I felt a sense of excitement when I first pulled up to the stately old house at Kellogg and Bluff, but I have to admit I was a little concerned when I saw the sign on the door. The place had been condemned and was scheduled for demolition.

          I double-checked the address on the scrap of paper Wildman had given me, but there was no mistake, this was the place.

          “You’ve gotta come hear this guy,” he had said, “You’ve got to! You’ve never heard anyone like him.”

          Wondering what I was getting myself into, I went inside. I followed the sounds through the door on the left and found myself in the parlor. There was no furniture, just band equipment and overflowing ashtrays, plus a few empty beer cans scattered about.

          The rooms on the right held a few more creature comforts, but it was still shocking to find that a couple of guys were actually living there (perhaps squatting is the correct term). They had electricity, but no running water.

          The house itself, smelled of its age, but still appeared sound. Though run-down, it retained a sense of it's former beauty. The ceilings were high and bordered with elaborate moldings; the walls surprisingly straight and true; the marble fireplace though cracked, was made to impress and still did. The house bore the quality workmanship of another era, but it was in the way of more important things and sadly, it wouldn't be saved. It was hard to imagine that all of it would soon be nothing more than a memory.

          Wildman greeted me with a kiss. "He's on his way," he said, then disappeared. There were a few people milling about and we chatted while we waited.

          And finally, Steve arrived.

          He stumbled into the room in a slack-jawed alcoholic haze. His ugliness was startling. His course black hair was long and matted, his clothes dirty and disheveled.

          He stood unsteadily, and surveyed the room without comprehension. As his dull black eyes slid over me, I felt a wave of revulsion.

          "This was the man I'd heard so much about; the man I'd come to see?"

          He staggered forward, swaying dangerously in his drunken stupor, but two of his disciples rushed to catch him before he could fall. He struggled, but they held him firmly by the arms, then eased him carefully to the floor. Someone brought him a beer.

          "Great, just what he needs," I thought with disgust.

          He took a long drink, letting some of the liquid run down his chin. As he clumsily wiped it with his sleeve, he seemed to become aware that there were people in the room. He glared at us, then took another swig.

          He began spitting obscenities, slurring vulgar, hate-filled words between drinks. I flinched at the vicious assault until his rant spiraled down to mere angry mumbling. Most of his words were unintelligible, but the rage was unmistakable.

          With a few passes of the pipe he calmed down and got quiet. No one spoke and the silence seemed to echo in the room.

          We all sat on the dirty wood floor and waited. I found myself growing impatient and wished I could make my escape.

          His body was slumped and his head hanging low when they placed a beat up old Gibson on his lap. For a few moments nothing happened. Then, though his head was still down and his eyes still closed, his hand began to gently, lovingly caress the strings. He paused for a moment, then picked out the notes one by one.

          He began to play; slowly at first, softly; then building, becoming stronger, louder, faster; strumming the strings harder and harder. His body rocked with raw power, attacking the air as the music flowed, until the whole room was throbbing.

          I can't recall the tunes he played, or the words he sang that night, just that I was mesmerized, hypnotized, in awe of the holy moment. I felt the tears on my face and knew I'd been converted.

          And the reverence I felt was felt by us all. He revealed himself as we listened and upon hearing we could see - that he was beautiful, truly beautiful. A beauty unlike any we'd ever known.

          He'd been scarred by life and the living of it and it made him mean. It was bitterness that had etched his hard features. The unbearable frustration of knowing that he didn't belong and that he never would. A difference he couldn't hide. A truth he couldn't change. Underneath he was someone else, but he was trapped in his torment. He searched for something to stop the pain, because nothing feels as good as when the pain stops, but his never did. And though we could feel his pain, we couldn't fix it. That's just the way it was and as much as we wanted to, we couldn't change it. So we held him up and brought him more beer and it wasn't enough, but it was all we could do.

          He was much too young when he died a cruel, but not unexpected death. And though I can't help but think he's better off,
I don't believe we are.