While I enjoyed seeing a lot more of my new housemate, I also began to worry.

“Shouldn't you be out ...I dunno.... busking or something?" I asked while I cut up some fruit for breakfast.

He just grinned. “What are you, the house mother or something? It's cool. Rent's covered.”

“I didn't mean it like that. Just.... you're a musician.... shouldn't you be... I don't know.... off making music or something?” I smiled.

“Mo-ther!” he mocked, mimicking a petulant teenaged girl. ….disturbingly well. It startled me a bit. And I could tell from his wide eyes and stricken expression that it rattled him too. Maybe even more so. He seemed so freaked, I dropped it instantly and put on my best June Cleaver.

“Don't give me any lip young man.” I chided smiling. I really should have said 'young lady' after his outburst, but I knew that would only freak him more. So I quickly changed the subject.

“Toast?” I said, offering him my already buttered slices.

He shook his head, but remained ...aggressively... mute. He just stood up, went to his room, grabbed his guitar and headed for the door. He slapped his hand against his thigh and Kesey jumped up to follow him out.

“Be home in time for dinner dear!” I shouted, keeping up the mock Donna Reed act. I didn't know what else to do at this supremely weird moment, so I kept up the silly sitcom banter. Colin just nodded and, back to me, waved as he and Kesey headed out the door.

'What just happened?' I asked myself. And after turning it over and over in my head, was forced to conclude 'I have NO idea.' So, not because I was remotely satisfied but because I reached a dead end, I dropped it. Not before thinking 'You're usually so GOOD at reading people. Why not Colin?' I sighed and halfheartedly attacked my morning fruit cup.

It did occur to me that I had no idea exactly what kind of musician Colin was. I mean, I knew he played guitar, and he mentioned that he wrote. But he also mentioned that people wouldn't throw money in his guitar case for songs they didn't know, so he just did covers when busking, and only did his own stuff when he was out on the road with his band. Only right now, he didn't have a band. But I already knew he was still writing. He had a notepad with him all the time. I kidded that he was always jotting down his poetry, but he didn't take offense.

“As soon as I put music to this, it's not poetry... they're lyrics” He grinned.

Still, I had no idea what he did, but I was getting really really curious to find out.

One morning I had free from the shelter, I ...followed him.

He spread out his blanket, laid down his case and lovingly removed his guitar. Kesey lazily sprawled next to the open case, and he quickly tuned and once the first passersby began to approach, he launched into 'Sunny Goodge Street'.

I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't Donovan.

Still, he was really really good. He did some Leonard Cohen, a CSNY thing.... I think it was a Graham Nash one.. very mellow and melodic... he even did an amazing cover of a Buffy St Marie tune.... somehow infusing it with ...masculine energy... without depleting or tarnishing its inherently feminine poignancy. I have no idea how he did it, and I could tell, this was not his music... the stuff he really wanted to be performing. But like a sprout eating earthchild who took a wage-slave job at Jack In The Box, he diligently gave the people what they seemed to want. His guitar case accumulated a respectable amount of cash. He was right about there being no worry about him paying his part of the rent. And even though I found him to be quite the enigma, one thing was absolutely clear. This was not the music he wanted to be making... no matter how good he was at it.

What he really wanted to do was far more ….primal.... It wasn't angry exactly, like 'Revolting Proles' or 'Watts is Burning'.... it was ….energetic and frustrated.... like Eddie Cochrane's Summertime Blues, but with the frenetic zeal of Little Richard and the raw simplicity of Sam The Sham and the Pharoes' 'Wooly Bully', Question Mark and the Mysterian's '96 Tears' or the Standell's 'Dirty Water'.... something any kid who picked up a guitar for the first time could bang out in an afternoon of practicing, but with a raw energy and power, that stuck in your mind like a splinter, an itch that would never be completely scratched away and lyrics that seared like the edgiest Janis Ian or Phil Ochs song.. Years later people would call it Punk... or Garage Rock... but Colin just called it 'his music'. His band, 'Modern Mayhem' pretty much consisted of all of his friends who were between better paying gigs. The music was easy to learn, fun to play, and a satisfying way to let off steam. About the only thing is wasn't... was profitable.

They had a following. Only it was mostly just other musicians, who were not exactly the most ...lucrative... audience. Which is why Colin busked as 'sensitive folky art-boy' to pay the rent. And he picked up gigs as a sideman when friends played in town. He had an impressive list of friends, but he never bragged. They all knew each other from the days when they were all struggling to 'make it', though many of his old friends actually did... finding themselves on the cutting edge of progressive rock, or the nascent glam-rock scene, even rock bands that borrowed liberally from old music hall and burlesque acts but with a twitchy rock-edge. He was loved and respected by his fellow musicians, but the public never really noticed him, no matter how many of his famous friends let him share their limelight. Where he really shone was at the after-gig jams. A bunch of guys from bands playing in town would show up at an after hours club or someones room at the Hyatt House and the jam would commence. None of the kids crowding the clubs around town had any idea that the best show in town was after hours behind closed doors, when the rock stars passing through town would get together to entertain, show off for, and challenge each other. Colin was a fixture at these get togethers, and I've heard from many people over the years, that he was always the one who challenged the others to up their game. He would push them, provoke them, embarrass and inspire them, but when he was through, everyone he jammed with was stunned and delighted to find that they were a better player, a more versatile artist, and more aware of the unique skills each of them possessed. More than one person told me that they believed Colin was a muse. His true talent was opening others to possibilities and showing them how to achieve what they never even imagined. He inspired countless friends to greatness and success. But it seems part of his gift/curse was that success and recognition always eluded him. Except in the eyes of the peers he inspired. And they were a pretty large following come to think of it.

Still, he used to claim that there was a line between art and commerce. He needed a roof over his head and food on the table to make his art. So for his commitment to the ripped denim of his own music, he put on the fine lace and crushed velvet of the fey poets for the coin-tossing crowds. He had little conflict about it, and often joked how it still beat working as a gardener or janitor since he could still play his guitar while working.

We settled into a nice routine for a while. Colin easily covered his rent and food and even squirreled a little away each week for his 'road fund'. He was itching to get back out and play his music anyplace that would have him. I was working at the Lightbox, and when I finished up there, I was waitressing at Quay's until closing, then up early to the shelter and back to the Lightbox to set up for the first matinee. Lather, rinse repeat. The only break from this pattern were my visits with Doctor O'Brien and the mad scientists.

Things were settling into a groove. ...or actually a set of parallel grooves. Life was kind of mellow and comfortably predictable. Until finally Colin saved up enough and he and Kesey set back out on the road.

And I found myself in jail.