When we were first introduced, I was struck by his agelessness. He appeared neither young, nor old, nor middle-aged. His face was smooth and unlined, but the eyes which peered out over black plastic frames spoke of experience and the thin white streak in his otherwise dark hair confirmed it. The hair, of course, was largely covered by the battered black fedora which he is rarely seen without. The cane that went with it was there, of course, and the hand not holding it shook mine with a grip that was brief, but solid.
"You must be Gypsy Crow," he said, and I nodded, for I was.
He gave me his own name which I knew as well as my own and asked me for a cigarette. He invited me to sit down. I accepted. We sat and we smoked in silence for a minute before he said, not looking at me, "A man's whole life is a song, did you know this?"
No, I told him, I did not know this.
"Epic, majestic, titanic songs," he said, "Always beginning with birth and always ending in death and in between are major and minor keys, changes in melody and time..." He trailed off and was quiet a moment. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.
"A man's afterlife is a song as well," he said. "A soul is like a concept album, did you know this?"
I allowed as I did not know this either. But already I was learning.
