(Jerry Garcia died 20 years ago on August 9.)
One evening in 1971, a date and I are walking along Riverside Drive in the low 100’s, overlooking the park. We don’t have a whole lot in common and I have already used up my joke about the statue at 106 Street of General Franz Sigel on a horse: “If it wasn’t for that guy, we’d live in constant fear of attack from New Jersey.” Several women have laughed and walked closer. Not this one.
I lead my date to the huge boulder at the top of the park off 91st Street, where I often go during the day to read. We hear rock music, barely at first, then more distinct. Guitar dominates. There is no mistaking the lilting, roaming voice of the guitarist. “Jerry Garcia is in the park,” I say, with disbelief and conviction.
“Who?”
“Jerry Garcia. The Grateful Dead. He’s here. Let’s find him.”
“What would he be doing here?”
“We’ll ask him when we find him.” I take her hand, which tenses.
“I don’t want to go down there, it’s probably just some kids.”
The music is getting fainter. Somehow Jerry Garcia and friends are able to keep playing while they move away from us. We retreat to Broadway.
The next day, I read in the Post that a record company had a party the night before on a boat circling Manhattan. Music by Jerry Garcia and friends.
Great (Grate) piece.
Posted by: The Best American Poetry | August 21, 2015 at 03:32 PM