I Couldn't DO It... SHE Couldn't Wait... HE Volunteered...

We had just finished playing a long and loud set at Rizzo Hall over in east-end Montreal. Patricia had promised me she wouldn't drink. It was nowhere near midnight, but her eyes were already glazed, and her lips wore a blank grin. She clutched a glass in one hand and steadied herself against the wall with the other. As I walked off the stage, she stumbled towards me. The single men stared — they could sense easy prey.

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I put my arms around her shoulders and told her to lean on me.

I doubt she'd heard anything I'd said, but she was lucid enough to get pissed off when I took the glass from her hand and pulled her into the shadows. A conversation was pointless. We sat down, and I kept her from falling. She rested her head on my shoulder, closed her eyes and slurred a drunken apology, "This isn't really happening."

That night happened almost 40 years ago.

Patricia and I barely kept in touch after that: you know how things dissolve. I heard she'd left Montreal and moved to Ottawa; who knows? But get this. A couple of weeks ago, I was at a small music festival in Rosemount when a short, grey-haired man called my name and came up to me.

"Hey, Paul. Remember me? We met when your band played at the Rizzo back in eighty-four."

I didn't recognize the gentleman (we all age), but I smiled as he shook my hand. He could tell I looked confused.

"My name is Robert. I was one of the guys working the bar that night. Before you went up on stage for your last set, you called me over and asked me to keep an eye on a girl who had too much to drink. Her name was Patricia, do you remember?"

"Of course, how could I forget," I replied, laughing while my memory cells reassembled.

"I want to thank you for asking me to baby-sit," he laughed. "I ended up marrying that woman. We moved to Ottawa, and had a family. Thanks for hooking us up — although you probably didn't mean to."

"Wow... that's great, you're welcome," I laughed again at the irony of it all. "What are you doing in Montreal and where's Patricia?"

"Patricia passed away a couple years ago. I'm here visiting our two sons."

"Oh..." I stuttered, "I'm so sorry to hear that."

"No, it's all right. We had a great life together... thanks to you. I NEVER would have noticed Patricia that night if you hadn't asked me to."

We both looked at each other with wistful smiles.

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Robert and I talked for a while, shook hands, and then he walked away. As we waved goodbye, large portions of that evening came into crystal clear focus. You won't believe one of the songs we played in our last set.

Yep... "Lean On Me" by Bill Withers.

I also remember watching — from behind my drum kit — as Robert helped Patricia rush to the back of the hall and into the bathroom; she obviously had to throw up. Perhaps not what Mr. Withers meant when he wrote, "I'll share your load," but then again, what do I know?

I'm pretty sure we've all lived portions of those lyrics... in one way or another.

The band and I were still packing equipment in the van late into the early morning when Robert approached me and offered to drive Patricia home. I looked up from the microphone cables I was stacking and agreed it would be the best thing to do.

He walked over to Patricia, slumped in a nearby chair — her head resting on a table — and leaned into her ear. Then I heard him speak. "Paul said it's OK — I'll help you. It won't be long... you'll be home soon."

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... i'll imagine this — is what he eventually saw...