It’s not unusual for me to take my Epiphone Hummingbird, grab a piping-hot cup of Earl Grey, spark a bowl of yours truly, and serenade the sunset in good old Oak Cliff. Even in the heat of summer, I endured for tradition’s sake. I’m that type of guy.

Today, I was without my guitar – I know, “what about tradition?” – and just kind of zoning out. It’s been a rough couple of months for the Cloud-Miller’s; injuries and Zoe passing, mostly. Then, I heard guitar strings on the wind.

At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. I did spend the better part of the day experimenting with an overdrive pedal, so anything was possible. Also, the spirit trees began to whisper. You know what that’s like otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I can’t imagine any non-spirit talkers perusing my literary wares only for the sake of spying on the other team. Joke’s on you; teams are imaginary. Life is 1v1, moment to moment.

When I finally heard enough to force my gaze, I noticed a man across the street/one lot over strumming an acoustic guitar on his porch. Then, I heard him pop a top. Suddenly, the sunset changed hues, if you catch my drift. It was a sign I was being presented with an enchanted moment. Only a coward would fail to act, and we can’t have any of that nonsense, can we?

I went back inside and grabbed the Hummingbird, holding it high above my head upon my return to the outside world (insert Zelda ‘discovery’ music here). Then, he motioned for me to come have a seat next to him. Are you kidding? There was no way I planned on refusing this opportunity.

You see, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for almost seven years now. In that time, I’ve met my closest neighbors, but never anyone from down my street. It’s made up of Hispanic families who’ve lived here for generations. To them, I look like every reason they’re losing their heritage and culture: middle-aged, white, tattooed, with a military haircut. I wouldn’t want to associate with me if I were them, and that’s the way the nacho crumbles. I hate ‘me’ most times, and I’m a white guy too! A cool freaking white guy, but a white guy nonetheless.

For one of them to invite me into his circle was like stumbling into another universe. He wasn’t even afraid I’d give him a disease or sexually harass his women, because history. Nope, we just played.

He’s been playing for seventeen years but age has slowed his hands. He’s sixty-five years old and in a Mariachi band, if I understood him correctly. His English is minimal.

Me? I’ve been playing for almost two years and a combination of luck, age, and comeuppance causes me to have nurses stick needles deep into my wrists every six months. It’s not just a shot, mind you. They dig. My Spanish skill rival high school and Taco Bell menus.

It didn’t matter. We just played. He’d match my fingers on the fret board, and we just played. Two different generations, two different cultures, two different languages, in a Trump world. Music; notes on the wind in no particular order.

No one filmed it, no one posed for selfies, and it won’t make it to Tik Tok. I’m not even sure if anyone else even saw the neighborhood oddity taking place. By today’s standards, did it even happen?

Hopefully I described it well enough to where photos would lessen the moment. I’m good at what I do, folks.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.