The Minstrel
For Tim Cruise, evening of the Snow Moon, February 2023
“I know very well on certain days I’m in my first quarter, and my second quarter. And I must say that in the full moon I have a bit of trouble.” — Tomi Ungerer
Because it’s the Snow Moon and because I’m having a bit of trouble — the kind of trouble that prompts me to remind my girlfriend, “I’ve told you before there’s schizophrenia in my mother’s family, you knew what you were getting into, this is just a touch of mania” — I decide to spare her and me each other’s company and to go for a walk by myself.
Of course one prefers like Bilbo to step out the door and get on with it, but my street has no sidewalks and the street it gives onto has no sidewalks, no sidewalks at all anywhere from the corner of Tunnel and Shallowford until you come to Brainerd Road, so I put on my 13th Doctor coat and ride downtown and begin walking along the river.
I wear my 13th Doctor coat because I’m looking for an adventure. Not looking for one, exactly. Walking with my eyes open, ears open, pores open, swinging from one leg to the next, and what a marvel it is, walking I mean, a conversation between balance and fall —
My 13th Doctor coat is good for night walking because it’s a light, satin-lined, needs-cleaned, looks-gray-but-is-actually-violet, trench coat with lots of skirl; it’s the Highlander’s coat made of cloud. A big coat lets you carry everything in your pockets; a big coat defies gender; a big coat frees you to run jump and climb; a big coat lets a small person project a little more fuck around and find out.
The air smells like fish (of course) and living dirt, the kind of dirt that has worms and thrusting shoots in it. River to sidewalk, sidewalk to bridge.
I should tell you, if you don’t know, there’s a big truss bridge that spans the Tennessee River, half a mile of once-gentrified, rotting-once-more pedestrian walkway. It’s called the Walnut Street Bridge. Two folks at least have been hanged on this bridge and crossing it should be eerie, like walking through a cemetery. We should bow our heads.
But we don’t bow our heads; we eat ice cream — even under a Snow Moon in February — and ride bicycles and play music and think our various thoughts. All sorts walk here: courting couples, elder couples, South American couples with strands of beautiful children running out in front of them, Brainerd High girls shouting insults as they pass Howard High girls, photographers, fitness fiends, people who sketch or sing or spit verse or play music or simply lie on their blankets until they get rousted elsewhere.
The river markers cast their lights: red and green verticals shimmering on water. To the east, Snow Moon climbs clear of the near horizon — a mix of industrial buildings and actual treeline.
I’m a pretty basic old lady, I don’t mind saying, invisible when I want to be, but my coat is mythical and it flows out behind me, spinning to a stop when I see something that halts me: a guitar case planted in the exact middle of the bridge, with an open umbrella protecting the case from prying eyes or perhaps the near-cloudless sky.
Leaning against a vertical, a man is watching the guitar case from the east side of the bridge. From where I stand on the west side of the bridge I look at the guitar case. I look at the man. A flight of children comes dancing; I take a couple of running steps to cross the bridge ahead of their path.
“Is that your music box?” I ask the stranger.
“It sure is.”
The stranger is a barrel-chested man of medium height. He’s smooth-skinned with a Roman nose and big mobile features to match. A black felt gambler hat tilts toward his light-colored eyes; two or three long feathers laid flat on the brim angle back into the air on each side, as if the hat had wings. He wears a lot of clothes with a big coat on top, so of course he’s my guy.
He lets me take in that he’s barefoot — by the spread of his feet, always barefoot — and who knows what he’s thinking of me, clearly an elderly lady up close, his age or more, but there’s that moment of shared curiosity and delight.
“Do you sing?” he asks.
“Not a bit,” I say. “Do you?”
“I sing very well. I’m Tim Cruise and if you like I’ll sing you a song.”
Tim Cruise holds out his hand and I take it — not his skin, he moves the grip up, so we take each other’s arm through our coats. He asks my name. “Jenn,” I say.
“This song was handed down to me through three people,” he says. He lists two: Elvis Costello, Cyndi Lauper. He can’t remember the third. He begins humming, voiceless, then in voice. The song is a thread. A whisper. Then a drone. He steps away from the vertical, spreading his arms. Invoking.
I lean on the vertical, listening.
The song grows. It’s “Dip Your Big Toe in the Milk of Human Kindness,” and Tim Cruise, as he nears full voice, sings like a set of bagpipes — nasal, profoundly resonant, a sound you hear in your meat and your bones.
He slides his foot to the side along the rough wood and squats into a deep wide plié, glancing down to the side as he bends. It’s the first move of the sneak-up dance. It’s a hunter’s dance; in context with this song, he’s sneaking up on happiness, kindness. Joy.
He sings for a long time, long enough for the song to spin its own world. He finishes singing.
He bows and thanks me for listening. He puts his hand on his heart. Both hands.
“You didn’t lie,” I said. “That was beautiful.”
He spreads his arms. “This is a no-lying space.” We gaze at each other easily and with profound delight. He starts rolling a cigarette, holding his blue plastic tobacco pouch in one hand and rolling the cigarette single-handed. Of course I’m impressed, and of course I don’t say a word.
Turning to leave at last, I bow in return. “Thank you for your song, Tim Cruise.”
He starts. “How did you know my name?”
“You gave it to me.”
“Ohhh — and what’s your name?”
“It’s Jenn,” I smile. He’s not the only person I know for whom some things are constantly born fresh.
“Jenn.” He holds out his hand.
I hold out my own, expecting it as he reaches in to grasp my forearm. But then he surprises me. Holding me fast — not firmly but inescapably — he asks: “Now what’s your whole name?”
You know you never give a fairy your true name. But he gave me his first. Besides, in the full moon I am a bit of trouble.
“Jenn McCormick,” I say.
He holds me firmly. “Jenn McCormick of Clan McCormick.”
I don’t mention that that’s probably not the case. This isn’t a reading, it’s a bestowal. Pulling away, I let our hands touch, palm to palm.
I bow, I go. He hollers after me, lots of praise, I don’t know what. I sketch a pirouette in a low second, boot toe to the sky, just to make make my coat spin.
I don’t look back.
Fair friends, let me tell you a secret. It may end badly for you, but why did the gods give you life if not to throw the bright ball as high to the heavens as you can and see where it falls? The secret is this: when a fairy asks for your name, you give it to him.