Rick eases onto a stool as the counter server sets down his mug. On the makeshift stage in the corner, Powell starts a new song.
“Yeah, big guy, that’s the one!” Rick yells, mug halfway to his lips. Then more softly, “Mmm, good coffee. Zoning board must require proof of coffee quality if you call it a ‘diner’. Oh, and we’ve got dancers! Man, people love this song. Can’t blame ’em – electric cello whipping around, Powell’s trunk writhing on the strings, and the bow flies fast and furious. That’s right: Thirty shows down and I’m still a fanboy.”
Rick takes a long sip.
“Ah, but ‘Song of the Wild Grass’ does that,” he continues. “It invokes your Bohemian urges and summons the Nat Geo in your soul. As a result, you picture Powell walking with his herd across the grasslands of Kenya. Then you see him here, playing to townies in a greasy, Morristown diner. And that makes the song deep, wistful, like a meditation on lost origins.”
Rick chuckles.
“All that goes over Powell’s head, though. You know the saying: elephants never reflect. Whether on the savanna or in civilization’s shadow, they keep moving. Powell carries no baggage, just plows ahead. I suppose when you’re that size, inertia gets tough to fight.
“Hell, I’m one to talk. I’ve fished albacore near Iwaco, slung drinks for snow bunnies in Park City, and now I’m a roadie in Jersey. Even that has an expiration date. Powell will lose steam, move on to another art form. Maybe he’ll spray paint from his trunk and become the pachyderm Pollack. The Guggenheim crowd will dig that. Still, hell of ride till now.
“As for me, maybe I’ll join another herd. Powell said his cousin fishes bluefin off Gloucester. No thanks, dear, no refill. Set’s wrapping up, I have to get back to work.”
Originally posted as a contest entry for Microcosms weekly contest #142. – Elephants Never