BIRTHDAY BOY


Conga player Carter Collins was not on this tour, just Tim, vibraphonist David Friedman, and myself. We took no drummer with us, and used pickup bassists This story is not primarily about Tim. It is about my coping with survival beyond age 30, and passing time.

We finished our performance in Frankfort, Germany, loaded our guitars, amps, and vibes into a truck, then hopped into a waiting car. Barry Shulze, whom we called "Bear" because of his size—at least 6'5", 260 pounds—did the driving for us. We wheeled out of the auditorium's underground parking lot, into Frankfort's city streets.

"Hey, Bear, there's a liquor store. Stop." I walked in, bought a bottle of Cutty Sark Scotch, returned to the car, hunkered down in the back seat behind Bear, proceeded to sip what I regarded as my final series of drinks. Figured I'd be dead by midnight.

Clear skies, a full moon. The German Autobahn stretched before us like a silver ribbon. Barry said the drive north to Hamburg wouldn't take long. We should arrive by 2 a.m. Tim and David slept. I couldn't.

It was October 8, 1968, the last hour of the last day of my 29th year. Since childhood, I had been convinced that I would die before age 30. That meant I would be dying tonight, which meant I would probably die in a car wreck, because that's where we were: on the road. I didn't like the prospect of violent death, but what the hell, violent or otherwise, it didn't matter. Death was death. No big deal.

I hugged the bottle close, its lip nudging my own, my knees pressed into the back of Barry's seat. All I had to do was raise one knee slightly, and the Scotch trickled into my mouth, onto my tongue, down my throat. Sweet comfort, blessed warmth, God-sent relief.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the harvested fields, autumn trees, darkened farm houses. I sipped and waited for annihilation, carefully watching each car coming towards us. Perhaps it would be a drunk driver, asleep, careening into our lane head-on. Maybe somebody's blown tire. Maybe a self-destructive lunatic intentionally lurching into us.

"Hey, Bear, what time is it?"

"Five minutes to midnight."

It would happen within the next five minutes. Jesus.

I took a hearty gulp, enjoying the way the Scotch washed down my throat like fiery ribbons. I stared at the moon, loved its soft glow. Wished I was home. Said goodbye to my woman, Jennifer, and her son Michael.

"What time, Bear?"

"Uhh, two minutes to twelve. Go to sleep."

"Be careful."

"Huh?"

"Any cars coming?"

"Go to sleep."

I rode in silence, clutching the bottle, waiting for disaster. Maybe it wouldn't be another car. Maybe we'd have a blowout, spin off the road into a tree or a concrete wall.

Death, death, death.

"I'll die before I'm 30," I had told Jennifer three years before.

She laughed. "You're still a kid. You're not even a man until you're thirty."

"Yeah, well, I can't help that. Guys like me die young."

She laughed again. "You'll outlive us all."

"Hey, Bear, what time is it?"

"I just told you—whatsa matter with you?"

"Midnight?"

"One minute after."

"Really?"

"Go to sleep."

Thirty years old and not dead. My God.

I smiled, breathed a sigh of relief—and then felt shocked. Time suddenly stretched before me, endless—and meaningless. I had not anticipated life beyond thirty. Now the potential for a lengthy lifetime stared me in the face. I had no plans, no future and no perspective. What was I going to do with the rest of my life?

Scary. In fact, this thought was far more frightening than the prospect of death. What was I going to do with the rest of my life?

Adrenalin shot through my system. I didn't know who I was, what the point of my life was, what I might do with whatever time I had left. A few moments ago, my existence had narrowed down to minutes. Now it spread itself infinitely before me like the mirror surface of an empty ocean.

"Happy birthday, asshole," I muttered to myself.

"What?" Bear said.

I took a massive drink and passed out.