Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Sudetenland Tales
Page 67
that meant Bobby from room 208, who could whistle “Danny Boy” with impressive lung stamina.
The crowd murmured. Mildred Spangler squinted. “Isn’t that Willie Nelson’s dead cousin?”
In the softly lit rec room of Golden Echoes Senior Living Center, a miracle was unfolding. Yes, a miracle; greater than the time when Charles Sangiovanni had a convulsive attach which knocked him off the gurney, and he climbed right back on without any help from the immobilized darkie pusher.
Neil Young, guitar cradled like a weary friend, shuffled in to a smattering of applause and puzzled stares. Most of the audience assumed he was just another resident with a technologically fixable voice and a stubborn streak. Only Harold "Cactus Jack" Malone; a former biker turned bingo champion, recognized the legendary Nuck.
He strummed a chord. Geriatric jaws dropped. Even Gerald, who hadn’t moved since the Reagan administration, blinked once.
Neil’s old hat, weathered and listing sideways like a pirate’s sail, clung to his head as he approached the mic with a smile that looked half magic, half maybe confusion. His amp hissed like it had secrets. Neil launched into “Hey Hey, My My” with