I was at work when I got the phone call. Jack's Point Clubhouse was tickety-boo as usual, and so was I, maybe even little more so. It must have been a Thursday - the most unsuspecting of days - when the inevitable news I hoped never to receive found its way through my ears and into my heart, like a droplet of dark green ink.
Front of house restaurant operations had become second nature to me by this stage, and I always had my hospitality face equipped regardless of the circumstance. But on this day, it was certainly genuine, as I had oodles of hope residing in my thoughts, especially after my little sojourn in Dunedin (Re: The Dunedin Hook). And as if that wasn't enough excitement to keep my spirits high, I was due to return home in just about a week's time, to see my parents, my brother, my sister, and Oh! Nessie! Maybe she was still waiting for me at the front door.
Criss-crossing the restaurant, I was in and out of the kitchen, carting plates of food (that looked more like intricate art displays than meals), and orchestrating half of the enjoyment of the visitors sitting in my section; the breathtaking views did the rest. Just as I was reaching over a table to grab the plates, my phone started buzzing.
'Who would call me now'? I thought as I rushed back to the kitchen juggling a hand full of plates. I must have looked unprofessional with a rambling device in my pocket... Bursting through the swing door into the kitchen, I dropped the plates and whipped out my phone - it was Mum. A strange feeling struck me. Why would she call me now? She knew I would be working... Amidst the chopping and sizzling of the kitchen, I slid my thumb across the screen, answering the call.
"Mum! Hi.." I said, pushing with my body through the door to the cluttered back area. Her hesitance struck foreboding in me - that same feeling as a few moments before, but more present. "Hi Josh, are you at work? I'm so sorry, but... I need to tell you something," she said, struggling. In an instant, I knew, but I hoped I was wrong, or crazy. "Go ahead," I said, chest reverberating like a gong.
"Nessie died last night."
I can't remember hanging up, but I do remember the emotions hurtling from the depths of nothing, rushing to my head, swirling around like the last of the dirty bath water, gurgling and choking. Propped against a rickety chair, I melted into a weeping mess, bent over, hiccupping as the news sunk further in. I felt like a broken guitar string, hopelessly passive, but trying to shake myself together. I was returning home in one week, just one more week! Could she not hold on just a little longer?
As I sat there, the torrent of emotion seemed to shift to my arms, filling them both with a pins and needles roar. It continued to crescendo, and at its peak, felt like the throb of a hundred orchestras clashing at once. The sadness and misery seemingly transmuted to awe, bewilderment and fascination at this bizarre sensation in my arms and hands. But before long, it had all passed like a rogue storm.
When I got home from work, I felt mushed and tasteless, like a plum laying forgotten in the orchard. I plopped onto my bed, trying to muster even the slightest bit of mojo to do something productive, but I just felt incredibly slow. I lay there, half mummified, as memories of Nessie started to arise like little champagne bubbles, popping and receding away, bringing me back to life. It was pleasant. Comforting, even. It wasn't long before I felt inspired by these soulful memories; in a state of reflection and reverence for what an amazing influence Nessie had on my life.
For a moment, I felt joyous, as if sunlight was shining through a gap in the muddy clouds. Smiling at the opportunity, I reached for my journal and pen, and proceeded to write away my thoughts. What came out was my first poem in years. I found heart warming comfort in pouring my thoughts into a page - spelling out my emotions, showing my gratitude, and wishing farewell.
8:32PM.
Sunken. My large double bed had captured me again. Boredom groaned from within. Tiredness was barely present, and yet I hoped desperately to let this glum day fade into the oblivion of sleep. I rolled over, trying to shake out the lethargy which was pooling in my bones. Hopeless…
And then my phone blipped. ‘Oh, not more bad news!’ I complained, reaching to grab it. I brought the screen close to my face. A Facebook message from ‘Marcos’. It was a … voice message? I clicked play.
‘Hey Josh, what’s up man. I’m just walking, going to the jam. I remembered you picked us up from hitchhiking that time, and we are having jam tonight. You should come along, the address is ** Beach Street, and the code is ****’
I think my heart skipped a beat. I leapt from my sheets, whisking around the room, tossing on clothes, shoes, a jacket, a hat. Where was my Synth? I needed my instrument! Top of the wardrobe? Nope. Under the bed? No... It wasn’t anywhere. Shit!
I felt like an empty coffin just before, and now like scrambled eggs. I couldn’t believe that the jam I had almost forgotten about was tonight of all nights. I relished nothing more favourably than a good old jam – it seemed almost Godsend. But where was my damn Synth!?
