How We Deal With Gravity(87)
“We’ve got a few people here who are going to play for you tonight though. I’m going to kick things off, and then I’m going to pass the mic on over to an old friend—Stanley Richards,” Mason says, and I pretty much fall on my ass. Stan played with my dad when I was a newborn—I’ve seen pictures of the two of them together, and my dad would tell me stories about watching Stan’s career take off. He’s become one of the best blues guitarists in the country—like multi-Grammy big.
I’m starting to realize that the room is filled with old friends of my father’s, and the people who stumbled in here tonight just hoping for some drinks and a good show have no clue what a treat they are in for. Mason says a few more names, each one more amazing than the last, and some are people out on tour now, selling out to hundreds of thousands around the country.
“You see why we sort of had to keep this thing under wraps, huh? We’re already turning people away,” he laughs, waving his hands to the people lining the walls in the back. “Hope y’all can see back there!”
I’m absolutely floored by this tribute to my dad, and I make my way to the edge of the stage and slide off to take my seat by the bar so I can enjoy it for a while. “So what do you say we get this party started?” Mason says, raising his guitar in one hand and a beer in the other; the place erupts in applause again. I realize finally that Matt and Josh have joined him on stage along with Mike Calloway, another longtime friend of dad’s, on the drums. Mason plays two familiar chords—he’s starting things off with Johnny Cash. Everyone. Goes. Nuts!
Mason mixes in two or three other songs, throwing in a new one he wrote, but keeping everything upbeat, really getting the crowd up and moving. I lean back to check the bar, and Cole and Derrick seem to have things handled, but the flow is constant. Dusty’s is going to have a good night, and I feel a heavy blanket of stress leave my shoulders.
“You guys are awesome. Please, make sure you tip your waiters and waitresses—especially that sassy one with the short brown hair. I owe her a shitload of favors, so you’d be helping me out,” Mason says, pointing and winking at Claire. She just takes a bow and blows him a kiss; I start to laugh. “All right, so one more song and then I’m going to pass this mic on over to the next guy.”
He heads to the back of the stage, and I watch him flip open his guitar case, pulling a different guitar out and putting his away. When I realize what he’s holding, I can’t help the tears that drench my face. “Ray Abbot was the father I never had,” he says, the entire room getting quiet now. “Ray gave me a lot of things—he gave me his guitar,” he says, holding it up and waiting through a few whistles and applause.
“He gave me confidence when I had none,” he continues. “He gave me advice, even when I thought I knew everything and clearly didn’t. But there’s one thing he gave me—one thing—that freakin’ blows all that other stuff away.”
I’m holding my breath, sitting on my hands and staring at Mason stand up there and take charge of this room. He looks down for a second, kicking his right foot against the base of the mic stand, sucking in his bottom lip, and then he looks at me. “Ray Abbot gave me his blessing to love his daughter. And he told me to be patient. Avery, he said, is careful.”
He smiles at me, his dimples deep, and his eyes focused on my every breath. “I love that Avery is careful,” he says, situating his guitar around his neck and pulling the mic a little closer. “I love that she puts everyone else first. I love that she fights for her son. I love her son. And I love how she believes in me—even when I don’t deserve it. But mostly, I just love Avery Abbot.”
The tears are falling uncontrollably now, and I blot my eyes with the corners of my sleeve, knowing everyone’s attention is on me again.
“I grew up at Dusty’s. I know this place by heart. And I know there are a lot of things in your life that you’re putting on hold,” he says, looking right at me now, speaking to me and only me. “I’m thinking I might just make a good manager, run things around here—just for a while. And I know you’re going to tell me I don’t have to, and that I should go tour and live my dream, blah blah blah. But the thing is, Ave? You’re sorta my dream. And being here—taking care of this place? I kind of don’t think it gets any better than that. So, what I’m asking you is that you let me put you first—just this once. Whatdaya say?”
Mason is holding the mic in his hand, waiting, along with a thousand other people, for me to just take his offer—to give over some of the weight I carry, share the load with him. He wants me to choose me, and I’m frozen, my stomach weighted with the guilt that comes along with letting others into my life. What started as cheering is turning into light chatter and eventually whispering, and I’m looking side to side, waiting for someone to make my decision for me.
Then Mason starts to play. He’s strumming slowly—his hands on my dad’s guitar, the music conjuring every single memory I have in my heart. He plays “Tenderness,” and he doesn’t sing at first, but rather just plays the song, solo, on Ray Abbot’s guitar. By the time he makes it through the song once, my eyes are puffy from crying, and Barb and Claire aren’t far behind me. He moves closer to the mic the second time through, and pauses for a few seconds—long enough for a few women to scream out for him, and for me to break through the damn barrier inside my chest—and then he flashes me his smile, and sings about my grief and making it easier to bear.