and go back to the parking lot at my friend's office, and there is my shirt, right next to our former parking spot. All is well.

*more on this if I think of it later