A bridge too far

A bridge too far

“Oh hell, no, no, please no,” her inner voice screams; however, she hears herself saying:

“Of course, no problem, give me a few seconds to sort myself out.”

But it is a problem. She had spotted him making his way up to the stage and was uncertain of what to make of him. He was unsteady on his feet, needing to rest his hand on a chair once or twice to steady himself; she assumed he’d been drinking but was not yet drunk – the worst kind.

There were actually more than one problem to deal with; the bitter tang of cheap whisky on his breath when he leaned into her; the stubble on his face that somehow brushed her cheek. She could cope with that but the choice of song - that was unforgiveable. How many times had she said to herself delete it; get a hammer and smash the disc to a million pieces? She had done that to other songs, why had she allowed herself to be inflected again? This was the last time, definitely. She walked over to the guy who was staring down at his feet. Zoe was embarrassed for him; the dozens of times she had witnessed this regime; concentrating, focussed on performing to the best of their ability, as if they were stood on the stage of the Royal Albert Hall about to entertain thousands, not in the back room of the Black Swan with an audience of a couple of dozen disinterested bodies. She leaned into him and his eyes temporarily startled her.

“What’s your name love?” She whispered.

It looked as if it was question he had never faced before; a panic flashed across brown leather eyes.

“Sorry I was miles away. It’s Jon. John without an h.” Yeah that missing h is certainly going to make the difference to this crowd. She was quite shocked at her own unspoken sarcasm. Zoe made her way back behind the mixing desk and picked up her microphone.

“Everyone having a good evening? Only an hour to go, but after this next effort (effort – that’s a bit harsh) we’ll take a ten minute break. So the last song for the moment – it’s Jon, without an h, (give it a rest Zoe) with that all time classic “Bridge over troubled waters.” Here we go - after three Jon. And the best of fucking luck you poor, poor punters.

She made her way to the back of the stage, making herself invisible to the crowd and took a swig from her bottle of wine. For a few seconds Jon missed the song’s opening as he struggled to clear his throat. Zoe sunk down as low as she possibly could. Why do they put themselves through it? Why do I let them? She should have said don’t bother Jon, nip back to the bar and get yourself another whisky – it’s best for everyone concerned.

So she wasn’t concentrating on the first few bars, away in her own little critical world, but when she homed in on his voice she was shocked. He wasn’t just passably good – he was pitch-perfect. In a dozen years of dragging her karaoke machine around the city she had never heard anyone sing quite so perfectly. The three minutes of dirge she had anticipated was...beautiful. She could not think of any better way of describing his voice. It was beautiful, and the room heard it as well – a quite unique hush hovered around the room.

When the song finished she would normally be close at hand to grab the microphone from the singer’s hand and it was only when Jon turned and caught her eye that she realised that she was anchored to a spot offstage. She took a deep breath and rushed over to him as the audience burst into a cacophony of applause.

“Wow Jon I did not see that coming, you must come back and do another one after the break.”

“No, no I think one effort by me is more than enough for this place tonight.”

Zoe could tell he wasn’t fishing for compliments; it was as if he had not even heard his own voice. He was literally on another plain. Close up she studied his features and found that he was much younger than she had thought, not much older than herself.

“Let me buy you a drink Jon, another whisky.”

Her comment obviously embarrassed him. “No that’s alright an orange juice will do nicely thank you.”

They found a table next to the stage and she struggled to make small talk. He didn’t live locally, his work involved travelling, his time wasn’t his own, no close family to speak of. Maybe move the conversation to music.

“Nice song that, you sang it beautifully.”

“Yes I like all the new stuff around at the moment.”

New stuff? It must be fifty years old! It must have been a slip of the tongue.

“Simon and Garfunkel are great aren’t they?” She wanted to give him a chance to rectify his mistake.

“Yeah – I heard that there’s a chance they might be getting back together.”

What!

“I think there a bit too old for that Jon.”

“Don’t be daft they’ve got decades in front of them.”

Zoe felt dizzy

“Excuse me Jon I need to go to the toilet.”

What a weird guy, but she had taken a liking to him; at times there was an intensity about him and then within a flash his mind seemed to somewhere else entirely. He appeared to be interested in her but then surprised when she asked him a question. She presumed he must have a back history that needing looking into. She made a decision, deciding she’d have to corner him when went back to their table and dig a bit deeper, but on her return the table was empty and he was gone.

“Zoe.” The barman called her over to the bar. “Your strange friend left and paid his bill with these!”

He opened his hands and showed her some old crumpled up notes that had not been in circulation, for what? Fifty years?