You have done your job. I am officially now so far down that blues legend B.B. King feels bad for me.
Not to re-hash, but the simple story is that I have been dumped, taken back, and been dumped again by a young woman whose parents have called me (and I quote) “a low-class loser with no prospects,” among other things. Twice have they ordered her to dump me, and twice has she done so, the most recent time this past July.
So my birthday rolls around this past weekend, and I spend it on Cape Cod (for no other reason than I had paid for the trip back in May, intending to take it with her). And things are going swimmingly until I check my e-mail the next day.
Two lines. From her. Sent at 2AM.
“happy birthday. i love you.”
Sweet Jesus (insert well-worn “if you loved me, you’d be with me” rant here).
Day after that: another email containing all her contact info, sent to a group from which she had “forgotten” to remove me.
So I’ve had enough. I e-mail her back, saying, in a nutshell, “You need to stop doing this. You are hurting me and you certainly aren’t helping your own sanity by doing this. So pay more attention to my feelings and leave me alone until you’re ready to talk to me like an adult.”
Her response is nothing but the usual parade of “I’m sorry,” and hesitant affection she uses when she’s resigning herself to following orders, and the altogether unshocking revalation that she was drunk when she sent the birthday greeting. My return e-mail says, “We agreed you can call me in January. But only call if we can actually have conversations that go somewhere.”
Off I go to Wellfleet to have dinner with some friends. Back I get to Hyannis at around 11:30, and there’s a big ol’ tour bus parked in front of my hotel and a couple of people hanging around. Turns out, it’s B.B. King’s bus. So I wait patiently for about 20 minutes to meet this blues legend, who’s lived so long and seen so much pain that grown men weep when he plays.
And B.B. comes off the bus, and spends a little time with those few of us that are out there. And he asks me what my story is. I tell him he doesn’t want to know.
He says, “Try me.”
So I give him the short version, filling in some blanks when he asks.
End of the story, he looks at me, shakes his head, and says, “Boy, you underSTAND the BLUES.”
I say, “Damn straight I do, Mr. King,” and light my cigarette.
He laughs and moves on.
