A Night in the Life...

I rode my bike out to Richmond this evening to see my musical hero, Sufjan Stevens perform at the National, after years of waiting for him to do a show somewhat within the area. I got in line and stood for half an hour for the doors to open and got a spot standing a few feet from the stage, directly in front of Sufjan's mic. (At this point I'm feeling pretty good about my decision to get there early.) After an hour of waiting for the show to start while standing in the midst of a throng of farting, yapping, unwashed college students, or as I heard one of the people there describe it, "a hipster concentration camp" my back finally started giving out (thank you Marines.) So, after getting through the pain of waiting with back aching and senses reeling, I ended up having to sit fairly far away from the stage after all. Still, it was an incredible show, thanks mostly to the intrinsic value of the musical experience.

In a world where most songwriters manufacture music like so much furniture, Sufjan is one of the few true artists. His music repels any attempts from the casual listener to penetrate to the source of it's appeal. Sometimes haunting, sometimes bittersweet, sometimes quite disturbing, there is no "Quintessential Sufjan song" because he defies delineation. His music can be thematically simple, but with indescribably complex arrangements, symphonic repetitions with jack-hammer persistence, melodic vocals and lyrics like a feather tracing memories in the sand; a tapestry of songs, tapestries within songs: He is, in my opinion, a true genius whose work never ceases to affect me in profound ways.

It was an incredible experience to see him perform live at long last. The show ended with a few minutes to spare for me to ride the 70 miles back in time to change and go to work at 1 Am. I layered up to keep out the chilly temperatures on the interstate and blasted out on the road, feeling artistically satisfied and creatively buzzed. I feel a thrill as I realize my clothing was going to keep me warm the whole way back. I break free of traffic and begin making great time on the road. Then, thirty minutes from home, my engine cut out. No big deal. I switched the fuel selector to reserve, (which in theory allows me to use up the remaining 20% of the tank) pull over to the side of the road and get my half-gallon fuel bottle out, dump it in the tank and hop back on. I should be good to get home, with some to spare.

But I'm not. After another few miles, the engine cuts out again. I pull off the road again, now within sight of an exit where I know there is a gas station. But it's up a long hill, about 3/4 of a mile away and I'm wearing boots with cowboy heels. In my refusal to accept that I had been so prepared for nothing, I wasted precious moments staring into the gas tank, the dry bottom barely illuminated by my cellphone screen, fiddling with the choke, turning the engine over until the battery started to show the first signs of weakening, cursing the fates, calling people who couldn't have gotten there in time to get me to work on time regardless of whether they answered or not (they didn't,) cursing the fates some more, and then after one long, last desperate glance up the road, hoping to see some kind Samaritan pulling in to help me, I grab my bike's handle bars and break into an awkward trot with my legs scraping against the saddlebags and my left arm, which had to stay bent in order to keep the bike straight was already beginning to ache after the first few steps. Out of breath at the end of the off-ramp and at the top of the hill, I try to switch sides to give my left arm a rest but my legs are too tired and I'm too out of breath and shaky to mount the bike and dismount on the other side. So I try to go around the front and almost lose control of the bike.

So there I was, holding on with a kind of insupportable death-grip to both handle bars from the wrong side of the windshield, puffing and cursing and all the while pondering whether it was the right time to call my work to tell them I was going to be late. Folks in cars pulling by probably only saw some red-faced leprechaun locked in a timeless struggle with an untamed steel mustang. I was aware of this aspect of my situation and it lent a strong dose humiliation to the already potent mix of mortification and despair.

"Curse you, Fates!"

I can see the station now in the distance, and I break once more into a run and a few minutes later arrive at the pumps, hands shaking too hard to retrieve my wallet from the bowels of my once well-conceived and comfortable, now steaming and clinging layers.

"Curse you, Fates!"

The process of getting my tank filled and the bike started complete, (the battery, miraculously was not dead after many turn-overs and a long while running the hazards) I hopped on - like a leprechaun, quite dignified - and tore off down the road. Some time later I pull into my parking lot, with only five minutes left before I was supposed to be at work. I jump off my bike barely stopped rolling and run into the Condo like someone gone quite mad. I hastily shed the many layers that I had at first donned so smugly, threw on my uniform, grabbed my bug-out-bag and ran back out to my car. I arrived at work six minutes late, ran up the stairs and arrived for my shift flushed, flustered and out-of-breath, which is of course how one should always start their workday.

And that is a story of how a night of soulful artistic luxury can turn into a wretched ordeal, starting with a sputter of a 650cc motor.