It was in my car. It only took about three frantic checks (around the few spots it could have been in my room), before realizing that I left it in my car after my trip to record with it in Dunedin. ‘Fool!’, I said to myself as I jumped into the driver’s seat. Flicking the lights on, I reversed out of my park, and sped off into the night.
The jam was conveniently right in the centre of town, and it was so obviously a musicians’ shin-dig that I was baffled at how I’d never stumbled upon it before by accident. Music was gushing out onto the street – drum cymbals splashing, guitar’s wailing. I punched the code into the door, sauntered down the alley and up the stairs. ‘SHOES OFF!’ the sign at the door instructed me. I obeyed, slipping off my shoes and plopping them somewhere on the heap of shabby footwear. Wafts of fragrance and music invited me in - it was like the insides of some kind of extravagant, musical hostel. Travellers and musical vagabonds abound! The lounge was bubbling with a myriad of characters hailing from all over the world, chattering and clanking on various handheld music-making gizmos. All that fuss over my synth, and I didn’t even need it. This place was a smorgasbord of instruments. I placed my synth in the corner.
A sliding door opened at once, and a gust of loud music pummelled the lounge, followed by two fellows gripping beers. I slipped through the door and closed it behind me. It opened to a small courtyard where, nestled in the roofs of inner Queenstown, the secret but not-so-well-hidden jam night was in full gusto! To my immediate right was a feast of instruments – drums, guitars, bass, bongos, keyboard, trombone, shakers – crackling in the hands of musicians and people who just wanted to have some fun. I saw Marcos in the corner, noodling on a guitar, absorbed in the jam.
The thrum of music jostled me over to the bench on the other side where I took a seat, observing the splay of people in attendance. A bunch of interesting folks were chattering amongst themselves, blowing smoke of various descriptions, casually knocking back beers and jiving to the music. It wasn’t long before I was enveloped by the mojo of the jam too. Dirty rhythms filled my bones; had me bobbing my head and tapping my feet. Behind the keyboard was a tall blonde fellow, a grin strapped to his face, hands bouncing up and down over the keyboard like a pair of dancing daddy-long-leg spiders. When they finished the song, claps returned from the people on the side, and the blonde fellow snuck through the sliding door and was swallowed into the lounge.
The keys were free! I glanced around the courtyard, feeling suddenly timid. It seemed like nobody else was eyeing the keyboard. Out of nowhere, a feeling of anxiousness struck my inner stomach like a silver arrow. I looked back at the musicians – a new guy was taking to the stage, equipping an acoustic guitar and lightly conversing amongst the others. He announced in a rich American accent that he was to play some originals, and then strummed his guitar to life; the others followed. ‘That keyboard is waiting for me,’ I thought to myself. But what on Earth was I waiting for? I felt more nervous now that they were actually playing. But I couldn’t just leave those keys vacant... uninvited…
‘Dammit! Why else did I come here? To sit and smile like an idiot?!’
I jumped up and snatched the opportunity, weaselling my way between guitar necks and people and drums and cables and everything else, feeling awkward, feeling like everybody was watching me, eventually finding myself in the corner, behind the keys at last. I made sure the volume was such that what I played would be submerged, drowned by the other sounds; just embarrassment-protection protocol. It was somewhat of a country jam – I kicked into it, playing… octaves?
At the end of that tune, the American guy turned to me and said, with ample enthusiasm, “turn it up!” Feeling sheepish, I flicked the volume knob up a couple of notches and started bopping to the next tune, trying to let the rhythm hijack my fingers. To my luck, the tune was in a key that I was familiar with, and so my fingers went into auto-pilot, jumping to a handful of my favourite chords and chops. Before long, the courtyard was oozing liveliness. People animated in dance. Smiles and laughter contagiously spreading. Cheeky grins from the bass player. It was the most fun I had in a long time, jamming music to a bunch of strangers alongside people I had never met before – all so connected that they may as well have been my best friends. I met the American fellow shortly afterwards, his name perfectly congruent with his style – Noah Jones!
The night carried on like this for the next few hours. I rotated between jamming, dancing, chatting with nomads, playing bongos inside, and being caught in a sudden paralysis after realising just how epic this place was. After almost 2 years in Queenstown, I had found my tribe. I recognised a few of the musicians as buskers of the Queenstown waterfront. What angel up there in the Heavens decided to send me here tonight of all nights, when I most needed a bit of musical-healing? Was it Nessie? An image of her face shimmered like gold before my minds eye. Some kind of mystical being, residing in my memory.
Amidst the hum of music and people, I thanked my lucky stars for such wonderful blessings. Lunging for my synth, I slipped out the door, throwing on my shoes and escaping into the night alone, the image of Nessie still emblazoned in my forehead.
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