Play B6

 

The summer of 1969 was the last time I saw my father, dead or alive. The air was hot and turgid, much like the atmosphere between my mother and father. They had been separated by three thousand miles, four months and an ocean of pain, and this meeting was intended as negotiation of custody. 

Neutral territory: the Woodstock Restaurant. Big windows, dark wood, and a huge bar. To eleven-year-old eyes, the hamburgers were big and juicy, the Coke in glasses that sweated, much like my father sweated that day. A rare treat for the four of us. 

There was a big jukebox in the corner, massive and glowing with rainbow light. My father gave me two quarters for four songs. "Play B6, baby," he said. 

So I just did me some talkin' to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleepin' on the job
Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'...
 

Over and over. For every quarter he'd give me, I played B6. 

The negotiations did not go well, and I never saw my father again. To this day when I hear this song, I can smell the aroma of pink-in-the-middle hamburgers, the faint odor of stale beer and feel the worn wood of the chair against my thighs. I can see the interior of the restaurant, how the light played on the faces of the adults, making decisions that would intensely affect the lives of many, not the least that of a gawky pre-teen, mesmerized by words of wisdom from a jukebox. 

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me.