A MESSAGE

There was a note on the call-board with my name on it.
When I unpinned it from the cork-board and opened it were simply the words, "Call this number."
Followed by seven digits.
I was both intrigued and amused.
Yeah, right.
This was before cell phones.
But, I actually had a phone in my dressing room.
Call a stranger?
I don't think so.
I crumpled it up and threw it away.
Forgot it.
A couple days later another note with my name appears on the call-board.
"Call this Number!"
The exclamation point caught my attention.
Here's the thing.
At my core I'm utterly shy.
But there was that exclamation point.
So in a moment of whimsy I called the number from the phone in my dressing room.
"Hello?"
"Hi. I'm Greg Stone. I've been asked to call this number."
"OH! Hello!" She responded. "Thank you for calling. I saw your show on Thursday night..."
"There's something I think you should know," She said.
"Okay?"
"Ummmm okay...early on my son was diagnosed autistic and every night I'd sing "Bring Him Home" when I put him to bed and...well he's 10 now, and HE's BACK! I just want you to know the power of that song."
That night might be the worst vocal rendition of the song I'd ever given.
Might have been the best.

Sorry Charlie's

In the early 90's at the bottom of Queen Anne hill in Seattle was a dive bar called Sorry Charlie's.

It was my favorite place. A pre-karoake karaoke bar.
Tacky decorations adorned faux wood lined walls.
The seating was fake tuck and roll leather left over from the rat pack generation.
The waitress was a midget (I know) with the attitude and temperament of a giant.
Behind the piano pulling on a cigarette and tipping a bourbon on the rocks was Howard Bulson.
He was bald.
He wore a suit.
He could play anything...off book...in any key.
He was genius.

He also wasn't always so friendly to those who wished to sing. He would help those struggling by changing keys, tempo, jumping to the next section if they forgot the bridge HOWEVER, if you couldn't hack it he'd shake his head and it was over.
To me, the man was magic.
Yes, I am telling a story about a little person that was a giant and a musician that was magic.
It's Seattle.
Sometimes within a few minutes of walking into the bar he'd notice me and start a few notes of a Puccini song that he knew I knew...barely knew.
I might be in conversation and pulling a sip from a cheap rum and coke when I'd hear.
Duh duh duh duh duh duh Duh.
Tosca.
He pushed me.
That's hard to sing.
He always let me sing a full set which was three songs.
It was an honor.
Once when I was there conversing with a bass player, named Nate who was about to go on tour to play some gigs with a rock band, I gave him my sage advice about living on the road, as, you know, I'd just spent three months doing a Fireside Dinner Theatre in Ft. Atkinson, WI.
He listened very nicely and nodded appropriately.
The band was called Foo Fighters?