A Beach Bum on Beale Street

Standing in W. C. Handy Park we were dancing to the blues sound of the band, all black with a white lead guitarist, killing the crowd. Holding a plate of food in one hand, a girl wearing a tee shirt cut off at mid-drift and blue jeans that must have been sprayed on, twirled and danced. A group of older men stood behind, watching her and wishing that they could shave years away. Children swirled and played and older folks occupied every bench in the park. Music explodes from everywhere on Beale Street! Bands or acoustic musicians are are in every restaurant and bar. The large crowd struts down the sidewalks more than walk. Rythms are everywhere, permeating the body, pumping music into your pours. The crowd is divided into those mesmerized by a particular group so they stand still and sway to the sounds or those who shuffle down the sidewalks feasting on one group after another. Beale Street is everything its thought to be, a constant celebration of American Blues, Elvis and B.B. King. Earlier we'd sat at a formal dinner in The Peabody Hotel, a luxurious testiment to everything Memphis might have been. Live ducks swim in the lobby fountain, underneath chandeliers, and sculptured cheribs holding a massive bouquet of live flowers. It is filled with southern charm and elegance. I'd been order to dress for the occasion. Wearing a Marlin Monroe Full Moon Party tee shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops, I hold Sarah's hand as we check in for the festivities. "You can't go in like that," Caroline Conlon told me. "You're going to be recognized tonight." So during the dinner I was dressed more appropriately ... collared shirt, kacki pants and flip-flops. I mean if Steve Jobs and Steve Zuckerman can get away with dressing this way at formal events then I should also be able to. I was given a plate with my name on it. It's a nice plate and they spelled my name right. It'll go into the boxes at my Mom's house with the other plates, plaques and framed pieces of paper acknowledging something I had something to do with. As soon as the dinner was over, we changed back into shorts and headed to Beale Street, further extending our honeymoon and our travels. "Seriously Mike," Sandy Lopacki asked this morning as I strolled to the coffee pot, "you're wearing flip-flops?" "Sure, why not?" I asked pouring myself a cup. "You really have become a beach bum," she smiled shaking her head. "After everything you've done ... and been though ... it suits you." Finding a quiet corner of the lobby, far away from the crowd that I'll spend the day with, I sip the coffee and ponder. In some ways this is the end of another part of the life that I've lived. I've got a red plate with my name on it to prove as much. Really though, it's a celebration of what my life is becoming ... the one Sarah and I are dancing into, where shirts and shoes are not required, plates are piled with seafood or things from the grill and where the music never stops.